The Red Flannel Rag

Grandpa Austin’s death was one of the last times that the traditional wake was

carried out in Hopkins Gap. It was customary to bring the body home so the family

could sit with it for at least two days before the burial. So his body was picked up by the

funeral home, processed, and brought back home. He lay in the living room where he

had died until his burial.

Grandma Molly and his daughters took turns sitting with him around the clock.

While they were sitting there, they swapped stories of occasions they had heard about

when a person was not really dead, but in a coma. Occasionally one of them would get

up and go over to the casket and look at him for a few minutes. Aunt Vernie watched

him carefully. She would walk over to the casket and stare at his chest. “I swear he’s

breathin’,” she said. Then everybody in the room would gather around to watch for

signs of life and finally conclude that he was dead after recalling that he had been

embalmed. “He ain’t got no blood in him,” said Aunt Hattie, “They drained it out and

put other stuff in his veins. He can’t be alive.” Then they sat down again and told stories

of people being buried alive and about how others were saved from being buried alive by

faithful family members who watched over them and caught them breathing or saw

them wake up and sit upright in the casket.

Of course, the neighbors and other family members brought in tons of food for

the family so they could spen d their time grieving. I thought I didn’t like Grandpa

Austin and was showing my lack of concern for his dying until the funeral director asked

me if I would help carry the flowers to the grave after the funeral. I lost it, started

crying, became hysteri cal, and was soon told I didn’t have to carry flowers. I realized

soon thereafter that I really did like the old man and would miss him.

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