Southern Funerals…

There are some things that are just deeply Southern, and my mother embodied nearly all of them.

Good casseroles.

Handwritten recipes.

Thank-you notes.

Funeral food.

Proper hosting.

Church clothes.

And making sure everybody else was taken care of before herself.

Now keep in mind, Mother worked in funeral homes for years. Not just as a job either — she

truly cared for grieving families. She understood loss, hospitality, and service in a way that only

certain Southern women seem to understand.

So it probably should not have surprised me when one day she proudly showed me a book she

owned called:

Being Dead Is No Excuse.

And yes…that was the actual title.

It was supposedly “The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral.”

I am not making this up.

Southern Living actually published it.

The book was filled with recipes, instructions for hosting grieving families, proper funeral food

etiquette, and all the things Southern women somehow instinctively know how to do during

times of loss.

Honestly, my mother thought it was wonderful.

And the truth is…

she probably could have written parts of it herself.

Because if there was ever a woman who knew how to love people through grief, feed people

through heartbreak, and somehow still find laughter in the middle of sorrow…

It was my mother.

Only My Mother

If you knew my mother, then you knew she was particular about a few things in life.

Actually… let me correct myself.

She was particular about a LOT of things.

But there were three things she absolutely loved:

Peter Pan Peanut Butter,

Turner Ice Cream,

and Tab.

Not just any diet drink.

Tab.

And preferably ice cold.

Now this story takes place during the summer of 1980 when our church youth choir traveled to

Mexico on choir tour. Mother and Daddy went along as chaperones, which honestly meant

Mother spent most of the trip trying to make sure everybody had eaten, behaved, and survived.

We crossed the border by bus, and I remember the waiting, feeling like it lasted three business

days, though it was probably just one very long exhausting day.

The local church hosting us was so kind and welcoming. They fed us and took wonderful care of

our group while we were there.

One morning, they were preparing breakfast for everybody, and the hens outside were literally

laying the eggs being cooked for us.

Now most people would probably think that sounds fresh and wonderful.

Not my mother.

Because if you REALLY knew my mother, then you knew she wanted “town eggs,” not eggs

fresh out from under a chicken.

So she skipped breakfast entirely.

Only my mother.

Now while our youth choir was off recording a television segment one day, Mother and Daddy

decided to go searching for ice cream.

Specifically, Mother wanted a banana split.

Eventually they found a little ice cream shop, but nobody there spoke English, and Lord knows

my parents did not speak Spanish.

So somehow, through a combination of hand motions, determination, and Southern confidence,

Mother attempted to explain what a banana split was.

When that failed…

My mother simply walked behind the counter and made herself one.

Then handed them some money.

I still laugh thinking about it.

And apparently they did too because from that day forward, until we left town, Mother went

back daily for her banana split, and eventually they learned exactly how she liked it made.

Honestly, that story sums her up perfectly.

She never met a stranger.

And somehow, no matter where we traveled, she always ended up knowing everybody before we

left.

Now while we were staying there, something else happened that sounded important to everybody

except my mother.

The President of Mexico was coming to visit and to stay in our hotel.

Because of that, several people in our group — including Mother and the three girls staying in

her room — had to relocate to another section of the hotel.

Meanwhile, I got to stay put.

Mother acted like it was a mild inconvenience at best.

As long as she could still sneak downstairs to the hotel bar and order herself a grilled cheese

sandwich and an ice-cold Tab with lime, she was perfectly content.

And somehow…

even with the President of Mexico staying in the hotel…

that woman still managed to get her grilled cheese and Tab.

Priorities.

Always priorities

. And then there was the fire in her room…

She called the front desk, desperately trying to explain that there was a fire—but there was one

small problem: she couldn’t speak Spanish, and apparently, they couldn’t understand what she

was trying to say.

After doing her best to communicate the emergency, they assured her they would send someone

“en un momento.”

Well…one momento turned into several hours.

By that time, Daddy had already put out the fire himself.

Eventually, someone from the hotel came to check things out and discovered that one of the

electrical outlets had actually caught fire.

So, to recap: there was a literal fire in the room, Daddy became the hotel fire department, and the

front desk finally arrived hours later to investigate.