Raised Polish
Recently, a few of my family members and I went to a funeral home that my parents contracted with years ago to handle things 'when the time comes' (stoic father's phrase).
My mother, who is now at play in the fields of the Lord, was lying in a 'viewing room' awaiting final identification before cremation. We went to see her, identify her, sign the necessary document, and take one last look at the vessel that held her soul and spirit for 87 years.
Included in my mother's spirit was a generous helping of wit and good humor, love of language and wordplay. My sister and I were the last to leave the room which opened into a hallway that was chock full of displays on neat, clean, dusted shelves. At first it seemed like a trophy case but we soon realized it was more of a retail shop. We stopped to look at some of the things as they were strange to us, having no familiarity with the funeral/burial business.
We came across a plaque that featured a couple of really smiley, pleasant looking guys. Underneath the etches of them were the words, "Raised Polish." My sister and I looked at each other and said, basically, "Well that's weird. Why would you want your ethnic heritage featured so prominently? Should Mom have 'Raised Swedish' on her plaque?"
Then we had a light-bulb moment. We had mispronounced the word "polish." The plaque was granite and the raised etching could be polished up all shiny and nice. This quickly reminded us of (the now likely r@c!$+) joke our mother used to tell about the man of eastern European descent who thought his wife was trying to kill him. Seems he'd seen a bottle of 'polish remover' under the kitchen sink.
Our mother would have loved this. Electric blue eyes twinkling she would have said something along the lines of "well, that's one way to put the 'fun' in 'funeral.'" We think she and our father chose their funeral home wisely. Besides, Jimi Hendrix is buried in their cemetery.
And yes, we're sad she's left us but exponentially more joyful she is relieved of her agony of recent years.
My mother, who is now at play in the fields of the Lord, was lying in a 'viewing room' awaiting final identification before cremation. We went to see her, identify her, sign the necessary document, and take one last look at the vessel that held her soul and spirit for 87 years.
Included in my mother's spirit was a generous helping of wit and good humor, love of language and wordplay. My sister and I were the last to leave the room which opened into a hallway that was chock full of displays on neat, clean, dusted shelves. At first it seemed like a trophy case but we soon realized it was more of a retail shop. We stopped to look at some of the things as they were strange to us, having no familiarity with the funeral/burial business.
We came across a plaque that featured a couple of really smiley, pleasant looking guys. Underneath the etches of them were the words, "Raised Polish." My sister and I looked at each other and said, basically, "Well that's weird. Why would you want your ethnic heritage featured so prominently? Should Mom have 'Raised Swedish' on her plaque?"
Our mother would have loved this. Electric blue eyes twinkling she would have said something along the lines of "well, that's one way to put the 'fun' in 'funeral.'" We think she and our father chose their funeral home wisely. Besides, Jimi Hendrix is buried in their cemetery.
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