poor tom's almanac - Four Funerals—and a Wedding

By Tom Vartabedian

"The Armenian Weekly", Volume 74, No. 18, May 3, 2007

If you enjoy a good flick like I sometimes do—something that’s light-hearted and fun—might I recommend one called “Four Weddings and a Funeral?”

It’s not recent but neither is “Dr. Zhivago,” though I could watch that time and again, which I have. And I haven’t seen the last of “Four Weddings and a Funeral.”

In somewhat of a contrast, I experienced just the reverse in one week. I attended four funerals in consecutive days before an invitation to a wedding put me back on level ground.

The first involved a man whose allegiance to Tufts University remained unparalleled. Though he never married, one eulogy had him connected to every student who ever passed the Medford campus over the last 50 years. And many of them—especially those of Armenian descent—graduated because of his guidance and friendship.

En route to the cemetery, the motorcade deviated from its course and proceeded around the track oval of the Baronian Field House as one alumni mourner shouted out, “C’mon Jumbos! One more touchdown for John!”

The second funeral involved a woman who worked as an accomplished interior designer right up until the day before her death. She, too, was active with her church and community and always kept her family locked in her heart.

A year ago, knowing her condition was grave, her son took her on an extended trip to Western Armenia, home of her ancestors, and it was like a dream come true for the woman. She retraced her family roots, visited the villages of her forefathers, and lived another year beyond expectation.

One would like to think that such a journey gave the woman an added jolt of energy or—in any regard—the inspiration to forge ahead despite the adversity that plagued her life.

The very next day came the funeral of another man whose allegiance to church and the cultural arts was unquenchable. He was married to his music, owned a gorgeous tenor voice, and made it a point to sing opera whenever the occasion arose.

He had a stubborn streak that diluted the jovial side, especially when he didn’t get his way. But the next day, all was forgiven and he’d be your friend again. I guess you could call him temperamental. I shall remember him as the gent who would furnish me with copies of his CDs whether I asked for them or not.

The fourth funeral left my own carcass dragging a bit. It involved another pillar of the Armenian community, a man who always vouched for unity and understanding for his race, and rich with Masonic ritual. Nothing pleased him more than that trip to Historic Armenia a few years ago, except perhaps his family and wife. He never reneged when it came to a worthy cause, either.

Why is all this so important? Because from death comes life. From bereavement comes a semblance of joy and satisfaction. In each of those situations, a life was extinguished, it’s true. But it was a life worth celebrating and not grieving.

How many times have I attended a funeral where only a smattering of guests showed up? In one case, no one except the immediate family came to pay their last respects. What type of legacy did this being leave behind? Had he no friends, no business associates?

In Baronian’s case and that of a prominent musician earlier this year, both wakes took place inside a church instead of a funeral home, due to their scope. The crowd was so immense, you could have left the line, toured the Freedom Trail, and returned before viewing the casket.

My own father’s funeral was one for the books. He operated an eating establishment and because many of his customers were short on funds, they would run up a tab. “Cuff it,” they would say. “I’ll take care of the bill later.”

Well, later never came and when his demise followed, all those who had an outstanding credit account might have emitted a sigh of relief. They didn’t even attend his funeral and his kindness and charity were buried with him.

Oh, yes, the wedding. After all the remorse in those four days, the final respects and stress of going from one wake to the next funeral, a ray of sunshine intervened through the cloud.

A former co-worker of mine with a grave disorder and the urgent need for a kidney transplant informed me that his stepdaughter was getting married.

He not only wanted me to attend but become a vital part of the ceremony. “It would be a privilege if you could photograph it,” he invited me. “That gives me every incentive to beat this obstacle.”

I gave the guy a hug. “Give it hell, Mike!”