TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: ROTISSERIE CHICKENS AT THE FUNERAL

by Grant McGee

                 One of the family was off to a recent funeral for a friend.  As they were going out the door I said, “Now if the preacherman at the funeral starts hootin’ and hollerin’ that you’re horrible for not believing like he does it’s okay to leave the place.”

                The door closed and I felt the gaze of The Lady of the House upon my personage.

                “What was that about?” she asked, looking over the top of her glasses.

                “Well let me tell you a story,” I said.

                “I’m sure you will,” said The Lady of the House.

                It was long ago and far away, the story of a radio co-worker I’ll call “Jack” who died in a car wreck.  Jack had been to a party in another town about 90 miles away.  He was the front seat passenger in a car driven by a pal of his.  On the way back from the party the buddy fell asleep at the wheel, the car ran off the road, hit an embankment and Jack, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, was rocketed through the windshield on to Glory.

                Jack was popular, there may have been 300 or so folks at his funeral.

                Jack’s parents brought the preacherman in from their town miles away.  Things began alright, the guy saying nice things about Jack’s life on earth.

                Then the fire and brimstone began.

                To our surprise we learned that Jack was probably burning in the fires of hell because he didn’t belong to his momma and daddy’s denomination.  And even more to our surprise we all learned that if we weren’t a member of this particular denomination we’d all roast in hell like so many rotisserie chickens. 

                This preaching and condemnation went on for what seemed the whole afternoon but was only about 45 minutes.  Many of us in attendance shot glances at each other like, “Is this a funeral or Sunday church?”

                But we didn’t leave, I reckoned, because we’d been taught that once a ceremony begins you’re kind of locked in.

                “And that’s why I mentioned that it’s okay to leave some ceremony if things get weird,” I said.

                “Well that’ll never happen to me,” said The Lady of the House.  “We’ll just play some of your favorite songs, serve snacks and cremate you.”

                “I feel better already,” I said.

                                                               -30-