The funeral home phone rang. It reminded me of general alarm in "Voyage to the Bottom of Sea". Suddenly, everyone was running around doing something. Then my father would loudly, angrily "Shhh!" everyone. Quiet would fill the house like and everyone would stop as if someone screamed "Freeze" in freeze tag. He calmly answered the phone, as if there hadn't been all this confusion of people running around.
"Green Funeral Home...Oh hi, Jerry... Ok. What's the address? Ok. We'll be right over.
"Well, we got a funeral. That's Jerry Cunnion, the coroner. He's over at some apartments on Warren Avenue. Some neighbors heard a loud thud yesterday morning and then called the landlord after they started smelling something this afternoon. It's a McCormick. Related to those McCormick's that used to own that bar in Newberry. She must of dropped over after breakfast yesterday."
My father had retired almost ten years ago, but he still had the direct line from the business to our house. He wasn't someone who had hobbies. So when my brothers asked him to "mind the store" when they had other things to do, he was happy to help out. Someone always had to be on duty at the funeral home. When someone dies, their next of kin don't want to hear a message about business hours being nine to five, Monday to Friday. They want to someone to pick up the body right way.
The "body". Not a term used by funeral directors. The "remains" is the correct euphemism.
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