Before we start, this post does contain colourful language. It is a true story of an Australian bush funeral and, to be honest it would be hard to tell without using the language of a family mourning the loss of a loved one.

As septuagenarians, when we aren’t wandering around the country in our caravan, we’re at home catching up with medical appointments and far too many funerals. This particular story has nagged at me for some time begging to be told. So, here goes…names have been changed to protect the innocent and it is a glimpse into the real Australia.

She was born in a country town, in a time when transport was by horse. That town is now just another suburb of greater Melbourne and the mourners catch planes to attend her funeral.

My aunt had one leg, acrylic hair, and suffered from dementia. In her day she was the toast of the town and led the local lads a merry dance. We never knew her real age, only the fishmonger’s wife was a party to that secret. You see they were old chums of the exact same age.

Now she is gone, released from the stranglehold of a deluded mind. And it is time to arrange the send-off that she would have wanted. She always did like a damned good funeral, with hymns too.

There are sparse few of us left now. Of course, there are the younger members of the family who have bred well. But Alma was the last of her family, the last to die of seven children. Of her generation only her brother’s wife Matilda remains and she is in her late eighties and hard of hearing. So the funereal task falls to my cousin and I and we do the best that we can.

The undertaker, a local bloke, has been hovering like a hungry buzzard for years. Alma always said that she felt like he was always sizing her up at funerals. So he’s ‘in like Flynn’ and ready to do the deed. The minister is a different kettle of fish. For some unknown reason, our family funerals are always held at the Anglican Church even though the family are all staunch atheists and frankly couldn’t give a toss about religion. So the church is booked tentatively as the minister is mumbling something about having the carpets cleaned. After four days he suggests a different date because he is meant to be “doing” a funeral in Fawkner. “The lying bastard” shouts Matilda “that’s not good enough”. Eventually, my cousin finds a ‘locum’ minister to fill the breech. Is that what they call stand-in ministers? Locums?

The footy club is chosen for the wake (though none of us were footy players either) and Matilda is adamant that the food is to be better than the last funeral that she attended. “You tell them I want a decent sandwich and party pies and sausage rolls. Not fuckin’ pita bread with shit on top!” She tells my cousin Albert.

Time is running out and we’ve forgotten to map out the service, so I ring the parson and he wants to vet the Order of Service and, he wants the words to the hymns printed. I presume this is so that the congregation can pretend to know what they’re singing about. I find a few saved service books from past funerals and change the name and dates, add a picture of Auntie Alma and it’s starting to become more personal, upsetting even. Heavens where can I find the words to ‘Abide with Me’? Lo and behold there is a website called hymns.com, blessed is the internet. Once it’s all cobbled together I email a copy to the vicar and he comes back with “I didn’t know ‘Abide with Me’ had so many verses, can you cut three verses out of the middle?” I was thinking that sounded sacrilegious, but what would I know. Then he catches me out with “I see you want the old Lord’s Prayer, not the new one”. Is my lack of belief that obvious? I reckon I must have ‘atheist’ tattooed on my forehead. 

Finally, the day before the funeral I race to Officeworks at 9:00am and get the Order of Service printed up then dash home as we have friends due for lunch. The phone rings and it’s Matilda “Can you ring the frigging undertaker? He wants to know when she got married.” Being the genealogist of the family I ring the undertaker with the date, heaven knows why he wants that, for the death certificate I suppose. I ring Matilda in reply and she bellows into the phone “I’m in the nude, got a cardiologist appointment in an hour, then the bloody physio. Tom dropped off thirty kilo of fuckin’ zucchinis do you want some? I don’t know what to do with ‘em. Probably take ‘em to the Op Shop. Did you know the bastards (the local Cemetery Trust) want $1000 to lift the lid off the grave?”

That night (after physio) Matilda and her friend go to the cemetery to put flowers on the family graves. My husband Woody says “shit that’ll cost a fortune you’re related to half the cemetery.” While the two women dart around in the half-light putting flowers on graves, my two cousins stand up on the polished granite edge and jemmy the lid off our Uncle’s last resting place with a crowbar. Of course, they must remember to return after the wake to replace it.

My youngest cousin has made a sound living out of tattooing and now spends most of his time living on an offshore island. Thanks to him at least a third of the congregation have more art on their skin than the graffitied lanes of Melbourne. As mourners mingle outside the church before the service, the conversation goes something like “and the tiger snake bit him on the lip and he died, the horse that is.”

We take our seats and Alan the minister (we’re on first-name terms now) performs the service and does an excellent job and thankfully doesn’t pretend to have known Alma. However, we probably should have donated something to the church to pay for a new computer because theirs keeps hanging during the video making poor old Auntie Alma’s life appear to be peppered with much stuttering.

We make our way to the cemetery, the very one where my cousins and I played as children. We’re surrounded by our ancestors as far back as our great, great, great grandparents. All is hushed with summer stillness in this little bush cemetery surrounded by gum trees and family and a tang of salt in the air. The peace is shattered as my car dealer cousin Tom (the one who grows zucchinis) roars right up to the graveside in a big old convertible Galaxy with the top down, a carload of relatives, and the Klaxon horn blaring Aaahooga! It is a lovely day to have the top down.

Unflustered, Alan the minister gets on with the burial service. My male cousins begin to gently lower the coffin into the grave and all at once a ship’s horn blasts from the bay and the steel mill lunch siren wails. If only my Dad could have been here he would have said “There goes Alma.”

We adjourn to the footy club for the wake and some ‘decent’ sandwiches and we’re surprised to see that Auntie Alma’s fruiterer and his wife have arrived to partake of a free lunch, without having been to the service. “Tin arsed bastards” I mumble. Matilda shouts “Anyone want any bloody marrows?”

I hope we gave you a good sendoff Auntie Alma, the whole district turned out. Oh, Christ! What about the bloody lid?