By Jim Holmes
All of us have "bad days." You know, those times when a series of minor disasters impact us. But do you think you can have a "bad day," AFTER you have died? I do ... and I cite the case of the late Jack O'Malley as evidence. (I've elected not to use his real name out of respect for his family.)
Jack and his brood had moved to Fort Pierce only months before he keeled over and died of a heart attack. My wife and I were more acquaintances than friends, but because he died so soon after his arrival in Florida -- and because we lived nearby -- we felt it only right that we should join that small number of folks who attended his funeral. It was there that Jack's post-mortem bad day began.
It seems Jack's funeral was one of two scheduled in the church that morning. No problem, until we realized the priest was burying the wrong person. The 9 a.m. funeral had suddenly and disastrously become the 11 a.m. funeral. Needless to say, Jack's widow went into justifiable hysterics, resulting in a very red-faced priest performing a "re-do."
Jack's bad day did not end there. After the casket was loaded in the hearse, the tiny funeral procession -- consisting of only five vehicles -- waited more than 30 minutes for a police escort. Finally, the undertaker gave up and our little group set off for the cemetery on our own.
We encountered a police officer a block away, however, who emphatically directed us to turn onto one of Fort Pierce's main highways. It was only after we'd followed his orders that we discovered the cop apparently thought the hearse and our vehicles were entrants in the annual Saint Lucie County Cattleman's Parade!
Jack's bad day had just gotten worse. Not that he was in any position to object, mind you.
And so here we are, a funeral procession hedged in amongst brightly decorated floats, marching bands, clowns and horse-mounted cowboys. But there was still more to come. Among the parade's other participants was a small company of Shriners, decked out in their red fez hats and bright yellow vests, who -- in tiny go-carts -- darted in and out of our group of mourners, all the while tossing hard candy to the street-side crowd. If Jack's widow was hysterical at the church, you can imagine her condition now.
To his credit, the funeral director finally jumped out of the hearse, halting the parade in its tracks, until he convinced the Shriners to end their forays. The stopped parade quickly brought an inquisitive police officer who, when informed of our misadventure, rapidly helped us escape the parade route, so as to complete our supposedly somber journey. The last I saw of the Shriners, they had all parked their go-carts in a row and stood, ashen-faced, with their tasseled fezzes over their hearts as we passed by.
The rest of our trip to the cemetery was uneventful. But ever since, whenever I see a Shriner, I remember Jack and his one of a kind funeral.
And I have always wondered if his bad day really ended with the burial. The way things had gone that morning, I can easily envision Jack arriving at the Pearly Gates, being assured he was entitled to spend eternity in Heaven, only to learn that the day before Saint Peter had misplaced his key.
Jim Holmes lives in Live Oak.
