“Oh death, where is thy sting?”
I’m sure when this line first appeared in
the bible (Corinthians 15.55, if anyone wants to check) it didn’t expect to
raise riotous laughter. Before I’m accused of being cold hearted or flippant,
let me elaborate.
Many years ago, we were visiting my mum and
dad with our three young children, along with my brother and his wife and their
three offspring. Six over excited
children under seven in an enclosed space was a recipe for disaster. There were drinks being spilt, toys broken,
mouths yelling – it was absolute chaos.
My mum was calmly dealing with all disasters in a systematic manner, but
my dad (who turned out to be the greatest granddad on earth once the kids
reached about eight) was not enjoying it very much. He’d not been well and really couldn’t stand
too much mayhem. Suddenly his voice rung
out above the clatter,
“Oh death, where is thy sting?!”
There was a short, stunned silence, whilst
tiny hands stopped pouring drinks on the floor and wrestling over the Fisher
Price garage, and tiny heads turned towards granddad, their mouths agape. My dad looked a bit like he’d even shocked
himself. The adults swivelled their
astonished eyes between granddad and each other. One of us (I can’t remember who) started to snigger. Within seconds, the room was in uproar. We clutched our sides and roared with
laughter, grandma stopped mopping for a moment and, after a slightly worried
glance at granddad, allowed herself a short but unmistakeable guffaw. The children caught the mood and joined in,
without a clue what they were laughing about.
My dad looked indignant, which of course, caused even more
hilarity. Eventually, he grinned, shook
his head and went upstairs for a lie down. Chaos resumed.
The husband was the one who found this
funnier than anybody else. The rest of
us were pretty used to my dad and his dramatic outbursts. Ever since that day, we’ve realised that any
situation that has got out of control and unacceptable can only benefit from
one of us shouting those famous words,
“Oh
death, where is thy sting?!”
 |
| The culprits at my dad's 60th birthday - singing a song I'd written to celebrate |
Despite treating that quote with
unbelievable irreverence, I do know death is no laughing matter. I’ve grieved over grandparents and uncles,
and a very close friend who we’d known for over twenty five years. His wife, Mary is one of my dearest
friends. Our children grew up with their
children and they are still all mates today, but sadly George died prematurely
nine years ago. He was the husband’s
closest friend and we were both devastated. However, this didn’t stop me making a cringe
worthy remark only a few days after George’s funeral. I was with Mary, chatting and laughing about George’s
life and funny sayings, when there was a knock at the door. Mary answered and came back into the room
with a sombre looking man in a black suit, who she introduced as the funeral
director. We exchanged a handshake, and
he turned back to Mary. Very seriously
he informed her he had brought George’s ashes, which were in an urn inside a
carrier bag on the floor next to him.
With some effort, he lifted the bag and passed it to Mary, with the
words, “Careful, it’s really heavy.”
Now before I tell you what came out of my
mouth without a moment’s hesitation, I must first paint a picture of our lovely
friend. George was the biggest joker out
there. He was from Glasgow with a
typical Glaswegian’s sense of humour (and language) and was a great one for
teasing and winding people up. Not only
was George a big joker, he was also physically a pretty big guy, and one of
his favourite sayings was, “I’m a fat b*****d, me,” always with a loud laugh
and a poke at his stomach. Each week he
told us without a hint of irony, “The big diet starts tomorrow.” Each week, we’d nod and know it would never
happen.
So when the funeral director told Mary to
be careful as George’s ashes exchanged hands, I heard myself say, “Well, he
always was a fat b*****d.”
There was a stunned silence. Everything seemed to go into slow
motion. The funeral director turned
towards me with a look that combined horror with supreme distaste. Mary clutched the urn and fixed her gaze on
the floor and I wondered what on earth had possessed me. Nobody said a word. Mary ushered the man towards the door, whilst
I contemplated jumping through the window.
As the front door closed I heard a stifled laugh. Mary burst into the
room, grabbed me and hugged me close.
It seemed my rapidly composed apology was redundant. She shook with laughter and could hardly
speak, “Oh my God, Jill,” she said in her thick Glaswegian accent, “George
would have LOVED that!”
I still cringe when I recollect what I said
but I think Mary was right. George would
have loved the joke - and even more so my discomfort having said it. I
think about him every day and although I don’t believe in ghosts, a little part
of me would like to believe it was George who possessed me that time I shocked the
funeral director.
 |
| Dave and George - best mates |
Dylan Thomas' poem is a favourite of mine, even more so as I get older.
Do not go
gentle into that good night
Dylan
Thomas,
1914 - 1953
Do not go gentle into that good
night,
Old age should burn and rave at
close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the
light.
Though wise men at their end know
dark is right,
Because their words had forked no
lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good
night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying
how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced
in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the
light.
Wild men who caught and sang the
sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved
it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good
night.
Grave men, near death, who see with
blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors
and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the
light.
Thanks for reading Jill