My father’s dachshund (Huey, named after Huey Long) was going to turn 16 in June. My folks had to put him down on Friday for a number of health reasons but there is such a nugget of humor in this that I had to share. Mother informed me that they buried Huey with a can of Miller Lite (his preferred beer) and positioned him facing East. Do you suspect other families have “flavor” such as this?
Well, my late Uncle Murphy once won a tombstone off an undertaker in a bourre' game. Guy couldn't pay him, so he gave Murphy a tombstone made to order. It had Murphy's name, date of birth, and the epitaph Murphy selected for himself. Murphy put it on his front doorstep, where it sat for over 20 years. When he finally expired, his kids had the date of death carved into the stone, and as he requested, put it at the head of his grave. The epitaph reads: "This ain't bad, once you get used to it."
I would be remiss if I didn't mention here Loose Canon's book about the glory of Southern funerals. Too bad Huey went to see the Lord after LC's deadline. Post below your own stories of crazy Southern fambly funerals. Or even crazy Yankee funerals, if they have such things.
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From Commerce, Texas, 1992:
My paternal grandmother died on July 5, 1992. MeMe's given name was Lucille, even though everyone called her by the name I had given her when I first learned to talk, "Meme Ma." My maternal grandmother, Doris, went to the funeral, which was on July 8, a typical blistering Texas summer day. Doris was 91 years old, and suffered from diabetes, high blood pressure, and, well, being 91. My aunt tried, unsuccessfully, to talk her mother out of going to the graveside service on such a hot day. My uncle, aunt's husband Wilbur, interrupted at this point. "Jo, you're not going to talk Doris out of gloating over outliving Lucille." Yankees just do say things like that.>
I think that Dr. Percy might disagree on Southern writers.>
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