The Humanist

The Humanist

Joe had many discussions with his Dad about religion over the years. George was against any and every religion and refused to have anything to do with them, or anyone connected with them. Although Joe respected his Dad and his opinions, he thought he was wrong. Joe was educated at the local school which was Church of England  and it was seen as supporting a very watered down form of Catholicism. Some of this had soaked into Joe, much  to George’s disgust, ‘ why don’t you think for yourself and look at the evidence rather than listening to the ravings of an uneducated bunch of goat herders who knew mostly nothing about anything?’

‘But the bible is a very good book, Dad,’ argued Joe.

‘Yes, and so are “Noddy goes to town” and “The little red hen”, but you don’t base your life on those stories do you?’

This sort of discussion went on for many years and, truth to tell, each rather enjoyed these discussions and would have been quite surprised and disappointed if one had managed to convert the other to his way of thinking.

George’s daughter, Caroline, was agnostic about the whole thing. She went to church at Christmas and Easter but it was more of a date in her social calendar rather than from any religiosity on her part. She enjoyed singing the familiar hymns and carols and joined in with more gusto than expertise.

*****

George got ill just after his 82nd birthday. First he got an ulcer on his leg which got so bad that he had to go to bed in spite of his protestations ‘I’m tough,’ he said, ‘I’ll get over it. With all that time spent immobile in bed, he got a chest infection which he didn’t seem to be able to shake off in spite of the antibiotics that were pumped into him daily. He seemed to get more frail each day until the doctor confirmed that he now had pneumonia, ‘the old person’s friend’ as doctors used to call it before the fetish of extending life at all costs came in as the fashion - even if the patient had to pay those costs - George wasn’t long for this world. 

Joe and Caroline contacted all the family and said that they were all very welcome to come and see George but that they were on no account to let George know that he was dying. There started a long procession to see George in his bed, people he knew well and others that he hadn’t seen for years, ’just dropped in to see how you are, we’ll come back next week to see if you are up and about,’ they said with false cheerfulness. George knew better than this. He was old but not stupid. He knew he was dying and wanted to get the arrangements sorted out while there was still time. Joe was summoned to the bedside. He was instructed to be there soon after breakfast because that was George’s best time so he was likely to be awake then.

‘Hi Dad, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to set out my wishes for my funeral and I don’t want you to deny it. I know I haven’t got much time left so will you please humour me and arrange things as I want them?’

‘Whatever you want Dad, I won’t try to change your mind and I won’t let anyone else argue with what you want. I’ll make sure that everything will happen just as you want it.’

‘Thanks, Joe, you’ve always been a good lad and I knew you would come through for me.’ George lay back on his pillow. Joe thought the effort had tired him so much that he wanted to sleep but no, George still wanted to dictate his instructions even though his voice was now thin and quiet - very difficult to hear so Joe had to really concentrate and lean close to hear his father’s last wishes.

Joe wrote them down very carefully and repeated them back but, by this time George was beyond listening and was breathing very slowly and shallowly. Joe called in his Mother and sister and told them that George was very close to the end of his life and didn’t have much time left but that he had written down his last wishes and had promised to carry them out, in spite of what anyone else might think.

George took his last breath at 1153. 

‘Dad would have joked that he missed his lunch,’ said Joe, trying to lighten the mood. ‘He died peacefully, typical Dad, no drama or hassle, just the end with no fuss, just as he wanted.’ He didn’t tell them about the pills that George had secreted in his bedside locker a couple of weeks before and the strict instructions his father had given him about their use.

*****

As is usually the case, Joe, as the eldest son - the only one - took on the practicalities of organising his Dad’s funeral. The distaff side of the family was too emotional to organise anything. He booked funeral directors and passed on to them his dad’s wishes. All was now in place for George’s last journey on Friday 23rd February. The invitations were sent out, the notification placed in the local paper, “no flowers please, any donations you would like to make, please give to your favourite charity.” All he had to do now was to find someone who would abide by his dad’s wishes and officiate at the funeral. The search was long and tedious, there was not much demand for the type of person who could meet his dad’s requirements but he eventually found someone on the net. He met up with him and briefed him on his dad’s life and what type of send off he had wanted.

The day arrived. It was a grey, cold February day with a low grey cloud threatening but not delivering rain, weather to match the mood of a funeral. The mourners gathered outside the chapel of the crematorium., huddled together for mutual comfort in their black outfits like a murder of crows. The cortege arrived. George had demanded a cardboard coffin - ‘to save a few trees, why should they have to die just because I have’, he had said on innumerable occasions. The coffin was unloaded and carried into the chapel, placed on the rollers of the conveyor that were part shielded by long curtains. The mourners followed the family into the chapel in sad silence. The family members were shown to the front row by the head undertaker and the other mourners took the rows behind them.There was an individual standing at the pulpit, where a priest normally based himself. The man was dressed in oversize, yellow shoes, a red jacket, a bright blue bow tie and appeared to have a red plastic nose stuck on to his original one - probably a relic from Red Nose Day a few months earlier.

‘Who is that clown,’ whispered Caroline urgently to Joe. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘He was the nearest I could get to what Dad wanted,’ defended Joe.

Everyone settled down in their seats, trying not to look at George’s coffin on the conveyor. 

‘Hello everyone. My name is Coco and I am a humourist. I have been asked to lead this ceremony by Joe who is carrying out his Dad’s wishes. I specialise in telling jokes and stories that relate to a special ceremony. Firstly I would like to tell you a few jokes to try and cheer you up a bit and then talk about George’s life based on what Caroline andJoe have told me about him. As you will all know, George was a teacher, During his teaching career, he came across many funny situations, including this one, which I thought was quite appropriate to this occasion.

He was taking his physics class one day when young Ken came in half way through the lesson. ‘Where have you been, Kenneth, why are you so late?’ he asked

‘Sorry Sir, my Dad got burnt this morning.’

‘Good heavens, is it bad?’

‘Well they don’t mess around at the crematorium.’

There was a horrified silence. Was this type of thing what George really wanted?

‘A student in Austria was doing his PhD dissertation on the life and times of Mozart. His research was going quite well but he could not find a record anywhere of Wolfie’s height. He approached the Mayor of Vienna to get permission to exhume him. After a year of delay and many discussions, permission was finally granted. The student arranged for people to help him and they all arrived, at the appointed time, at St Marx Cemetery in the Landstraße district of Vienna. After a lot of hard digging, the coffin came into view. They carefully levered off the lid and there was Herr Mozart, sitting up with a sheaf of manuscripts in his hand, crossing off the notes one by one.

‘Vot are you doing Volfgang?’ cried the student

‘Decomposing,’ came the great man’s reply.

Again there was a deathly hush in the chapel, broken only by a stifled laugh and a fit of coughing from the back.

The clown / humourist told several more jokes in the same genre until, after some 17 minutes, the ranks of mourners were wiping tears from their eyes and unashamedly laughing out loud.

Caroline leaned over to Joe and said in a stage whisper, ‘I think this is great and Dad would have enjoyed it immensely but did he really ask for a humourist?’

‘Yes, I am certain that is what he said.’

‘Are you sure he didn’t ask for a humanist?’

‘Oh.’