Carol Jean's Funeral
started from the mind of Maryanne
It’s fitting that today of all days the sun breaks through the typically dark skies of Washington. It’s proof that the good Lord has a sense of humor. I suppose I ought to be more reverent and shed a token tear or two but I don’t want to waste any on Carol Jean. To be honest, I’d rather be at my own funeral than sitting through this charade. Carol Jean Baxtor is dead, and I refuse to miss her.
The money she donated to the church ensured this gaudy spectacle, but most of us here are simply here to say good riddance, and enjoy a catered meal at the expense of the Baxtor clan. I’m quite sure they only miss the parties she threw, but I’m sure she left them all plenty to throw their own.
As in most families with old money, they have made a fine attempt to purchase a new opinion of Ms. Carol Jean. I can hardly believe the pastor called her “a woman that dedicated her life to comforting those in need.” I guess that’s what she was doing with all of our husbands.
(Thelma)
Carol Jean was my aunt, sort of. She was married to my mom’s brother Lawrence for a few years until she realized he had more debt than money.
Lawrence was kind of disappointing all around.
He was the uncle that showed up late to family events. He’d bring expensive presents occasionally but he also gathered up all the leftovers and take them home with him after dinner—whether they were offered to him or not.
Carol Jean had a daughter, Caroline, that was my same age. She was from Carol Jean’s first marriage. That husband died and my mother said he was the one that Carol Jean really loved. Caroline was my cousin because her mother married my uncle but I didn’t like her. Her mother called her “Caro” and would say, “because she’s sweet like Caro Syrup” and I would feel a little sick because even though I was only nine, I could tell how cheesy that was. (Also, I thought Caroline sounded way too much like Carol and they should have branched out a little.)
Carol Jean and Lawrence liked to have “getaways,” they said it was important since they were newlyweds. We’d get stuck with Caroline. Ironically, I think all the getaways were what broke Lawrence’s bank and meant the end of their marriage, but no one knew that at the time.
Caroline would arrive with her rolling suitcase that was pink. She’d have her hair in tight braids on either side of her head, tied with pink ribbons. She wore tiny pink heart shaped earrings and always had her chubby fingernails painted pink. “She just loves pink,” Carol Jean would say, “Isn’t that right little Caro?”
Caroline would nod sweetly but as soon as her mother was gone, she’d turn into a demon. She scattered her pink belongings all over my room. She would kick my cat, Dusty, whenever she had the chance, and she would sneak into my parents’ bathroom and use my mother’s make up. She stole money out of my brother’s room. Once she spilled a bottle of nail polish all over the carpet and instead of telling anyone, she covered it up with an embroidered throw pillow.
The surprising thing was, it wasn’t pink nail polish. It was bright red.
I hadn’t seen Caroline since her parents divorced all those years ago. I hadn’t missed her. And now, here I was, at this funeral. And there Caroline was. At least I think that was her. She was rail thin with highly processed bleached hair. I did recognize the pink nail polish though.
(Frances)
I suppose Caro has carried on in her mother's footsteps. She probably has had a string of husbands and more money than is decently acceptable and absolutely no real sense of how to spend it. Perhaps now that her mother is dead, she'll move back to town and live in the family mansion. She'll take over where her mother left off. She will donate gobs of money to the church, be on the social committees and try to run the country club. The really bad news is Caro isn't too old take up where her mother left off with our husbands. I keep thinking they'll eventually get too old to chase after cheap perfume but it hasn't happened yet and I suppose some could think she was attractive. She is definitely fit but that hair. Could it hold anymore bleach? Some people just weren't meant to be blond. How I hate that family!
How can one miserable woman have so many good things said about her. I thought we would have been out of here long ago. I guess money can't buy you happiness but it can buy you a lot of lies after you're dead. It's truly ironic that George is up there touting how wonderful a person she was when we were both just griping about her last week on the tennis court. Carol was trying to change the yearly dance at the country club and neither of us were happy about it. Of course, no one expected her to go so soon. She was only 60 . They say 60 is the new 40. Whatever that means. Dead is dead. Oh yeah, the organ is playing. One last song, one last tribute to that wench and we're out of here.
The soloist, who probably cost the family a fortune and was flown in from L.A., started singing "You are So Beautiful to Me". I can hardly hold in the laughter. I wonder if she planned this herself and left instructions with the family with threats to withhold money if they didn't do it.
(Heather)
As the soloist was finishing off the last of the horrid song, I looked around the church at those who chose to pay their final respects to Carol Jean. Some of the men had wet eyes and sorrowful expressions, but none of the women did. They sat tight-lipped and dry-eyed, their arms securely and possessively linked to their husbands', as if trying to prove to Carol Jean that in the end, they had "won."
One couple, in particular, caught my eye. It was Darren and Sandra Hammock, the village grocer and his wife. He had tears freely flowing down his cheeks and blew his nose noisily in his pocket handkerchief. Mrs. Hammock sat next to him, her eyes never leaving the front of the room, but she looked like she was barely suppressing a volcanic eruption of her own eulogy for the deceased.
Mr. Hammock ran a respectable business, selling everything from local produce to bottles of Tylenol. He also had a vast collection of high-end bottles of wine, which were quite popular among the elite for their fancy parties. It was commonly known that Carol Jean would flirt with any male creature with two legs, but some were under the mistaken delusion that her attentions were reserved exclusively for them. Poor Mr. Hammock was one of those caught in her snares. Every time she was in his shop, she would amp up the charms, receiving a scandalous deal on her order of wine, and setting Mrs. Hammock's teeth on edge. By the time Carol Jean left the shop, Mrs. Hammock's face would be as crimson as the wine her husband had just squandered away for half its value. He would argue that Carol Jean's valuable business was worth the loss in profit, that it was more of an investment. But Mrs. Hammock made sure she was always close at hand when Carol Jean's sweeping frame came through her front door.
(Heidi)
The reason I suppose most of us are here is to see if it’s an open casket. I mean, really, it did seem a bit ironic that of all people to die in that manner, left behind like that… well, just a bit of karma done well if you ask me. Carol Jean would be mortified to know how horrible her death would be, and that it would be caused by someone she had hardly known. Then, to get left behind to rot and fester like that? I might fall off my chair laughing it seems just too amazingly appropriate.
The rumor is that her hot yoga instructor had not appreciated Carol Jean heating up her yoga class more than her thermostat was supposed to. Three or four gentlemen had already passed out due to dehydration or some such non-sense just because of her lulu lemon yoga pants being nearly see-through. The final straw was that short haired woman keeling over in the middle of “standing splint”– I mean really.
So Greta followed Carol Jean home from yoga two weeks ago, taught her one final pose that left her face and her hair in a plastic bag, and the next thing you know, its been a week since Mr. Hammock has seen her around the grocery store. He sends over his delivery boy who gets a shock he will never forget and then, after a gleeful confession of murder, here we all are.
The casket is closed.
(JoLyn)
To anyone who might find it unusual to have a catered dinner following one’s funeral, count yourself lucky to be blissfully unaware of Carol Jean’s typical excesses.
The affair started out somber enough. Many of us were obviously having some personal reminisces of our time with Carol Jean. The women were tight-lipped and hard-hearted. Many men’s minds teeter-tottered between dreamy (or steamy) memories and regret at her parting. We milled around inside the reception room, clustering together, waiting to begin.
Soon, Caroline poked her platinum head in and yoo-hooed to the crowd, stunning us all into silence. She sashayed her way to the small stage and grabbed a microphone. “Thank you for coming to honor my mother today. While the details of my mother’s death are horrific and her murder unjustified . . .” A harrumph from the back of the room and general shifting in chairs made Caroline falter momentarily. “I know my mother’s behavior forced a lot of you to have some strong feelings about her . . . and, um, for her. I spoke with my mother in the weeks before she was gone and she said she regretted any upset she had caused.” A posthumous acknowledgement of Carol Jean’s sins and possibly a public apology by her daughter? I was shocked. I might have to reconsider Caroline. “No matter what your memories, l propose a toast to my mother’s passion.” Several waiters rolled in cases of wine that Mr. Hammock immediately recognized.
The wine Carol Jean had apparently squirreled away from her expeditions to Hammock’s store was now flowing plentifully and I noticed some of the men were knocking back some of the harder stuff that they had brought themselves--drowning their sorrows apparently.
Inspired by the soloist, several of the men joined together and commiserated as they gave their own baleful interpretation of You Are So Beautiful to Me. On the last verse, they were interrupted by an inebriated Mrs. Owens (generally known throughout the county for her acclaimed and oft-repeated funereal rendition of Amazing Grace) belting out Celebrate Good Times. As she neared the chorus, many of the wives joined in on the “Come on! Let’s celebrate!”
At that moment, we women gave up any pretense of mourning and the catered memorial dinner for Carol Jean evolved into a full-out party. At some point a few hours in, someone proposed a toast to Greta, the incarcerated yoga instructor, and all of us females heartily raised a glass. Over beef bourguignon, we celebrated her demise while the men celebrated her life.
The only regret of the evening was when Mrs. Hammock threw her back out in the conga line; the injury pretty much shut our party down.
By that time, we were all as loosened up as Carol Jean’s morals had been. As we weaved our way out of the reception hall, Caroline handed each individual a bottle of wine from Carol Jean’s own stash as a token to remember her by. Unbeknownst to the wives though, it was only the husbands that were the recipients of Caroline’s sly wink and the briefest of pats to their backsides.
The money she donated to the church ensured this gaudy spectacle, but most of us here are simply here to say good riddance, and enjoy a catered meal at the expense of the Baxtor clan. I’m quite sure they only miss the parties she threw, but I’m sure she left them all plenty to throw their own.
As in most families with old money, they have made a fine attempt to purchase a new opinion of Ms. Carol Jean. I can hardly believe the pastor called her “a woman that dedicated her life to comforting those in need.” I guess that’s what she was doing with all of our husbands.
(Thelma)
Carol Jean was my aunt, sort of. She was married to my mom’s brother Lawrence for a few years until she realized he had more debt than money.
Lawrence was kind of disappointing all around.
He was the uncle that showed up late to family events. He’d bring expensive presents occasionally but he also gathered up all the leftovers and take them home with him after dinner—whether they were offered to him or not.
Carol Jean had a daughter, Caroline, that was my same age. She was from Carol Jean’s first marriage. That husband died and my mother said he was the one that Carol Jean really loved. Caroline was my cousin because her mother married my uncle but I didn’t like her. Her mother called her “Caro” and would say, “because she’s sweet like Caro Syrup” and I would feel a little sick because even though I was only nine, I could tell how cheesy that was. (Also, I thought Caroline sounded way too much like Carol and they should have branched out a little.)
Carol Jean and Lawrence liked to have “getaways,” they said it was important since they were newlyweds. We’d get stuck with Caroline. Ironically, I think all the getaways were what broke Lawrence’s bank and meant the end of their marriage, but no one knew that at the time.
Caroline would arrive with her rolling suitcase that was pink. She’d have her hair in tight braids on either side of her head, tied with pink ribbons. She wore tiny pink heart shaped earrings and always had her chubby fingernails painted pink. “She just loves pink,” Carol Jean would say, “Isn’t that right little Caro?”
Caroline would nod sweetly but as soon as her mother was gone, she’d turn into a demon. She scattered her pink belongings all over my room. She would kick my cat, Dusty, whenever she had the chance, and she would sneak into my parents’ bathroom and use my mother’s make up. She stole money out of my brother’s room. Once she spilled a bottle of nail polish all over the carpet and instead of telling anyone, she covered it up with an embroidered throw pillow.
The surprising thing was, it wasn’t pink nail polish. It was bright red.
I hadn’t seen Caroline since her parents divorced all those years ago. I hadn’t missed her. And now, here I was, at this funeral. And there Caroline was. At least I think that was her. She was rail thin with highly processed bleached hair. I did recognize the pink nail polish though.
(Frances)
I suppose Caro has carried on in her mother's footsteps. She probably has had a string of husbands and more money than is decently acceptable and absolutely no real sense of how to spend it. Perhaps now that her mother is dead, she'll move back to town and live in the family mansion. She'll take over where her mother left off. She will donate gobs of money to the church, be on the social committees and try to run the country club. The really bad news is Caro isn't too old take up where her mother left off with our husbands. I keep thinking they'll eventually get too old to chase after cheap perfume but it hasn't happened yet and I suppose some could think she was attractive. She is definitely fit but that hair. Could it hold anymore bleach? Some people just weren't meant to be blond. How I hate that family!
How can one miserable woman have so many good things said about her. I thought we would have been out of here long ago. I guess money can't buy you happiness but it can buy you a lot of lies after you're dead. It's truly ironic that George is up there touting how wonderful a person she was when we were both just griping about her last week on the tennis court. Carol was trying to change the yearly dance at the country club and neither of us were happy about it. Of course, no one expected her to go so soon. She was only 60 . They say 60 is the new 40. Whatever that means. Dead is dead. Oh yeah, the organ is playing. One last song, one last tribute to that wench and we're out of here.
The soloist, who probably cost the family a fortune and was flown in from L.A., started singing "You are So Beautiful to Me". I can hardly hold in the laughter. I wonder if she planned this herself and left instructions with the family with threats to withhold money if they didn't do it.
(Heather)
As the soloist was finishing off the last of the horrid song, I looked around the church at those who chose to pay their final respects to Carol Jean. Some of the men had wet eyes and sorrowful expressions, but none of the women did. They sat tight-lipped and dry-eyed, their arms securely and possessively linked to their husbands', as if trying to prove to Carol Jean that in the end, they had "won."
One couple, in particular, caught my eye. It was Darren and Sandra Hammock, the village grocer and his wife. He had tears freely flowing down his cheeks and blew his nose noisily in his pocket handkerchief. Mrs. Hammock sat next to him, her eyes never leaving the front of the room, but she looked like she was barely suppressing a volcanic eruption of her own eulogy for the deceased.
Mr. Hammock ran a respectable business, selling everything from local produce to bottles of Tylenol. He also had a vast collection of high-end bottles of wine, which were quite popular among the elite for their fancy parties. It was commonly known that Carol Jean would flirt with any male creature with two legs, but some were under the mistaken delusion that her attentions were reserved exclusively for them. Poor Mr. Hammock was one of those caught in her snares. Every time she was in his shop, she would amp up the charms, receiving a scandalous deal on her order of wine, and setting Mrs. Hammock's teeth on edge. By the time Carol Jean left the shop, Mrs. Hammock's face would be as crimson as the wine her husband had just squandered away for half its value. He would argue that Carol Jean's valuable business was worth the loss in profit, that it was more of an investment. But Mrs. Hammock made sure she was always close at hand when Carol Jean's sweeping frame came through her front door.
(Heidi)
The reason I suppose most of us are here is to see if it’s an open casket. I mean, really, it did seem a bit ironic that of all people to die in that manner, left behind like that… well, just a bit of karma done well if you ask me. Carol Jean would be mortified to know how horrible her death would be, and that it would be caused by someone she had hardly known. Then, to get left behind to rot and fester like that? I might fall off my chair laughing it seems just too amazingly appropriate.
The rumor is that her hot yoga instructor had not appreciated Carol Jean heating up her yoga class more than her thermostat was supposed to. Three or four gentlemen had already passed out due to dehydration or some such non-sense just because of her lulu lemon yoga pants being nearly see-through. The final straw was that short haired woman keeling over in the middle of “standing splint”– I mean really.
So Greta followed Carol Jean home from yoga two weeks ago, taught her one final pose that left her face and her hair in a plastic bag, and the next thing you know, its been a week since Mr. Hammock has seen her around the grocery store. He sends over his delivery boy who gets a shock he will never forget and then, after a gleeful confession of murder, here we all are.
The casket is closed.
(JoLyn)
To anyone who might find it unusual to have a catered dinner following one’s funeral, count yourself lucky to be blissfully unaware of Carol Jean’s typical excesses.
The affair started out somber enough. Many of us were obviously having some personal reminisces of our time with Carol Jean. The women were tight-lipped and hard-hearted. Many men’s minds teeter-tottered between dreamy (or steamy) memories and regret at her parting. We milled around inside the reception room, clustering together, waiting to begin.
Soon, Caroline poked her platinum head in and yoo-hooed to the crowd, stunning us all into silence. She sashayed her way to the small stage and grabbed a microphone. “Thank you for coming to honor my mother today. While the details of my mother’s death are horrific and her murder unjustified . . .” A harrumph from the back of the room and general shifting in chairs made Caroline falter momentarily. “I know my mother’s behavior forced a lot of you to have some strong feelings about her . . . and, um, for her. I spoke with my mother in the weeks before she was gone and she said she regretted any upset she had caused.” A posthumous acknowledgement of Carol Jean’s sins and possibly a public apology by her daughter? I was shocked. I might have to reconsider Caroline. “No matter what your memories, l propose a toast to my mother’s passion.” Several waiters rolled in cases of wine that Mr. Hammock immediately recognized.
The wine Carol Jean had apparently squirreled away from her expeditions to Hammock’s store was now flowing plentifully and I noticed some of the men were knocking back some of the harder stuff that they had brought themselves--drowning their sorrows apparently.
Inspired by the soloist, several of the men joined together and commiserated as they gave their own baleful interpretation of You Are So Beautiful to Me. On the last verse, they were interrupted by an inebriated Mrs. Owens (generally known throughout the county for her acclaimed and oft-repeated funereal rendition of Amazing Grace) belting out Celebrate Good Times. As she neared the chorus, many of the wives joined in on the “Come on! Let’s celebrate!”
At that moment, we women gave up any pretense of mourning and the catered memorial dinner for Carol Jean evolved into a full-out party. At some point a few hours in, someone proposed a toast to Greta, the incarcerated yoga instructor, and all of us females heartily raised a glass. Over beef bourguignon, we celebrated her demise while the men celebrated her life.
The only regret of the evening was when Mrs. Hammock threw her back out in the conga line; the injury pretty much shut our party down.
By that time, we were all as loosened up as Carol Jean’s morals had been. As we weaved our way out of the reception hall, Caroline handed each individual a bottle of wine from Carol Jean’s own stash as a token to remember her by. Unbeknownst to the wives though, it was only the husbands that were the recipients of Caroline’s sly wink and the briefest of pats to their backsides.
