One William Bookbinder, a successful wheat farmer from Coffeyville, Kansas, experienced the death of his beloved wife, Mary. In 1816 Bookbinder traveled to his friend Woodrow Mays, the lumberyard operator in town, and asked Mays whether he would be interested in performing a “grave undertaking” on his behalf. After agreeing on a price for the death care of Mary and the price of the coffin, the use of a wagon and horses, and the digging of the grave, Mays initiated the requested duties. Mays performed his undertaking duties with such tact and proficiency that his fellow townspeople called on him for his specialized services on many more occasions.
Undertaking became a somewhat lucrative sideline for the enterprising businessman of the day. The cabinetmaker and furniture store owner, the dry goods and general store proprietor, and even the livery stable operator all made the transition to undertaker. Cabinetmakers and furniture store purveyors naturally had access to better lumber and the needed craftsmen to build coffins; the dry goods store could provide nice material to line the unadorned box; and the liveryman owned the backboards, wagons, and teams of horses for transportation.
Those cabinetmakers who constructed coffins obviously could not conduct funeral services in their own workshops, however. Livery stable operators who provided horses for funeral carriages could offer little better. So what did American folks in the late 1800s decide to do? They went to church—always a good place for any gathering of mourners. (The unchurched could opt for graveside-only services.) Meanwhile, enterprising undertakers opened storefronts in downtown areas, with their furniture establishments on one side and their funeral parlors right next door. Picture windows facing the street gave passersby an opportunity to view the latest coffins, displayed vertically so that they could inspect the plushest interior options. Since many folks of that era could not read, businesses used symbols, like paintings of horses or horseshoes for the blacksmith or liveryman, for example, or a frothy-headed glass of beer above the swinging doors of the local saloon. The residents of the era recognized the undertaker’s establishment as having a picture of a coffin as part of his signage. As more organized and more elaborate funerals came into vogue, undertakers expanded even more by purchasing large, mansionlike homes so that they could live upstairs and conduct business downstairs.
When the automobile arrived in the early 1900s, leading undertakers immediately seized the advantage. A motorized hearse to carry a casket to the cemetery was a source of immense pride and fueled competitive fires among many funeral parlors. Another potential source of revenue soon galloped into mind: Why not use the hearse for an ambulance on occasions when the funeral business was slow? The infirm could be transported to the hospital for treatment and then return home in a fine conveyance—complete with the undertaker’s name emblazoned on that vehicle’s sides. When Grandma eventually died, which firm do you think the family called to conduct her funeral service? It was definitely a win-win situation.
Ambulance services became such a staple in the funeral industry that major hearse manufacturers were soon building what they termed combinations. A hearse-ambulance on a Cadillac chassis had reversible rollers in the rear casket compartment. The rollers allowed for a casket to slide into the rear of the hearse, yet they could also disappear into the floor to easily accommodate an ambulance cot. Anyone who has ever attended a funeral will instantly recognize the genius behind this concept.
In just a few short years, the undertaker would be introduced to the greatest innovative technique—one that changed the funeral business from a mere sideline to the professional and respected industry we know today: embalming. You might think it’s the selection of fine coffins, and other impressive undertaking equipment, yet none of that matters if the deceased human remains rotting in that fine coffin.
The funeral business is about the body. In the early undertaker’s day, the body was the focal point, not the coffin or the undertaker’s caring attitude. Today, though, much is made about the great strides achieved in casket design and innovation, funeral home amenities, and aftercare provided to bereaved families. All of that is well and good, yet today more than ever, the dead human body should be the ultimate focus of the funeral industry.
So why on earth would anyone want to work with dead people in the first place? I have been asked that question more times than I can count.
Actually, working with the deceased is probably the smallest facet of the entire funeral process. Far more time and attention are spent with the bereaved family. So I’ll simply repeat what funeral directors in the United States have been telling the public for nearly two hundred years: I provide a very essential and valuable service. In that regard, what I do for a living is a mere step away from practicing medicine, teaching first grade, or hoisting a fire hose. Undertakers are as devoted to helping people in need as people in those other professions.
The older I become, the more I realize how important that role is, especially when I see so much pain in the eyes of surviving family members. My taking charge becomes even more vital when I am acquainted with or personally related to the deceased. Once I dealt with the deaths of my classmates’ grandparents, and now I am caring for their parents. Although I certainly dislike facing close friends who have lost loved ones, I also know that most are very pleased that their undertaker is someone they know.
I was tested severely, however, in 1992, when my niece, still in her twenties, tragically lost her husband. The two were newlyweds, the handsomest of couples. My niece was summoned to the hospital, unaware that her husband was already dead. She arrived, assuming that he had merely injured himself on the job.
When informed of her husband’s death, she was asked which funeral home she preferred. Still devastated, she told the nurse, “You’ll have to call my uncle, Bob Webster.” Upon my arrival at the hospital, my niece was visibly relieved that a family member would handle things. That tragic death left a mark on me that endures to this day—but although she was heartbroken, I was glad to offer some small degree of comfort.
The same thoughts returned recently when the thirty-six-year-old son of a close friend died. My friend is an upbeat, caring gentleman who always greets my children with huge, heartfelt bear hugs. Although reluctant to face him at such a horrible time, I was gratified when he told me that he would not have allowed anyone else to handle the funeral arrangements. He was reassured, knowing that I would treat his son and family just as I would my own.
Despite these stories, the general public continues to respond to what I do with morbid fascination. Overall, I think I’m a pretty normal guy. I go to parties. I enjoy baseball and backyard barbecuing. I tell lots of corny jokes—just ask my kids. I don’t wear a black cape. I don’t have fangs or talons.
I believe that hang-ups about funeral directors have much to do with our culture’s obsession with youth, beauty, fitness—all that means a total denial of death. The acknowledgment that we funeral directors exist and can over time earn a substantial living confronts everyone with the jarring, indisputable evidence that—oh my gosh!—people die.
That they do, every day. And that’s where I come in. These are my stories.
CHAPTER TWO