T GAMBLE: The peculiarity of Southern funeral etiquette

Lately, I have been to a rash of funerals. Partly, I guess, is because as I get older, naturally more folks I know die. COVID-19 has certainly played a role as well.

So I mean no disrespect to anyone about funerals, but the South, and her people here, can be pretty peculiar when it comes to a funeral. We show great respect, even pulling over on the side of the road when we meet a funeral procession. Nowhere else does that. This tradition started with mostly dirt roads and a few two-lane paved ones. Do you pull over if it’s a four-lane road? What about a four-lane divided by a median? How about on Interstate 85? I suspect you would have a 300-car pileup.

I’ll talk with buddies and tell them I am going to Samuel’s funeral at 2. Invariably at least one will say, “I don’t think I’m going. Don’t get me wrong, I really liked Samuel but I just don’t like going to funerals.” Well, I’ll be dad-gum. Who knew some people did not like going to funerals? I bet there is probably a social group somewhere that plans their weekends around funeral attendance. I mean there is nothing like a good funeral to get the weekend started.

I know some people say their loved one may be looking down on them at the appointed time. That may be true. Who am I to decide such a thing? But I’m thinking maybe it would be better if you can’t look down and see it all. After all, heaven should be a happy place with no disappointment and no worries. Imagine looking down, “I’ll be darn. I could have sworn my wife would have come.” Or for some folks I’ve known, “I can’t believe my girlfriend came, too.”

I’d be remiss if I also did not note the need to feed people after a funeral. I’m not sure why, but somewhere, sometime, people in the South were told you can eat your way out of grief. I had an aunt who thought the cure for all illnesses was to just “eat some more peas and pork chops and you’ll feel better, honey.” Maybe she started the feed-the-grieving movement.

I’m surprised most preachers don’t weigh 350 pounds. Funeral home directors ought to weigh in at 425. I get that we are trying to relieve the burden of fixing food during a stressful time. But I doubt many households need a 25-piece Kentucky Fried Chicken box, but, by gosh, that’s what they get, or something similar.

All in all, though, there is no place I’d rather be than right here when those times come. Folks in the South will feed you, and nurture you, and let you know they care, even when they wouldn’t speak to you two weeks before. So I’ll keep pulling over and going to funerals, even though I don’t want to go. And I’ll keep eating well. There’s just no place like home.