Smiles have their place at a last farewell
IT’S a reasonable assumption that at 3pm tomorrow you will be gathered around a television set watching the Duke of Edinburgh’s funeral in Windsor.
Even those who jammed the BBC’S complaints lines with moans about the blanket coverage of the Duke’s death – and those with Republican sentiments – will probably feel inclined to watch a piece of history, the end of an era, the tribute to a remarkable life.
The topic of funerals is something of a specialist subject here as they formed a crucial part of my grounding during my years as a cub (apprentice) reporter on the Carmarthen Journal.
In those days the cub hack would be sent to attend the funeral service for those deemed sufficiently important for inclusion in the columns of ‘The Journal.’
A black tie was kept on a peg in the dusty newsroom office, to be ‘borrowed’ by any reporter assigned to cover a funeral.
We actually had a quantity of pre-printed cards, bearing the Journal masthead, which contained an instruction along these lines:
‘The Journal is producing a tribute story to the life of (blank blank) and we would be grateful if you could print your full name and address in capital letters, along with your relationship to the deceased, so that we can include the correct details of mourners in our obituary tribute.’
These cards would be distributed on the pews at the
church/chapel and either collected from the seats, or at the door as mourners left the service.
If you didn’t have sufficient quantity of cards, then you’d have to (gently) ask departing mourners for their details.
Gradually, attendance at funerals dropped away for journalists, but for many years afterwards we still produced templated sheets of A4 for bereaved families to fill out and submit as funeral reports.
By the age of 18, I’d probably attended more funeral services than a 70-year-old!
I also became quite a shrewd judge of how long a service would last: One Chapel Minister = 50 minutes; Two Ministers in the (Sedd Fawr) deacons’ seat = one hour 20 minutes; Three Ministers paying tribute = one hour and a half . . . and take a cushion!
Back in the office, our editor, Mr David Edmunds, would regale us with tales of how he attended the funeral of the poet Dylan Thomas at St Martin’s in Laugharne.
In the field, or rather the cemetery, we cub reporters gradually built up our own stories of funerals: ■ The one where, on a particularly wet and windy grey October day, the funeral director slipped and ended up in the grave ahead of the coffin. ■ The one where the funeral procession had an unfortunate accident on the way to the cemetery and the coffin slipped out of the damaged hearse. ■ And the one where the chapel minister passed away mid-eulogy in the pulpit. The story goes that one mourner reflected, “Pity, it spoiled the whole service.”
One of my favourite funeral stories marries the importance of local newspapers – in this case the Ammanfordbased South Wales Guardian – with the need to ensure the respectful service is correctly reported and recorded for posterity in print.
Sports journalist Frank Keating, of The Guardian national newspaper – now a member of the great newsroom in the sky – enjoyed recounting this tale of mistaken identity at the funeral of the great rugby legend Carwyn James.
In his own words, Keating recalled: “Both (Ray Gravell and Carwyn James) would have laughed at my memory of Carwyn’s memorial service, high up the steep sheepspeckled mountainside above Llanelli in Cefneithin’s whitewashed little Tabernacle.
“Late, I’d driven at full pelt from London (Fleet Street), only to find a huge throng of mourners around the already burstingly cram-full chapel.
“Desperate, I implored a kindly steward: ‘I’ve come all the way from the Guardian to report the service.’
“Valiantly, he muscled me through the complaining multitude to the chapel elders’ jam-packed front pew, insisting: “Make room for this man, he’s very important – he’s from the Ammanford Guardian!”
In recent years, other funeral oddities have kept me amused at times when humour is sometimes the best medicine in the darkening mood of a departure.
One of Cor Meibion Llanelli’s favourite choristers (sadly, now also departed) used to attend more than his fair share of funerals, often being pressed into service to sing.
He kept a knife and fork in the inside breast pocket of his blazer as “you never know if there’ll be enough cutlery to go around at the wake!”
In more recent years, I attended the funeral of Chris Smart, the journalist and broadcaster, at All Saints Church. Chris was truly a larger-than-life figure and a guy who enjoyed the occasional bet.
It will go down as the only occasion I’ve seen a Church in Wales vicar ‘run’ down the aisle during a funeral service.
The service was a fitting tribute to Chris and many of us had pondered what the ‘exit’ music would be.
The service came to a close, and then the music kicked in on the PA system – Are You Lonesome Tonight? by Elvis Presley.
Mourners exchanged puzzled glances before the vicar ran down the length of the aisle to the CD machine.
It had jumped to the wrong track.
The vicar sorted it out and cued the music again.
This time it was the correct choice – Elvis Presley singing Viva Las Vegas!
Another funeral, another occasion to smile and reflect...