Olga Dalford. Feb 5, 2010.

This funeral review was sent to me from 14 year old Gordon Dalford of Sheffield in the U.K.


My mum forced me to go to my gran's funeral, even though she was a cow. Everybody that knew her thought so. She was my former stepdad's mum and her name was Olga. When we would visit her she was bloody rude all the time, and always gave crap presents on birthdays. Anyway, when we got there late, the place was nearly empty. It was just my stepdad and my step-aunts Kate and Janet. When two old birds showed up the funeral started.

Let me just say I'm glad it was short, but it definitely was not sweet. The awful organ playing and hymn singing was unbearable. I think one song was called the old rugged cross or something and it went on about cherishing it as some symbol of suffering. Pretty weird stuff, actually. Some boring priest (or something) read from a Bible and talked for a while. Then my stepdad went on and on about how none of us knew her before she was sick and a right b**ch. He didn't say it that way, of course, but you know what I mean. He was moaning about how she used to be all caring and gentle. Bollocks.

Then the priest fellow made us stand and sing (which I didn't) and the service was over. Then there was an awful conversation with my ex-stepdad. How've you been then son, and all that and then I had to go wait in the car for being rotten, as my mum called it. Sometimes I do that. When I sat in the car, I remembered a time when my gran wasn't so bad and she put jam in our Corn Flakes to make it taste better. I stopped missing that person a long time ago, because she's been gone for years. I guess I realized that now, that person's never coming back, now that she's dead. When I think about that I just get mad and act like an arse-hole, which is why I had to wait in the car. My mum doesn't understand it, even though my real dad was the same way.

Gordon

PS: I thought about taking all that personal stuff out, but decided to leave it, cos probably nobody will read it anyway.

Gary Creemore. Jan 4, 2010

Funerals are a excellent way to determine what family and friends think of their lost loved one. It's revealed in the songs chosen, and in the pictures and objects displayed. It is especially evident in the emotions of the funeral attendees.

I'm not sure Gary was a great husband or father. His wife didn't seem too bothered by her loss, she almost seemed happy. It wasn't one of those I'll-see-him-in-heaven-soon types of joy either. Because there would have been a pastor or priest, or hymns playing. His obituary said he had 3 kids, and more grandchildren. I saw one woman who could have been the right age, sitting next to his wife.

The funeral was mostly attended by Shriners. They weren't wearing their Shriners suits or fez hats. But his fez and jacket was on display in the front of the funeral home and a lot of the guests had emblems on their cars. And some of these men, as they payed tribute to Gary mentioned the Black Camel, which for Shriners means death.

Some big band music was played by some of these old men. I suppose Gary participated in this group. I wonder if he was the glue that held them together, because they sounded horrible, but not, evidently, from sorrow.

I stepped out to use the washroom during one of the unbearably long speeches and came accross the spread for the reception to follow. Tuna sandwich triangles, coffee, potato salad and apple juice. It seemed like a fairly small amount of effort was put into this. I took a few sandwiches and left the funeral. It was interesting because there were a few people standing outside smoking. Maybe they couldn't handle the funeral for the same reasons as me.