eulogy and a funeral

This idea of writing a brief autobiography is getting spooky. I feel like I’m writing a modest eulogy. If my kids crib from this when the time comes for the real thing, remember I want “Joy to the World” played at the service.  Not the Christmas Carol, the Three Dog Night version that opens with “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog,” played loud, and please rise when you hear Jeremiah.

Funerals are peculiar, because the guest of honor is long gone. When Mama died, she got lost on the way to the funeral. They flew her casket from Jacksonville to Atlanta for the hearse to pick her up and go to the Sparta, Georgia cemetery and family plot. When we got to the cemetery, there was no Mama, no grave, no hearse, no nothing. We called the funeral home and they said it was the 4th of July. So we all went next door to Aunt Louise’s and ate peach cobbler. They found the hearse and told them to try again the next day to find Sparta, and by then they might be able to round up some grave diggers.