Funerals LA style by Bill Kay

Rose Hills is vast. To call it a mere cemetery is to belittle it. Laid out on rolling hills near Whittier, just east of the 605 freeway, it makes Forest Lawn look mean by comparison. And this was where I yesterday witnessed my first American funeral.
They may do things differently in other parts of the country, I wouldn't know, but there was a peculiarly LA feel to the place and the event. I was attending the funeral of Edgar Bullington Snr, father of Edgar, a good friend from the Monday night gatherings at Conrad's diner. I had never met his father: Lynne, Ian, Jim and me amounted to a delegation from Conrad's to lend support to Edgar at this difficult time. His father had suffered a massive heart attack at 83 and lingered for an agonising few days that look brief in retrospect but must have felt like forever while they were unfolding.
The first indication of the size of Rose Hills is the line of cars asking the information post where their funeral is being held. Most received a large sketch map marked appropriately in yellow marker pen. Even then, we went round in circles and had to ask another cemetery official exactly where to go.
From a high point on the hill, activity is everywhere. Like Forest Lawn (but not the Hollywood Forever cemetery behind Paramount Studios), there are no gravestones, or even mausoleums that we could see. Instead, graves are marked with flowers, ribbons, balloons, personal keepsakes, dotting the rolling green fields. Like most large cemeteries these days,Rose Hills allows only ground-level stones so that the vast area can be mowed more easily. But the sod where we were was so spongy and uneven (one nearby marker was a couple of inches higher than one right next to it) that cutting the grass could be a problem. Still, somehow it was kept remarkably trim.
A few chapels dominate the landscape, presumably for the grander funerals. For most, a bare purple awning near the graves protects two rows of folding chairs from the midday sun.
After losing the way, we arrived nearby at about ten minutes before the scheduled 1 pm start time. No one was there. Eventually people emerged from cars and made their way up the steep, grassy slope to the graveside. A young US Navy petty officer in white uniform was a sign of things to come.
By about ten past one around a dozen people were sitting and standing chatting, making the usual stilted conversation that loosely connected strangers attempt on these occasions. Black was very much an optional colour. Some men wore suits and ties, others didn't. Some women were formally dressed, others much less so. A baby cried. Several of the more elderly mourners breathed heavily from the ascent.
Last to appear were the white hearse and six white-gloved pallbearers, led by Edgar. I felt for them, and fervently prayed for their sakes that there would not be an Evelyn Waugh moment as they slowly carried the coffin, draped in the Stars and Stripes, up the grassy slope. Thankfully, they laid their burden to rest without mishap and the service began.
The military honors came first, led by a naval officer with the petty officer as bugler. The officer read an imposing but impersonal account of Old Glory, the flag, which he invited us to imagine was being spoken by the flag. After Taps, Old Glory was folded into a triangle and presented ceremonially to Edgar. The US government provides this free of charge to veterans as a way of showing the nation's gratitude. For more details, see http://www.militaryfuneralhonors.osd.mil/.
The pastor then took over, reading a description of the deceased provided by his son and calling for impromptu oral contributions from the mourners. While this part was inevitably disorganised and disjointed, it had the virtue of heartfelt honesty and allowed those who wanted to a last formal opportunity to express their emotions. Like the service as a whole, it was untidy and lacked shape but fitted the occasion.
Times have changed. Pastors, priests, vicars, no longer tell their congregations what to do but act instead as enablers or conduits. The first consequence of that is that those congregations (or, in this case, mourners) no longer feel obliged to dress or behave in a rigid style, and services no longer follow a predetermined shape beyond the bare minimum. Whether this leads, in funerals, to less respect for the dead is a matter of personal judgement. I don't think it does. Families and friends still mourn their loss, and modern funerals still let them do so in a dignified and satisfying way. All societies mark the passing of their members in their own way, and none more so than at Rose Hills.
The need to give vent to pent-up and suppressed emotion is universal, whether it be called a wake, a funeral breakfast, a repast or, as yesterday, just plain lunch. We drove to Edgar Snr's favourite restaurant, Chris & Pitt's Bar B Q in Whittier, and let the food, drink and talk flow for about three hours. Result: catharsis, a cleansing of the emotions and a platform for Edgar Jr and family to move on.