I’d like to think that my services are on the other end of the spectrum of those horror stories, and the response from my clients bears this out. An elderly gentleman passed away many years ago, and his son, a busy Disney executive and overseer of Disneyland in Anaheim, called me from Los Angeles to meet in Ohio the next day to arrange the funeral. He openly admitted to a blatant disregard for my entire industry, considering all of us ghouls and lowlifes intent on taking advantage of other people’s misery. I attempted to allay his concerns, making it clear that any decisions we made that day were not carved in stone and that he was welcome to go back to his hotel and meet with me after he’d had time to think things over. He did just that, and the next morning we arranged for his father’s immediate cremation, with the ashes shipped to California for scattering into the Pacific Ocean near Santa Monica.
When I informed the son that his total charges were less than $1,500, he was flabbergasted. His uncle had recently died, and the same services in California had cost him more than $5,000. I responded that obviously the standard of living was much different out there. The man later sent me a nice thank-you note with an additional check for $1,000 and a permanent gate pass for my entire family to Disneyland.
It is gratifying to receive positive feedback from a client’s family during and after the performance or our duties in caring for their deceased loved one. Rarely is there a complaint; most always my family and I are showered with compliments and heartfelt thanks from the families we deal with. However, I am extremely amazed at how often one or more bereaved family members actually take the time to put pen to paper and send a card or long letter of thanks addressed to me or one of my sons. I have framed and displayed more than a hundred such messages in the lobby and lounge of the funeral home for all to see. Others can observe the confirmation of appreciation of our clientele.
There are many feel-good stories in our industry, both local and national, that do not receive any attention. I once worked for a kindhearted man who desired no publicity. Few were aware that every May he would ask the local high school’s dean which students could not afford caps, gowns, or class rings. Many participated in graduation ceremonies without ever knowing who their generous benefactor was.
After a tragic accident left seven children without their mother and father, the same man instructed the children’s aunt to take all seven to a store and purchase new outfits to wear to their parents’ funerals, with the bill sent to him. Of course there was no charge for either of the two funerals. I learned a lot from my employer. Doing good deeds is now my hallmark. I might not be making as much money as some of my colleagues, but I bet I sleep far better.
In October 2004, I noticed a small newspaper article concerning the death of a recently identified thirty-five-year-old woman. A minister was making a plea for assistance with burial expenses. The woman was a known prostitute, and her death was the result of a brutal beating and rape, and she had been shoved out of a moving car and left on the side of the road with no identification.
On a scrap in her pants pocket was a telephone number. The police dialed it and reached a childhood friend with whom she had once lived as a teenager. It turned out that her childhood friend had long ago lost all contact with her. The minister called several area funeral homes to ask whether anyone could donate a casket or a bouquet of flowers. Amazingly, he received nothing.
I listened to his incredible tale; then my daughter and I removed the young lady’s body from the coroner’s office, performed the embalming, and set out to see what contributions we could gather. I was finally able to obtain a discounted casket and vault, along with a grave space. Township trustees who operated the cemetery agreed to open and close the grave without charge.
The minister reported the good deeds to local television stations, and I was soon deluged with live interview requests. The news reporters seemed shocked that I would perform such a service at my own expense. I was happy for the free promotion and surprised to think that many other directors had the opportunity to offer assistance but did not.
As I’ve said, I make it a point never to turn a family away because of a dire financial situation. Prices of certain services can be reduced, and less costly merchandise can be substituted to make the death-care experience affordable. I’m sure there are many other funeral directors out there—I hope so, anyway—who assess no charges for infants and offer free services for police officers, firefighters, and military personnel killed in the line of duty. That’s typical of most independent family-owned and operated funeral homes, where the hometown director can become a true friend of all community members. Conglomerates are far less likely to reduce prices and outright donations are rare. They also do not wait for insurance payoffs. The corporate brain trust wants to be paid immediately; they think families should be the ones to keep checking their mailboxes.
One time, a truck driver hauling two huge steel coils pulled off the interstate onto the shoulder, perhaps to stop and adjust his cables. One of the coils rolled off the trailer and crushed him. When I arrived on the scene, a wrecker was in the process of raising the coil, precariously suspended by what I thought to be a very fragile cable. I hurriedly assisted in pulling out the unfortunate driver, wanting to spend as little time in harm’s way as possible.
I retrieved my mortuary cot and slid it next to the body, which had been smashed from the steel’s weight. The poor man had been struck by the steel from his groin area up to his head. His internal organs had blasted out from a tear in his side and lay all around him. It was a surreal scene indeed. One life-squad attendant stared and pointed: “Look, Bob, there’s his heart.” It was actually a lung.
I transported the body back to the funeral home. As I walked in the door, the telephone was ringing. The Ohio State Patrol asked me to check the driver’s pockets; he’d supposedly been carrying more than $40,000 of the trucking company’s money. A patrol officer had searched the truck, found nothing, and was resigned to the fact that the money would probably be discovered someday by some homeless guy searching the nearby field for used pop bottles.
I readied a large plastic garbage bag next to the preparation room table to dispose of what was left of the driver’s tattered clothing. After peeling away some of his tissue-covered shirt, I happened upon a large wallet with an attached chain, the kind that motorcycle riders carry. I washed off the blood and gore, dried it, and to my surprise found it stuffed full of crisp $100 bills. Briefly, I thought, “How handy to have an extra $40,000!” But I knew the good Lord would not be pleased, so I called the state patrol to report my find.
Shortly thereafter, the trucking company’s owner phoned and said he would be at the funeral home the following morning. Upon his arrival, he thanked me for being so honest and handed me a check for $1,000. My name and picture, labeled “Good Guy of the Month,” appeared at many Ohio truck stops for the rest of the year.
Another time I was summoned to a stately old farmhouse to remove a farmer’s body, which had been discovered in the concrete workshop behind his home, where he’d apparently collapsed while repairing a vehicle. Two sheriffs’ cruisers were in the driveway when I arrived, but no one else was in sight. The coroner had told me that the old gentleman lived alone and had two grown sons who lived out of state.
I poked my head through the workshop’s door and spotted two deputies counting out cash. One was alternately placing bills in one stack in front of himself and another in front of his partner. They both looked up, sheepish and red faced. An old safe sat below the workbench, its door wide open and it was crammed full of cash.