I've often made fun of the kind of interior design asked of me by (usually) law firms, calling them the 'ships and horses' style since it seems to invariably mean the kind of interiors that would complement paintings of ships or horses. In other words, manly hunting lodge look of old money: lots of solid, darker woods...hunter greens and tans, 18th century maps of the new world, and so forth. It's not my favorite but it is fairly easy to execute just because it's a very clear aesthetic.
On Wednesday night I found myself on a redeye to JFK with my husband to attend funeral services for his grandmother. I hadn't ever attended a wake, nor do I recall attending a funeral of anyone particularly close to me, so I found myself a little nervous as to how I would handle it. This isn't to say I've never lost anyone. I've just never been able to attend the funeral of anyone close, and so my grief was kept to myself.
Granny was a lovely sassy woman with whom I'd enjoyed many lunches, and yet here she was, wearing the beautiful beaded champagne gown she'd worn to our wedding, resting under a single, heartbreaking word embroidered on the inside lining of an open casket lid:
MotherI found myself surprisingly emotional at the wake. From just after lunchtime until ten in the evening, a steady stream of visitors came to pay their respects-what seemed to be the whole town, and the atmosphere waivered between that of an early cocktail party to the somber hush one would expect at such an event. I couldn't decide it if was more or less comforting for me to see her face; this odd sleeping woman in the middle of a cocktail party serving only water. It was one of those surreal days that seem to go slowly and quickly at the same time. The things that made the tears well in my eyes surprised me. Her friends whom I'd never met, telling me how Granny enjoyed our lunches. Her nursing aide bursting into tears and running away from the casket. The sad old man who had a crush on her, visiting her in the hospital everyday, sitting in a middle seat with hands folded, staring alternately at the carpet and her face. The fact that she wasn't wearing any jewelry even though she always made sure to accessorize. The adorable photograph of her at 18, beaming in Central Park. The introvert in me spent much of the time studying the room- when I wasn't greeting people and trying desperately to remember their names- and wondering if the undertaker had thought as carefully as I presently was about the decor.
It was easier to analyze the room. The walls were covered in a pleasant wallpaper of short, swirling stems of pink and blue roses on a cream background, with a white chair rail dividing the bottom third of the wall into a denser, smaller rose pattern with thin blue pinstripes. A heavy drape of pink fabric served as a backdrop to the coffin, with a brass crucifix suspended in the midst of it. A thick white crown molding made the junction of ceiling and walls, and I suspected I was the only one bothered by the fact that they apparently ran out of or damaged one band of the molding so that it stopped in a corner, leaving half the room with thinner molding. A heavy perfume from the numerous arrangements of roses and lilies coated the space, seeming to weigh on everyone's shoulders even further. In another situation I might have scoffed at this kind of decor in my youthful design snobbery, but today it was appropriate and comforting. In effect, it looked and felt like a Grandmother's living room.
What did strike me was the choice of artwork. The space was laid out in a sort of L-shape, with the casket residing at the end so that one wouldn't see it upon entry. Some people, usually the younger set in my age group, never made it to the end and hovered in the front space, avoiding the view at the end. I understood why they would be uncomfortable viewing her body, but I realized they were missing a detail I had come to appreciate. In spite of the generally feminine decor of roses and pink drapery, the first space had two very masculine paintings of sailing ships in a common theme. In both, two ships are shown in a dense fog with a brilliant light beyond. The ship in the foreground is crisp and stable, while a larger ship is sailing away from the viewer, fading into the enveloping mist. At first I found this to be terribly sad and cruel to put such an image in a funeral parlor, where people anxiously bid farewell to their loved ones as they are sent off to the unknown. Yet as you turn the corner of the room, now you see your loved one, and the paintings on either side of her are again ships. Only this time, both paintings show a single ship. It is at full mast, strongly outlined against a murky sky of uncertain intentions, cutting confidently forward through the waves- and in both paintings, sailing
away from the casket. To me this was clearly a reassurance, a confirmation that indeed, this is but a body, and whoever occupies this spot has moved on without fear or uncertainty. I find myself admiring my perceived thoughtfulness on the part of the undertaker. At the same time I'm chastising myself for my prejudice against ornate, traditional decor. Here were all the usual suspects of the kind of decor I would avoid (ships! flowered wallpaper! heavy woods!), working impeccably together in a highly appropriate fashion to convey a feeling: a warm, comfortable, well-lived life. She would have approved of the roses, at least.
Back in my In-Laws' home they are starting to sort through Granny's belongings. It is heartbreaking to realize that she had been preparing for her passing in the months leading up to Tuesday night. Many of her items are labeled in her careful cursive, with dates, the country where she had purchased it, whether it's real gold or not. I take with me two decorative items of the type that I once teased her about for cluttering up her home: a Hummel, one of those odd little German child-characters, and a ceramic cat. They remind me of her and it's comforting to take a piece of her with me. I'm starting to understand the propensity for
tchotchkes among the older set. They are souvenirs, tangible memories, and as you age you inevitably appreciate the fleeting nature of memory. I imagine trying to tell my hypothetical children someday about their great-grandmother and what kind of a charmer she was.
She had roses on her walls, and ceramic kittens and ducks patrolling the foot of her couch. She would try anything I put in front of her in a Chinese restaurant, and even took us to White Castle once! When I first started dating your father, she leaned in close to me and whispered,
"He's always been my favorite."
