Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill the Dirt

I’m a funeral director in South Carolina. In my neck of the woods, as in the other 85 percent of the country, we mainly sell half-couch caskets. The term “half-couch” means that only half of the casket is open, hence only half of the interior “couch” is visible. The half-couch lid is split and the lower portion of the lid covers the decedent from the waist down. I think that’s why I bury so many people—predominately men—partially nude. You know that old adage, “out of sight, out of mind”? The families’ logic seems to be, if you can’t see it, why bother? Most of my families come in to make arrangements with just a shirt, tie, and jacket for their loved ones to wear. No pants. No shoes. No socks. No underwear.

If that’s what the family wants, that’s fine with me, but I strongly believe in giving people some dignity. So, if the family doesn’t bring in underwear, I’ll ask permission to supply a pair. Most people agree to my suggestion. That wasn’t the case with Mrs. Peterson.

Mrs. Peterson made a grand entrance into the conference room, a half-hour late, red-faced, and breathless. She hefted her considerable bulk into the chair, after pumping my hand vigorously while apologizing repeatedly for being late.

I assured her that her tardiness was not an issue and offered my condolences for her husband’s death.

“He didn’t take real good care of his-self,” she said nonchalantly, drawing a cigarette out of a battered pack with her lips.

I looked at my worksheet. Mr. Peterson was 64. Relatively young. “At least you had many good years of marriage—”

She cupped her hands, fired her lighter, and waved dismissively at me. “Ain’t no need for that, Hun,” she said, interrupting. “He is dead. I knew it was coming; I ain’t out of sorts.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Let’s get started.”

Mrs. Peterson was obviously a salt-of-the-earth type person. I liked her matter-of-fact attitude, although she had the tendency to be a bit abrasive. I could tell she drank too much, smoked too much, ate too much, didn’t get offended by anything (especially bad language because she used an awful lot of it), and really didn’t care what people thought of her.

During the course of the conference I gathered the biographical information on Mr. Peterson so I could file the death certificate; we picked out service folders, arranged for a minister, and Mrs. Peterson picked out a nice russet colored twenty-gauge steel casket half-couch. Then she unloaded a canvas bag she had brought in with her. Lynyrd Skynyrd CDs to be played at the visitation; a pack of Marlboro red cigarettes, a can of Budweiser, and a bottle of gin to go in with Mr. Peterson, along with his favorite John Deere hat and his fuzzy slippers.

Next, she pulled out a wrinkled dress shirt and a thin tie. “Mandy, lay him out in this,” she told me, handing the hanger across the desk. “He never did wear a tie much, but I think he should look proper.”

I took the clothes and hung them on the doorknob. They obviously hadn’t seen an iron in ages. It wasn’t at all uncommon for me to get no pants, so I casually asked, “Would you like me to put a pair of boxer shorts on your husband, ma’am?”

“What the hell for?” she asked.

She followed with a coughing bout that nearly dislodged a lung.

“Just to provide him with a dignified burial. So he doesn’t have to meet his maker without drawers. I’d be happy to do it.”

She coughed again, and this time I know a piece of lung came up. “Hell no! Jim preferred to be nude. He sat around without his pants on most of the time anyway. Nude. All the time, just wore an undershirt and those slippers.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Now young lady,” Mrs. Peterson said and wagged her finger at me, “I’m going to be checkin’ to make sure my Jim ain’t got drawers on. I swear that man never wore his pants, ’cept when he had to leave the house. He lived that way so he’s going to be buried that way.” She started laughing and coughing at the same time. I wasn’t sure which one precipitated the other. When she got herself under control she said, “In fact, Jim often said—” She lost herself in another coughing/laughing fit. “Jim often said he wanted to be buried like that outlaw, you know, the one that said, ‘I want to be buried face down so the whole world can kiss my ass.’” She looked at the ceiling as though revisiting a fond memory. “Yeah, he liked that, but I’m not going to do that. I’m just going to bury him the way he lived.”

“I understand,” I said. “My boyfriend is the same way.”

“See,” Mrs. Peterson said. “Men.” She cackled. “They’re all the same.”

I laughed too. “I guess they are.”

That was that. Mrs. Peterson and I bade our goodbyes.

I pressed Mr. Peterson’s shirt and dressed him in it, as well as the tie and slippers and John Deere hat, nothing else.

Three days later I watched Mr. Peterson being lowered into the ground, clad only from the waist up. Mrs. Peterson wept something terrible.