Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
by Ryan Snyder
my brother, Chad, and I were sent down the street to Ethel’s baby blue 2-story.
Her husband, Mo, was a pipe-smoking Harley man, who died when I was 5. It
was the first time someone I knew had passed away. The day after, my father
He asked, “Ryan, do you know what happens to people when they die?”
My father paused, bit his upper lip and said, “Well, Mo just died, and,
I looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m glad Mo’s dead. He was a bad,
bad man.”
Dad looked at me through his thick lenses, his brows furrowed, and
firmly stated, “Ryan, don’t say that about someone who’s dead. It’s not nice –
I don’t remember why I felt such a hatred for Mo. I only have two
memories of him: Once he teased Chad and I, calling us girls with a smirk while
exhaling pipe smoke through his nose. Another time his pipe was resting in a
black ashtray on the floor; Chad accidentally stepped on it and scattered ashes
across the carpet. Mo leaped from his plaid armchair, shook his finger at Chad
and cussed him out before Ethel could run in from the kitchen to calm him
down. But, the next time I went to Ethel’s house, I didn’t feel a sense of loss
when I saw his empty chair. When I saw Mo lying stiff on the embalming table,
his pale naked body beneath a white bed sheet pulled up to his armpits, to me
***
Chad and I used to throw sacked lunches into our backpacks, sling them
over our shoulders, and walk through the funeral home with Mom. The garage
was connected to the funeral home, so every morning we had to walk through
the funeral parlor to be taken to school in our black ’79 Pontiac Grand Prix.
We’d pass an open casket at least twice a week. When Mom knew the name of
the deceased, as we called them, she’d tell us the person’s name and what he did
in town. Chad and I would look at him lying solemnly in his navy blazer and
red-striped tie, his hands folded one over the other, then wave and say, “Hi
Bob.”
***
I had to crane my head to see over the dashboard as my father and I drove
to Port Columbus International Airport in the white Pontiac station wagon. We
pulled into a parking lot of semi-trailers and my father backed the wagon up to
the shipping dock. I followed behind as he ascended the concrete steps to the
cargo office. Three people waited in line as I eyed the $.35 orange peanut
butter crackers through the vending machine glass. I slid my finger into the
My father slid a check and a yellow sheet of paper across the countertop
replied in a hushed tone, “H.R. stands for ‘Human Remains’. We’re picking up
The clerk turned back to my father and said, “Here’s your receipt. I’ll
Outside, the garage door grumbled as it climbed its metal track. The
clerk pushed the rusty blue manual forklift out of sight and returned with a 6-½
foot wooden plank covered by a cardboard box. He pushed a button beside the
door and lowered the dock to the station wagon’s open rear door. The grown-
ups grabbed the nylon loops stapled into the wood, slid the H.R. into the back
passenger. “Hi, Marge! Don’t worry, it’ll just be a short trip back home.”
***
Occasionally I'd sneak into the funeral parlor alone to examine the
seventies rested inside. Her cheeks were powdered pinkish-tan, her mouth
wrinkled into a slight frown and her shriveled lips penciled in to their normal
size. Her white blouse was just a shade off the casket’s cream interior with a
pearl necklace looping atop her breasts. Her left hand, bearing a gold diamond
ring, was placed on top of her right; green veins tracked across her withered
hands. The smell of fresh-cut roses filled the air; Grandma was written in white
cursive letters on the red ribbon that hung from the casket spray.
My father crept in behind me, placed his hands on my shoulders and said,
I wanted to touch her, to see what it felt like to touch a dead person, but
was scared. I wasn't sure what would happen if I touched her - maybe I would
die, or get the same cooties that the girls in school had. I asked, “Daddy, what
his hands underneath my armpits and lifted me up so I was above her. I poked
her hand and arm with my index finger, the way I'd poke Chad’s little pouch of
a belly to tickle him, but this was different - her hand was cold, the temperature
of chilled water from the faucet; her forearm stiff, as if her muscles were flexed,
***
mother through the church hallway when Joy, the Sunday School teacher,
firmly grabbed my mother’s hand. Her eyes were wide and she said, “Emily,
you’ll never guess what Chad said today in Sunday school. We were looking at
the nativity set, and I asked the kids, ‘So, what is the baby Jesus lying in?’ He
raised his hand and yelled, “Ooo, I know! It’s a casket!’” She grabbed her
***
My cat, Rascal, had a pure white coat and green eyes, and every night she
would jump onto the bed, lie on my chest and purr me to sleep. My parents
decided to put Rascal to sleep after veterinarians tried unsuccessfully for 3 years
to remedy her urinary tract infection. I wore an orange shirt with a picture of
Luke Skywalker’s flight vest the last time I held her in my arms. An hour later,
she was lying on her side in a cardboard box packed with sea green bath towels;
My father packed a shovel in the back of the station wagon and we drove
behind the barn through the knee-high grass; my father carried the shovel and
Mom cradled the box against her chest. My father dug a hole and laid the box
inside. When he slung the first shovel full of dirt atop the box, I ran back to the
***
through the gravel driveway, to the back door where a new litter of kittens slept
with their mother. Mom let out a slight squeal as she bent over the cardboard
box and reached her hand in to pick up the pretty one - a gray and white kitten
whose neck fur spread out like a lion’s mane. The kitten spread across her palm
The tiger-striped mother lay against the box wall, babes curled up to her
belly; she glared as we picked each one up for a glimpse of new life. I watched
Mom lift the charcoal grey kitten; her eyebrows rose as her green eyes reflected
“Awww,” she moaned while examining the little one. “Look, Ryan. His
She placed him on the ground and we watched the little ball of fuzz
One night as I lay in bed, the X-wing Fighter wallpaper exploded in light
as heat lightning flashed across the dark sky. Leah, the cute kitty we brought
home, sat on the windowsill with her front paws tucked under her chest. I
thought about the day we took her from the farm – how we named her after the
princess in Star Wars, and called her twin brother, Luke Thywalker. I asked
Mom what happened to Luke; she said he couldn’t survive on the farm because
I pictured the old man in the sky atop his golden throne, bones stacked
around his feet. A kitten skeleton was spread across his thigh. I hoped to see
Luke again, and wondered if I would when I died. I imagined my trip to heaven,
my bones just another inanimate set among the heap. Reverend Jerry never
explained what heaven was like in his sermons; he simply said it was the place
Earlier that day, a 1-800 psychic said she could tell who I was in a past
life if I called the number on the screen. “Maybe I was Jesus,” I thought, lying
under the warm covers, picturing myself treading the hot Nazareth sand in my
white robe and sandals. “No, that doesn’t seem right. Maybe I was George
Washington.” I imagined myself in a navy blue jacket with gold buttons, black
boots pulled up over the white pants that stretched down to my knees, and a
sword sheath resting against my left thigh. “Yeah, that’s it. I was George
Washington.”
***
The turn-dial phone rang and I picked up the yellow receiver. The man
on the other end inquired about our antique bed set that was advertised in the
paper. I walked into the funeral home to find my father, and could hear the hum
of his machine running behind the embalming room’s closed door. I knocked
I held my breath and looked up as he opened the door and peaked his
head out. His mouth and nose were covered by a crayon green gas mask; his
barked, “What?”
“Who is it?”
“Ok.”
As he shut the door, I realized I never knew what he did in the embalming
room. Every time I opened the door to try to peak, the door would creak and I
would hear the clank of his tools against the countertop, his quick footsteps
coming at me and his voice yelling above the machine’s drone. He wanted to
shield me from seeing the naked man on the table, and the hose jutting from the
four-inch slit along his inner thigh, with blood running in rivers down the table.
But I didn’t need to see what was happening to know I didn’t want to be a part
of it. It was that smell – the smell of chemicals so strong they singed my nostril
hair every time the door was opened – that made me glad I wouldn’t have to see
what he did behind that door until I was a teenager. And as soon as I made sure
the door was firmly shut, I exhaled and ran back to the house, trying not to
***
As soon as the funeral home phone rang, my father was in motion. He’d
rise from the dinner table with a mouthful, step into the funeral home, then
return to his cold plate of food four hours later. If the phone rang at 3 a.m., I
knew when I hugged my father the next morning, I’d cringe from the rancid
cologne smell of formaldehyde when I buried my nose in the collar of his white
button-up shirt. If we heard a voice over the police scanner while watching the
Cosby Show, we’d mute the television to listen; when they mentioned a car
accident or heart attack, my father would go upstairs to put a suit on, so he’d be
ready to take the station wagon to the hospital. A tap on my father’s shoulder at
church meant we’d have to walk home, because he’d immediately leave to
retrieve a body.
And each death call brought with it signs of how family life would be
over the next three to four days. Calling hours from 2 to 4 and 6 to 8 meant my
father wouldn’t join us for grilled chicken and corn on the cob that night.
Saturday funerals meant no one would be there to chant Hey batter, batter with
me from the stands at my little league game. An afternoon funeral meant Chad
and I couldn’t play outside, and we’d have to turn the TV down to the lowest
To me, the deceased weren’t people. They were the obituary listings I’d
help my father cut out of the Morrow County Sentinel; the white plastic letters
I’d use to spell their names on the black felt sign for the front door; the sticky
tang flavor of the stamps and envelopes I’d lick as we placed death certificates
and veteran grave marker requests in the mail. They were the bifocals we’d
place in the armoire to donate to the Lion’s Club, the rings we took off their
fingers to give to their widows, and the folded American flags we handed to
their proud sons. They were the dead flies I’d sweep up with the yellow push
sweeper in the casket showroom, the pink carnations I’d pick up off the floor
after the pallbearers carried the casket to the hearse. They were the moist tissues