Friendly Fire

February 1996
Milwaukee, WI
Spring Hill Cemetery

Gertrude and Beatrice were sisters who each had sons, Ed and Bob. When I was born, Bob, my father’s father, became my Papa. Papa’s mother Beatrice died when he was very young. His aunt Gertrude then became like a mother to him and his cousin Ed became like a brother. Later, Ed married Jean and Bob married Helen, who became my Nana.

Papa passed away before his time from colon cancer and a few years later, Gertrude passed away. At the funeral, to combat the brutal crust of a Milwaukee winter’s end, the family had arranged for tents complete with flaming gas heaters. The guests arrived, hunched with cold and condolence. A group of mourners gathered around one of the heaters. Among them was Jean, Ed’s wife, who nodded graciously at the guests who approached her to offer healing words.

Then Jean was on fire! Rogue flames from the tent heater had lit up the back of her wool coat as she erupted with confused yelps. Instantly, the surrounding men removed their leather gloves and furiously batted her fiery behind until the flames were subdued. The guests calmed down and the ceremony began as if nothing had happened.

Though the funeral continued with impeccable decorum, there remained three crucial pieces of evidence that betrayed the unresolved chaos of the not-so-bygone blaze: Jean’s charred, tattered coat, the men’s blistered leather gloves, and my laughing mother.

Furtively but ceaselessly, mother could not contain herself. From the moment those men’s gloves had pat-pat-patted against Jean’s flaming rump, my mother had been convulsing. Fits of breathless mirth overtook her entire body, so that all she could do was submit to her heaving. Her hands barely concealed her face, frozen with a helpless, shut-eyed grin.

Desperately, she tried to think of something sad. This should have been easy. She was at a funeral. But not even this could rid her body of laughter. She was flushed and gasping. Tears oozed freely out of her eyes. Onlookers were truly touched by her display because to them she was clearly incapacitated by grief. Rather, the tattered coat and the blistered gloves were the explosive ingredients necessary to produce an almost unstaunchable deluge of laughter.

Nana came over to comfort my mom. Between shrieks and gulps, she squeezed out a confession. “I’m just having some trouble not laughing,” Mom choked. Nana then gave her some space, so as not to be involved with this rather inappropriate situation.

Whenever my mother tells this story, she cannot help but break down again and again. The story can barely be finished without peals of her pure, throaty, nose-crinkling laughter. It is the way all stories about funerals should be.