971. Funeral time

(Dear Everyone, I have decided to finish this blog at story 1001, which will be on the 7th of July. Initially there were to be 555 stories – for no reason the number of sonatas composed by Dominico Scarlatti. Then I extended it to 1001 – the number of nights in the Arabian Nights. Then I extended it to 1066 – a number of significance to those who follow William the Conqueror. I’m not going to do the 1066 bit, and all that, but am going to stick to the 1001 stories. There are still 7 left to write!

The last monthly poem will appear on the 1st of July.

As for the weekly pieces of music: I had finished composing the weekly music up until mid September. So as not to waste them, from now until the 7th of July I shall post music two or three times a week, including the usual Wednesday.

The reason(s) for all this is that I’m tired. I have to move house on December 12th and haven’t found anywhere to go yet. This will be the 13th time to have moved in 16 years. I also have other things to do in life! and other things to perhaps write. The blog material will eventually be shifted over to my website at Stagebarn – where reside my novel, some short stories, an autobiography, and my plays and musicals.

Anyway – I’ve got to sort things out now. Here’s today’s story!)

Let’s face it; Giuseppe didn’t want to go to the funeral. His wife, Maree, said, “So why go?” But Giuseppe felt duty bound. Some sort of ex-colleague from Giuseppe’s pre-retirement days had passed on. Giuseppe wasn’t feeling too well himself, and wasn’t feeling too eager to have to sit for an hour or so in a cold church.

“With your poor health I wish you wouldn’t go,” said Maree. “It’ll be the death of you.” But Giuseppe insisted.

The funeral was at ten in the morning. Giuseppe arrived a good ten minutes early. There wasn’t a vehicle, a mourner, or a coffin in sight. He waited a while and then went back home. He checked the newspaper. Yes, definitely at ten o’clock, and at that venue. What a mystery.

The next day Giuseppe noticed something…

“Why,” he asked Maree, “is every clock in the house two hours slow?”

Listen to the story being read HERE!

718. Funeral coverage

Quite frankly, Herbie couldn’t afford to die. Funeral expenses were atrocious. He needed funeral coverage. He took out a policy that cost him twenty-two dollars a month. He arranged an automatic payment from his bank account.

The thing that ever so slightly worried Herbie was that if he died during the first year he wouldn’t get a penny. Not a cent. Not that he’d get it anyway because he’d be dead, but his wife wouldn’t get any compensation for the funeral costs. And then once the first year of payment was up, everything would be covered. Within reason, you understand. His wife couldn’t order a 24-carat gold coffin.

Everything went fine for several months. In fact, everything went fine for eleven months and two weeks. Then, as the first anniversary of payment approached, Herbie started to worry. He started to stress. Every little chest creak was an oncoming fatal heart attack. Every little twinge in the head was an aneurysm. Every little spasm was the onset of cancer.

Herbie discovered that the anniversary date of payment was a Friday the 13th. Friday the 13th! How terrifying is that?

Let’s face it, by the day before the anniversary, Herbie was a blithering mess. He had to survive a mere twenty-four hours. His dear wife suggested they go to the park and feed the ducks. It would take his mind off things. So they did that, although Herbie didn’t go anywhere near the duck pond as he didn’t want to fall in and drown. He didn’t walk on the grass in case he slipped and broke his neck.

AND… he survived! He survived! He survived!

A week later he got a letter. The last bank automatic payment transfer hadn’t come through. His funeral costs wouldn’t start to be covered for another month.

Listen the story being read HERE!

634. An apple a day

© Bruce Goodman 6 July 2015

Marlene sat in the pew at her husband’s funeral. After fifty-two years of marriage, this was the time she had dreaded. Fifty-two years, and now all over.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away”, Fred used to say. And, indeed, that was the case. They’d both eaten an apple a day. And they both always had excellent health. Except for the one time he’d broken a toe in the middle of the night trying to kick the door shut before the cat got out.

The number of apples devoured came to about thirty-eight thousand apples between them, Marlene figured. Of course, occasionally they’d missed – it was always the first thing for breakfast, an apple. Cored and peeled and sliced of course.

Once (it was so funny to remember) Fred had purchased a bag of apples and when they peeled and sliced two for breakfast, it was discovered they were sour cooking apples. That was one of the days they missed on their apple, although Marlene did use them to make an apple crumble.

Fifty-two years and an apple a day, thought Marlene. It’s funny the unimportant thoughts that come into your head at such an important time. But I suppose it was natural enough for Marlene to think of apples while sitting in the pew. After all, he’d died at breakfast when he choked on a slice of apple, hadn’t he?

606. Funeral savings

© Bruce Goodman 8 June 2015

Jimmy was old and dying. Patrick, his nephew and godson, was with him.

“Paddy,” said Jimmy, “when I go my final will and funeral instructions are in the top drawer.”

Jimmy died. Paddy opened the drawer. There was the final will and, on a separate piece of paper, the funeral instructions.

Jimmy had left everything to Paddy. Everything! Once the funeral expenses were paid for.

“He has rather expensive tastes when it comes to funerals,” thought Paddy.

He went to see the undertaker and arranged the cheapest funeral possible.

On the way home he called into the Travel Agency and booked an extended vacation to Honolulu on the funeral savings.

541. From death to funeral

When Anthea’s husband passed away they had been married for thirty-eight years. They had no children. Don’t get me wrong; they’d tried frequently, furiously and fruitlessly to make a baby. And now Anthea was on her own.

The time between the death and the funeral was a roller-coaster ride. She had to organise the funeral service: select a coffin, arrange for flowers, for pall-bearers, for a church minister, for hymns, for an organist… She was busy, busy, busy.

Then friends visited. It was cup of tea after cup of tea. There was little time for mourning. She sometimes wished the visitors would disappear, but she was nonetheless grateful for their presence.

And then came the evening and the night. She never knew a night could be so dismal and so long. So lonely. So bleak. Such fearful unending darkness.

Anthea sat on the end of the bed and waited. And waited.

Dawn broke.