Aunt Ethel’s Country Fried Funeral

The call came just after Marco Midnight. As most islanders understand, 9:00 pm is midnight because most Marco islanders get up early and hit the hay without too much night owl activity. When the phone began to ring, it was late and unexpected, and from a cousin who normally calls only on holidays.

Aunt Ethel was the oldest of the siblings who had already passed, and she was by far the most cantankerous and vindictive of all the family that made up the generation who were born during World War II. The cousins, who were the sons and daughters of Aunt Ethel’s seven siblings, were wary and downright afraid of Aunt Ethel because her reputation for being as mean as a snake was an undisputed fact.

Before Aunt Ethel passed, in her big home in a well-to-do Chattanooga suburb, the 99-year-old had a call from one of her nephews who was bordering on black sheep status because of all the get-rich-quick schemes he had spiraled into failure. The nephew was calling because, as he said, he wanted to visit and check on the welfare of his favorite little widow who might be lonely.

After the nephew became an identified villain on the other end of the antique telephone, the little widow, who was five feet of seething resentment for every family descendant who had ever stepped ashore on the North American continent, crushed the bequeathment-seeking caller as if he were an ant approaching a Fourth of July picnic.

At the end of the call from the nephew, Aunt Ethel declared, “I never liked you! Don’t come and visit, and don’t expect anything in my will when I go to meet your maker!”

The latest family information about Aunt Ethel and the swarthy nephew was not surprising, and after a few moments of confirming that Aunt Ethel’s behavior was still viper-like, the call from Appalachia ended when the particular Marco Beach Boy agreed to fly up for the funeral.

March in the mountains of Tennessee was perfect for Aunt Ethel’s requiem. The weather was raw and chilling with an icy wind that was soul-searching.

The small towns in Appalachia can be unique and timeless. The local drug store was the same as when the particular Marco Beach Boy was a little boy sitting on a red leather stool from the 1950s and having a root beer float from an ice cream soda fountain.

Just as with the drugstore, the funeral home was completely unchanged. The sprawling building with the wide porch under the eaves was perched upon the highest hill of the small town, where anyone from Main Street could look up and judge by cars the amount of wealth that was not departing on the road to eternity.

Beneath the snowy sky, but above the funeral home, a huge pair of bare trees were fighting a losing battle with the Appalachian winter. Inside the parlor for the dearly departed, another episode in nostalgia was waiting. Most of the mourners were bundled in brown, beige, or plaid, but a few bright colors were trying to defeat tradition. Resting beyond the mismatched mourners and waiting under a pair of tall torchiere lamps were the remains of Aunt Ethel in her open casket.

The tiny figure was motionless, and surprisingly, not criticizing for the first time ever. Even in her requiem, however, Aunt Ethel was formidable. Her makeup was heavy but her hawk-like features determined. No one spoke within reaching distance of the hands that were crossed, but after a few moments of awkward silence, a few of the more ridiculous comments from the funeral director began to spark gallows humor from those who knew Aunt Ethel best.

After a few giggles and some forced fables of Aunt Ethel in her youth, the family got down to business and began whispering about the big empty house in Chattanooga, and how much cash the little battle-axe had stashed.

In the end, Aunt Ethel had the last laugh in more than one way. She left her home to the man who mowed her yard, and her impressive bank account to her good-looking lawyer.

After the burial and after Aunt Ethel’s wishes for a long and drawn-out day of mourning were finally over, the particular Marco Beach Boy fell asleep and began to dream.

The Beach Boy was a guest in Aunt Ethel’s home. He knew he was not well and that he must have aged terribly. He was awake in the big house in Chattanooga and he could smell cookies baking. After trying repeatedly to rise, the Beach Boy finally managed to gather his strength that he knew was fleeting. The smell of the baking cookies was overwhelming, and he knew he must have at least one freshly baked cookie before he passed through the old funeral home with the naked trees that were fighting winter.

In slow motion, and after a battle with almost every obstacle in the house, the Beach Boy made his way into the kitchen. The smell of the cookies was irresistible. Resting on a platter was a huge plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Just as he managed to rise and reach for one of the delectable treats, Aunt Ethel appeared just as she was dressed in her coffin, but she was wearing an apron. With her character more alive than ever, Aunt Ethel slapped the hand of the dreaming Beach Boy. “Do not touch!” she scolded. “These cookies are for the funeral!”

At home on Marco, on March 5, 6, and 7, at the Artist Series at the Marco Lutheran Church, A Country Fried Funeral will bring to life another tall tale of another quirky but hilarious funeral in the Deep South.