Sensible Care of the Bereaved
Every little once in a while -- doesn't happen often -- I just don't have much to say, oh my faithful readers. (Also those of you who have surfed in because you're looking for help with the First Communion Banners. There have been, over the last few weeks, at least 50 of you a day. My heart bleeds for you. For things I had to say on this subject last year, go here (useful spiritual advice concerning banner); or here (links to a few pictures of banners, and some discussion thereof); or here (pictures of my child's first communion, including a shot of various banners). Best of luck, and may the force be with you.)
But, oh, I don't know. I need to update the blog, and while usually I've got lots to say about all kinds of little things, oh, I don't know. It snowed on the weekend but now it's 75 degrees Fahrenheit; the child has succeeded in teaching the cat to fetch; Sam's planted the lettuce and is starting in on the watercress; and the entire little family is in love with Alton Brown. Ok, I might blog Alton Brown later.
But I don't feel like it today.
Nah, I think I'll discuss Funerals, according to Emily Post. Boy, do I love Emily Post. Just last Thursday, we were discussing, in the Medieval Literature class, that excellent poem The Pearl, and, whilst remarking on the usefulness of the text as an anodyne for grief, I talked about grief as an altered state, about which, these days in this culture, we don't have much understanding. Here's Emily Post on the subject -- she DID have understanding:
Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless.
Many of her helpful suggestions which follow concern how to keep bereaved people warm, and what to feed them. They need to be put in sunny rooms with warm fires, and fed tea and toast. Milk is ok, if it's hot.
She's on the money, really, but we don't do this any more. Even that darling Lily, the grief counselor on "Crossing Jordan," who's a woman of great good sense in a new agey sort of way, talks to her clients -- who are always in shock on account of having just identified bodies -- in a large cavernous room, which photographs well, but looks pretty cold. She needs a little warm room. And a tea tray.
Anyway. Should you go on over to the link I gave you earlier, and read Emily's advice, you'll see that she goes on -- and on -- through the details of funerals; what color streamers to hang on the bell; how to form the procession; why it's ok to overburden the servants; what to serve the mourners if you're out in the country and they had to come in by train.
Then, there's a great deal of information on mourning -- the period of grief that goes on for some time. By the time Post was writing, in 1922, strict mourning clothes worn for a year, for people to whom one was not deeply connected, was no longer the fashion. Indeed, as she says, veils were no longer necessary, though one could use them if one wanted.
But there was still, at that time, a dress code, which signaled that one was in grief, and it could be invoked if needed. I so approve of this. I so miss this, even though I didn't live through it. It's so reasonable and so sensible. And we've got NOTHING to replace it. But Post was clear on why it was useful:
If you see acquaintances of yours in deepest mourning, it does not occur to you to go up to them and babble trivial topics or ask them to a dance or dinner. If you pass close to them, irresistible sympathy compels you merely to stop and press their hand and pass on. A widow, or mother, in the newness of her long veil, has her hard path made as little difficult as possible by everyone with whom she comes in contact, no matter on what errand she may be bent. A clerk in a store will try to wait on her as quickly and as attentively as possible. Acquaintances avoid stopping her with long conversation that could not but torture and distress her. She meets small kindnesses at every turn, which save unnecessary jars to supersensitive nerves.
Nowadays, one goes about one's life with no marker of being in An Altered State, in which one might break down into tears at any moment for no obvious reason, and therefore should be treated delicately. Nope. No marker at all.
Yes. I like this chapter. Mostly. The part about the servants goes up my nose.
She's got excellent advice, though, on how to divert oneself when in great grief -- one slips into a movie theatre, with a friend, where one can sit in quiet and obscurity (one does not wear one's veil, though; that were tacky), and be diverted.
My own experience of this is that one does NOT want to watch anything with guns and action; nor does one want to watch anything that's very deep. No thinking. One wants real diversion.
One of the reasons I'm a fan of Tom Hanks -- early on in his movie career, he was in the totally silly film "Big," and it was in the theaters when, after packing up the house of a beloved friend who had finally succumbed to AIDS, we needed to be diverted. Excellent film for diversion. That's the sort of thing you need.
But I can't remember if we were wearing patent leather -- I think probably not. I hope not, cause Emily wouldn't have approved. It is NOT correct for mourning.
But, oh, I don't know. I need to update the blog, and while usually I've got lots to say about all kinds of little things, oh, I don't know. It snowed on the weekend but now it's 75 degrees Fahrenheit; the child has succeeded in teaching the cat to fetch; Sam's planted the lettuce and is starting in on the watercress; and the entire little family is in love with Alton Brown. Ok, I might blog Alton Brown later.
But I don't feel like it today.
Nah, I think I'll discuss Funerals, according to Emily Post. Boy, do I love Emily Post. Just last Thursday, we were discussing, in the Medieval Literature class, that excellent poem The Pearl, and, whilst remarking on the usefulness of the text as an anodyne for grief, I talked about grief as an altered state, about which, these days in this culture, we don't have much understanding. Here's Emily Post on the subject -- she DID have understanding:
Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless.
Many of her helpful suggestions which follow concern how to keep bereaved people warm, and what to feed them. They need to be put in sunny rooms with warm fires, and fed tea and toast. Milk is ok, if it's hot.
She's on the money, really, but we don't do this any more. Even that darling Lily, the grief counselor on "Crossing Jordan," who's a woman of great good sense in a new agey sort of way, talks to her clients -- who are always in shock on account of having just identified bodies -- in a large cavernous room, which photographs well, but looks pretty cold. She needs a little warm room. And a tea tray.
Anyway. Should you go on over to the link I gave you earlier, and read Emily's advice, you'll see that she goes on -- and on -- through the details of funerals; what color streamers to hang on the bell; how to form the procession; why it's ok to overburden the servants; what to serve the mourners if you're out in the country and they had to come in by train.
Then, there's a great deal of information on mourning -- the period of grief that goes on for some time. By the time Post was writing, in 1922, strict mourning clothes worn for a year, for people to whom one was not deeply connected, was no longer the fashion. Indeed, as she says, veils were no longer necessary, though one could use them if one wanted.
But there was still, at that time, a dress code, which signaled that one was in grief, and it could be invoked if needed. I so approve of this. I so miss this, even though I didn't live through it. It's so reasonable and so sensible. And we've got NOTHING to replace it. But Post was clear on why it was useful:
If you see acquaintances of yours in deepest mourning, it does not occur to you to go up to them and babble trivial topics or ask them to a dance or dinner. If you pass close to them, irresistible sympathy compels you merely to stop and press their hand and pass on. A widow, or mother, in the newness of her long veil, has her hard path made as little difficult as possible by everyone with whom she comes in contact, no matter on what errand she may be bent. A clerk in a store will try to wait on her as quickly and as attentively as possible. Acquaintances avoid stopping her with long conversation that could not but torture and distress her. She meets small kindnesses at every turn, which save unnecessary jars to supersensitive nerves.
Nowadays, one goes about one's life with no marker of being in An Altered State, in which one might break down into tears at any moment for no obvious reason, and therefore should be treated delicately. Nope. No marker at all.
Yes. I like this chapter. Mostly. The part about the servants goes up my nose.
She's got excellent advice, though, on how to divert oneself when in great grief -- one slips into a movie theatre, with a friend, where one can sit in quiet and obscurity (one does not wear one's veil, though; that were tacky), and be diverted.
My own experience of this is that one does NOT want to watch anything with guns and action; nor does one want to watch anything that's very deep. No thinking. One wants real diversion.
One of the reasons I'm a fan of Tom Hanks -- early on in his movie career, he was in the totally silly film "Big," and it was in the theaters when, after packing up the house of a beloved friend who had finally succumbed to AIDS, we needed to be diverted. Excellent film for diversion. That's the sort of thing you need.
But I can't remember if we were wearing patent leather -- I think probably not. I hope not, cause Emily wouldn't have approved. It is NOT correct for mourning.
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