But in the 1970s, banks were paying up to 9 percent interest, so pre-need accounts only two or three years old accrued far more interest than necessary. That windfall was supposed to be returned to the surviving family or to the deceased’s estate, and in most cases, that was done. But one former boss used to instruct me to attempt to “upgrade” whenever a large amount of interest had accumulated in a pre-need account.
The 1970s and 1980s were dark periods for abuse in the burgeoning pre-need arena. Detailed reports of funeral directors pocketing pre-need money filled funeral industry publications. They deposited funds into the funeral home’s checking account instead of a separate account and then used them for day-to-day expenses. Upon the purchaser’s death, the funeral home would perform the service and provide the merchandise, with no one the wiser.
Problems occurred when a purchaser decided to cancel the prearrangement or wished to transfer the account to another funeral home. The original director struggled to come up with the money, an investigation ensued, and the scam was exposed. Funeral homes received quite a black eye. Insurance-based funding and removal of the funeral director from the mix eventually repaired a lot of the damage. Nowadays, if a consumer has a savings account of $10,000 or a like-value life insurance policy, funding a pre-need through a funeral home is totally unnecessary. Going to a home and prearranging wishes and merchandise and then putting such wishes in writing is an excellent idea to save surviving family members from answering tough questions at a time of grief and stress.
Yet many prearrangement clients prefer to pay up front just so they know that their wishes will be met in the future, and also so that the surviving children cannot deviate from the parent’s wishes.
My parting thought on the subject of prearrangements is simple. If you pay in advance, make sure the funds are deposited into an insurance product. Don’t let a funeral director or pre-need salesperson talk you into placing funds in the funeral home’s savings account. With the onslaught of corporate buyouts, many homes will no longer be privately owned in years to come. Funeral home consolidators are buying out one another’s assets constantly—and that includes all current pre-need accounts.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Claire’s mode of transportation was only one aspect of HBO’s award-winning series that everyone grilled me about. Would I let my daughter drive a lime-green hearse? Would I let my daughter drive a hearse to school? Probably not—but it certainly made a terrific visual. And as a funeral director, I must congratulate the writers and the technical adviser for having presented a largely accurate picture of a family-owned funeral operation, complete with dizzying dynamics and relationship subplots never before explored on television—along with a small but realistic peek inside a mysterious and fascinating vocation.
As I watched many episodes in the company of fellow funeral directors, we often exchanged knowing glances. Whether a scene concerned feuding families, people on modest budgets insisting on the most expensive caskets, or heartfelt sympathy expressed to the bereaved by Nate and David Fisher, we all agreed: “Been there, done that.”
Some of the grittiest details were things that only we would notice. One episode from the fifth season, for example, featured an irate Vanessa storming into the prep room to confront Federico. He was in the process of raising a decedent’s leg high in the air with his left hand and holding in his right a set of forceps grasping a white plastic AV plug. Its purpose? To be twisted into the anus and/or vagina of the deceased to seal the orifice, thus avoiding any embarrassing leaks or discharges while reposing. Too graphic, you say, even for HBO? Not at all. First, most viewers had no idea what was going on. Second, for those of us in the trade, it provided a riveting touch of authenticity.
Before Six Feet Under, most movies and television episodes depicting funeral services seemed eager to portray their directors as pale, somber, black-garbed super-salesmen far more intent on separating consumers from their wallets than on consoling them. Perhaps that’s one reason our image still suffers at times; why people are shocked to learn that we actually have a sense of humor; and why we still deal constantly with absurd questions about whether dead bodies truly sit up, make noises, or continue to grow hair and fingernails. Six Feet Under made tremendous strides in not only humanizing us but also conveying to the public our proper place in society as providing a much-needed service.
Nate’s poignant conversation with the elderly gentleman who did not want to leave the funeral home after his wife’s visitation had concluded was very typical, and a classic scene from the show. Older couples may have lived together for decades. When one of them is gone, the other faces a dreadful emptiness. Nate showed compassion toward someone unwilling to return to a silent house; he simply sat down next to the grieving man and let him talk. Any funeral director worth his salt is, above all, a good listener.
There are comical aspects to our business as well that the show has shown. In one episode, a stripper who was electrocuted when her cat pushed electric rollers into her bathtub tested Federico’s breast-positioning skills. Her friends were duly impressed with the lifelike uplift of her assets as she lay in the casket. When questioned, Federico admitted he’d placed a cat food can under each breast. While the idea was intriguing, I’ll probably stick to my own tried-and-true method, filling brassieres with cotton. On occasion I’ve overdone it, but each time, the surviving husband has expressed approval with a hearty thumbs-up or even a wink through tear-soaked eyes.
The series included only a couple of misleading embellishments. First, the Fisher and Sons Funeral Home, like many older establishments, was situated in what was once a grand old residence, complete with its outdated basement prep room where embalming and dressing took place. But the home always seemed to acquire its bodies with amazing speed. In reality, the Los Angeles County coroner performs such a staggering number of autopsies and examinations that releasing even a single body could take several days to a week. Nate, David, or Federico would not likely drop by on the very day of someone’s death and return home that evening with the decedent already in tow.
Also, David’s fear that Mitzi, representing the scary, deep-pocketed corporation, might buy out the competitor down the street and eventually put the Fishers out of business was probably regional. Perhaps in Southern California there is less personalization and therefore less loyalty. In the East and Midwest, however, funeral directors are often trusted friends who secure much of their continued business through word of mouth. If a family-owned home sells to a faceless, out-of-state consolidator, then area consumers hear about it and become understandably skittish about handing over their beloved family members to total strangers.
I would have enjoyed seeing at least one episode that dealt with the inevitable hustle and bustle of a funeral home’s busy streak. Several days filled with nonstop and breakneck arrangements, embalming, dressing bodies and placing them in caskets, and then hoping everything had been attended to properly and would run smoothly. Oddly, no one ever seemed to be fully present at what eventually became the Fisher and Diaz Home. I can’t help wondering who answered the telephone, who greeted walk-ins, and who sat down with those wishing to learn more about pre-need contracts.