By Todd Harra, Ken McKenzie
Now not figuring out what to do, I sat at the church steps and waited. because the gravity of my failure started to good up in me, i started to cry. . .
I Had misplaced The Hearse!
Funerals and the every little thing that accompany them are routinely somber, contemplative occasions within which the bereaved glance to their undertaker to steer them via that almost all tough of instances.
Of direction, occasionally culture will get thrown lower than the bus.
From a dysfunctional kin who flip their mother's wake right into a full-blown rebel, to funeral crashers trying to find loose foodstuff, to a horse-drawn hearse taking the dearly departed for the experience in their afterlife, those bills from genuine undertakers could have you guffawing, pondering, and gasping in disbelief. A literal graveyard of untamed coincidences, slapstick humor, and touching moments, Over Our lifeless our bodies explores the lighter facet of the lifeless, the residing, and the lone undertaker who has to make all of it pass as planned—even if it doesn't.
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Extra info for Over Our Dead Bodies: Undertakers Lift the Lid
Dad told us we were having something special for dessert—a flaming ice-cream cake. The waiter wheeled out a tray with the cake on it, and the woman with the gloves lit it with a taper. Everyone stopped eating to watch. The flames had a slow, watery movement, rolling up into the air like ribbons. Everyone started clapping, and Dad jumped up and raised the waiter’s hand above his head as if he’d won first prize. A few days later, Mom and Dad went off to the blackjack table and then almost immediately came looking for us.
Then Grandma would make a snide comment about Dad being shiftless. Dad would say something about selfish old crones with more money than they knew what to do with, and soon enough they’d be face-to-face in what amounted to a full-fledged cussing contest. ” Grandma would scream. ” Dad would shout back. ” Dad had the more inventive vocabulary, but Grandma Smith could outshout him; plus, she had the home-court advantage. A time would come when Dad had had enough and he’d tell us kids to get in the car.
Mom, however, told us that the FBI wasn’t really after Dad; he just liked to say they were because it was more fun having the FBI on your tail than bill collectors. We moved around like nomads. We lived in dusty little mining towns in Nevada, Arizona, and California. They were usually nothing but a tiny cluster of sad, sunken shacks, a gas station, a dry-goods store, and a bar or two. They had names like Needles and Bouse, Pie, Goffs, and Why, and they were near places like the Superstition Mountains, the dried-up Soda Lake, and the Old Woman Mountain.