Catching Idle Butterflies

Laughing at funerals

Funerals and laughter don’t usually go together. To many the very idea would seem, not only inappropriate, but sacrilegious.

But those people did not know my grandmother, Maman.

Maman loved animals. She and Claude (my step-grandfather) had five squirrels in their yard, and every one had a name.

During Thanksgiving one year, before we (My parents, Dave and I, my sister and her husband) were due to leave for the restaurant, we all heard strange noises coming from the basement.

Somehow one of the squirrels had dropped down from the roof through the chimney and down to the fireplace in the basement. The noise was its furious attempt to escape through the windows by climbing the walls and curtains.

None of us knew what to do at first. How does one grab a terrified, climbing the walls squirrel?

Dave said, “I have a pistol in my truck.”

My grandmother gasped, horrified. “No! You can’t kill it!”

The rest of us laughed, knowing he was joking. I however figured it was only a half joke. Squirrel is good eatin’ as Tor will attest to, and one of Dave’s favorite game animals to hunt.

So Dave left to grab . . . no not his pistol, but a pair of leather gloves. When he returned, Dave, Claude, Rich, my sister’s husband and Tom, my step-dad then herded the creature back into the fireplace while us – to use a CC’ism – wimmins watched. After five minutes of chasing and under-the-breath cursing, Dave managed to grab the creature. As it gnawed on his gloved fingers and tried to squirm loose, Dave ran up the stairs to let it back outside. Maman followed close saying, “Oh, don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt him, the poor thing.”

I giggled, knowing exactly what Dave was thinking by his set expression: “I want to kill this thing, I want to kill this thing trying to eat me and give me rabies.”

After the squirrel regained its freedom, we all decided we had enough adventure and left for the restaurant.

About halfway there, we passed a park overrun with Canada Geese. Sitting next to me by the window, Maman sat up and squealed, “Oh, look at all the pretty geese! I just love geese!”

The rest of us laughed, rolled our eyes, or both. Maman may have loved geese, but to the rest of us, they are pests. They not only take over parks and attack people if they feel their territory is being invaded, but people’s lawns, pooping all over the grass, porches, and cars. And geese don’t poop little.

Fast forward four months.

Two days after having surgery replacing blood vessels in her legs, Maman passed away at the age of 73. No one knew the cause, and Claude decided not to have an autopsy saying, “It won’t bring her back.”

After the funeral, we all went to the cemetery for the gravesite service. We all stood underneath an awning as the minister, standing over Maman’s coffin, performed whatever ritual he normally did.

I heard not a single word he had to say. I couldn’t. Another sound drowned him out.

Behind us sat a pond filled with hundreds of honking geese, each one trying to shout over the din of the other 199.

I hid my face in Dave’s side doing my best not to laugh. I failed thinking, “I can’t think of a better eulogy for Maman than those geese.”

I know if Maman were there, she would have laughed even harder.

Unlike me, however, she would not have hid her joy, but say to the minister, “Shush. The geese are singing!”