Long Live the Appalachian Funeral

Long Live the Appalachian Funeral_____ G.C. Compton Those who believe funerals are for the dead have never been to an Appalachian funeral. It is generally conceded that the only profit a dead man can expect from a funeral is the pompous rite of passage into Gloryland, or, in many cases, into a more tropical climate. Otherwise, the ceremony is designed for the living—especially those living in central Appalachia. In spite of our flea markets, Saturday night cockfights and the Super Wal-Mart, the funeral has remained the preeminent haven of social intercourse in the mountains. Even the shotgun wedding is poor competition when it comes to serious communion and fellowship. No social function in Eastern Kentucky is more popular and planned for than the funeral. This is not to construe that mountaineers are one shred disrespectful of their departed. None but the Japanese have shown more genuine appreciation for a dead man. When the Emperor Hirohito expired a few years ago, the Japanese salted him down, loaded him on a gurney and set out through the streets of Tokyo with banners flying and flags waving. Half the population of Japan turned out for the music and the fireworks and kept up the mourning for over three weeks. His Highness was prayed over, prayed to, deified, mortified, dropped and rolled in the mud. By the time it was over and the dust settled, there was hardly anything left of him but a shroud. It was a ceremony that would have made any southern mountaineer proud. All that was lacking were three days of preaching and a chicken and dumpling dinner. The most popular funeral in Eastern Kentucky is one held in the church or home of the deceased. Those held in the funeral home usually come with a curfew and are considered to be encroachments on tradition and freedom of mourning. Just as Yankees don't like a bar that closes before 3:00 a.m., Southerners dislike a funeral home that turns off the coffee pot before midnight. The only thing less popular in the hills than the closed funeral is the closed casket. Whether or not his loved ones have laid eyes on a man during the last thirty years he was living, they want to see him when he is dead. Let word get out that someone has been run over by a manure spreader and people within a hundred-mile radius will begin scanning the obituaries until they locate him. It matters little that they are strangers to the deceased, that they have no investment in the corpse. They have come for a viewing and don't mind cutting in line and climbing over the beneficiaries to get it. If the casket is closed when the mob arrives, they will likely take their disappointment out on the undertaker, if they can find him. They will give him a piece of their mind and let him know just what a slovenly, third- rate amateur he is. It will be the last time they will do business with him. When someone dies in the holler, everybody within thirty miles knows about it in five minutes. At least nineteen rumors about who or what killed the beloved are circulated and modified. A man on Little Robinson in Pike County can have a heart attack while shaving his whiskers, and by the time the news reaches Virgie, he has had his throat cut with a straight razor. The story of Mr. So and So on Long Fork getting gut shot with a .357 in a case of domestic violence never fails to stir interest and get the adrenaline pumping. To learn that the victim merely tripped over his squirrel gun is always a letdown. Such rumors are all too common in the hills and result in hard feelings toward the perpetrator as well as the deceased. The news of a death sends a community into spasms of preparation for the funeral. The women start by wringing their hands and worrying about what they are going to wear. They are naked for clothes. Not a rag to their name. That old dress they got on sale at Wal-Mart has...