Fune-real

My parents are going to a funeral today.  A funeral of a woman I didn't know that well - she went to my parents' church and never learned to drive.  That is the extent of my knowledge of her.  So you might be wondering why my parents attending a funeral would make front-page blog news.  To which I say, do you READ this blog?  Yesterday I recounted the E! True Hollywood Story of the cast of Full House.  Any boring old thing is fair game here.  But funerals are never boring when my parents are in attendance, especially my father, who is the proverbial funeral shit-stirrer.  Yes, the man who cries at every episode of Little House on the Prairie can't stand a normal woe-is-me funeral, so he considers it his job to make sure everyone is having fun.  Case and point, my Uncle Ronnie's funeral several months ago.  Ronnie was not the most responsible member of our family (I write as I sit my unemployed ass on the couch with Law & Order on in the background), and to that end, he was not particularly punctual.  So when he wasn't fully cremated in time for his own service, my father remarked, "Isn't that just like Ronnie?  To be late for his own damn funeral!" 

Then there was my Uncle Sarge's funeral... Uncle Sarge was my great uncle, the brother of both my grandmother and the infamous Mammy Jane.  So of course he attended Mammy's eightieth birthday party.  My parents, who were out of town camping with the annoying dog, did not.  I was asked to go in their place, and, since the Honeybee happened to be visiting that weekend, she came along.  There was cake, there were flasks, there was the proverbial group photo, which my family insisted the Honeybee join.  Fast forward several months, when Sarge has kicked the bucket.  Someone decided it would be a good idea to make Sarge a funeral collage, which they did, with posterboard and streamers and the photo of Mammy's party, among others.  I found my father staring at the collage, so much so that no one else could really get a good look.  "What are you doing?"  Says I, "There are other people here who want to see pictures of Sarge jitterbugging and herding cattle (or whatever the hell else Sarge was doing in those photos - the man liked to dance.  And drink.  Often at the same time.)."  And my dad says, "I'm not in this collage."  I respond, "So what?  He was an uncle-in-law.  You're not fair game for a funeral collage."  "But..." Dad sputters, "But...The (Honeybee) is in this collage!  I've been a member of this family for twenty-five years, and she trumped me!"  "Well," says I, "Guess you should have gone to Mammy's party." 

Dad is now upset with me.  Very upset.  And granted, that comment was a bit snarky.  But it was NO REASON for him to stand beside the funeral collage for the rest of visitation and point to the Honeybee, telling everyone who looked upon her that she was "Melissa's special friend."  It confused my grandmother in particular, since I'd just been through a bad break-up.  With a BOY.  But it made my dad feel better to tell everyone I was a lesbian, so whatever.

I was discussing the funeral the 'rents are attending today with my mom, and I have gained additional insight into the dead woman.  Apparently, when I was three, said woman asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I responded, "Hamburger buns."  So she sent me a card with a dollar in it so I could buy myself some hamburger buns.  I'm wondering why I would have asked for them - they don't seem to be any sort of forbidden fruit item.  Can anyone think of any reason why hamburger buns would have been a holiday-worthy treat in 1983 Kentucky?  Cause I got nothin'.