Those of us who work in alternative media–particularly we who run blogs, which require daily updating and a continual perusal of news in order to remain relevant–run a high risk of becoming so inured to non-stop political spin, and so desensitized to public rudeness that we become not just observers, but bobbing participants in the overheated muck and stew of the daily outrage, the daily hysteria, the daily meme. Mired in the thick of things, we can lose sight of the depths of madness to which our society has so swiftly slipped. When one is riding a roller coaster, after all, even the hairiest swoop begins to seem like a reasonable and expected part of the ride.
While on vacation last week I made a point of avoiding all news and news byproducts and all internet access, so I had missed a few headlines, including the news that immediately after Rick Santorum’s virtual tie for the top spot in Iowa, Pundit One and Pundit Two had taken to the airways to declare Santorum “crazy” and “very weird” for doing precisely what bereavement experts suggest grieving parents of stillborns or short-lived infants do: holding their dead infant son and talking to him and letting the siblings meet him.
I opine about it all while remembering my some family tales about in-house wakes, in my column today at First Things:
Most infamous among these was the circa 1930 wake of one “Uncle Charlie” a child-beating brute who died of a stomach cancer but not before being written up in a medical journal, for–my mother claimed–”being the curious case of a man burning out his gut from his own acid hate.”
My mother, who often bore the brunt of his wrath, was six or seven years old at Charlie’s passing, and she recounted approaching his laid-out body with great care, just in case he still had a slap left in him. The rest of the family had moved from the parlor (“we called them parlors, then”) to the kitchen to take either liquid or solid suppers. “There was a cube of ice, somewhere in that box, but I don’t know that,” she said, “and as the thing melted, Charlie shifted in the box. I screamed ‘he’s alive, he’s alive!’ and tore into the kitchen, and Uncle Joe brought me back out along with a plate of beef and carrots and potatoes and laid it on Uncle Charlie’s chest; ‘shush, ye child, he just wants to be included’.”
Hearing these stories in an age where death had been moved out of the parlor and into the funeral home, it was both spooky and exotic to consider that once upon a time people took care of their own dead; they washed the bodies and made them presentable, and then invited the neighbors in to toast him farewell, “everyone came,” my mother said. “See, they wanted to make sure he was dead, but even the mailman stepped in and tipped his hat and had a healthy dose to his memory.”
Death, for the people of that era, and every era before, was no stranger and brought no squeamishness. There was nothing mysterious about death beyond those questions we still ask–will we see them again in the next life, and why, so often, do the good die young while old bastards hold forth for far too long? A family mourned and drank, and fought and keened and then stumbled into church for the funeral; they buried their beloved and stumbled about some more, and life went on.
Read the whole thing, here. Rick Santorum and his wife are neither nutty nor weird. Considering that up until about 80 years ago it was the norm for a family to have custody of the body of their loved ones until the funeral (and that is still true in many places in the world) I can’t help thinking some are a bit weird in their fastidiousness. And crazy in their need to politicize absolutely everything under the sun.
Related:
When it comes to death, we’re the biggest liars
UPDATE:
Tim Dalrymple posts his interview with Santorum on how JFK mislead the country on faith and politics. Interesting!



Join the Discussions of the Year of Faith





Follow Patheos
Catholic: