Spilt Wine

31. Celebrating Murielle's Life

Wednesday 16 April 1986

Catherine and I arrived in Louhans a quarter-hour before the service was scheduled to begin. We walked down the centre of the church to a pew half a dozen rows from the front and sat next to the aisle. There were few others there yet, but soon, by ones, twos, and small groups, the number increased.

"That must be them, the family," she whispered, squeezing my arm and nodding lightly toward the group of five silver-haired women in black being ushered to seats in the front row. "I've not met her, but you can see the resemblance in her mother – that has to be her mother." She continued to whisper, "Those look like aunts, at least two of them do, the other two, I don't know."

"I don't see any young people in the group," I whispered back. "Sitting somewhere else? Maybe not here yet."

"She told me she had only two brothers, both killed when they were barely out of their teens with the army at Dien Bien Phu. She had no sisters. Shhh, it's starting."

I sat back and watched the familiar ceremony. One of my frequent duties as an altar boy had been to serve at funerals. It was voluntary, but Grandmother had expected me to always volunteer – I was the second son, destined for the priesthood.

My musing continued. The dreadfully mournful Catholic funeral is in such contrast with the Irish wake. One is a long, drawn-out and structured downbeat ceremony, full of symbolism and often accented by a voice or two that could be recruited at short notice midweek to sing some dirges off-key with a few trills and warbles in an attempt to disguise the lack of talent. The other is a celebration of life. What the hell have religions done? My thoughts were interrupted by movement in the aisle.

As I watched the censer being swung back and forth on a slow circuit of the casket, I wondered if this priest would crash it into a corner, spill a glowing piece of charcoal onto the lacquered finish and start melting into it, as Father Lafitte had done so many years before. Nope, this censer has completed its circumnavigation unscathed.

As the priest droned on, I thought about later funerals I had attended. Those of retired Air Force and Navy friends or colleagues. So often I had gone to their retirement parties just a year or two or three before. They had made no plans for after retirement. Retirement was their plan, and they worked toward it, counting down the years, then the months, then the days to the big moment. They died of apparent boredom in their mid-fifties and early sixties.

I mused that musing like this was how I survived the church ceremonies I had been forced to attend. The Masses, the Vespers, the funerals, the weddings. Oh, yes the weddings, they were the only ones I liked. I volunteered for as many as I could. They were normally on Saturday mornings, and I could fit them in after delivering the Times and before heading out with the Star Weekly. There was always a tip for the altar boy at the wedding, usually a silver dollar or two. Even without the silver dollars, I liked the weddings. They were happy, joyous events – celebrations of new beginnings. There were as many wet eyes as there were at the funerals, but the tears were for very different emotions.

Then I thought of my grandmother – a pious woman, rigid and severe. My father was her first son, thank God! His duty was to procreate, and so I exist. Poor Uncle David, born the second son, was packed off to the seminary to become a priest. What a silly tradition, second son, second daughter. Aunt Mary-Louise was forced to become a nun just because she was the second daughter.

I focused to see where the service was, then went back to my musings. Grandmother was a powerful person, always so severe, so strict, so angry. I smiled to myself. I always thought she died of anger. After her funeral, my uncle left the priesthood, took off his collar and carried on with life. He got married and had a family.