My Grandmother's High Speed Funeral

    I tried to see out of the tiny rear window of the limousine.  I could only get a glimpse now and then because there was a macabre dance of heads, swaying back and forth together, mostly in the way of my view.  Still I could catch an occasional flash of the long line of cars behind us, also careening down the curves of the steep mountain road, all trying to keep up.

I swear the whole town turned out for my grandmother's funeral.  I shouldn't have been surprised.  She was into everything and if she wasn't actually running the show, the rest of the town pretty much allowed her to think she was.  She was well versed in politics and had a pretty good idea who the crooks in the town council were.  Most of them, actually, to hear her tell it.  I noticed she was seldom challenged about this.  After all, she'd been around to watch them grow up and it seemed her memory would never fail.

But politics were only a sideline.  High School sports was her interest.  Her only son, my Uncle John, was the coach and supporting him was automatic, unfailing and total.  I remember seeing her in the stands, watching quietly as the team lost again.

Her devotion to the team didn't end with the end of a game.  By the time she managed to walk downtown to the drugstore -- it was talking longer, now -- the team members had showered and begun congregating for the traditional milkshakes which followed a win or a loss.  My grandmother would be there, too, congratulating at times but more often reminding them of their mistakes.  "Ernie," I once heard her say, "If you would quit sucking on those cigarettes and go to bed earlier, you might be able to shoot a decent basket and make us a couple of points."

"Yes, Mrs. Wyatt.  I'll try harder, Mrs. Wyatt."  They were never impolite to her, not even Ernie.

I felt myself being pushed against the left door as we turned another curve.  The road was two lane, sharp curves and the canyons steep and deep.  Pressed against the door, I had to stretch my neck to see around the driver.  I knew it!  I knew there was something wrong.  The hearse was clear over on the extreme left side of the road.  Jeez, he's right at the edge!  I saw the casket bouncing, the flowers sliding off and there -- see that?  Smoke from the left rear wheel?  That's it.  Oh, my God, he's lost his brakes!  He's going over, casket, grandmother and all.

But not quite.  At least not yet.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing until I saw the left rear fender hit one of the guard posts -- kinda "ticked" it over sideways a little.

Then there was a short straight part and the hearse, already over on the left side of the road and gaining speed, passed the pall bearers’ limousine.  Why?  Why didn't he just run into him?  I guess a driver’s instinct to avoid a collision comes instantly and a careful, well thought out plan for survival comes only with hindsight.  But now there was no way the driver could slow that long, heavy vehicle.  He'd almost run off the road once and there were still curves to come.

My Uncle John was talking.  Others were talking and waving their hands.  My memory of this is vague but the smoke from the rear wheel of the hearse caught everyone's attention and I know there was some excited speculation.  Maybe even some screaming from my mother and my aunt.

It didn't take long for the driver of the pall bearers’ limo to recognize what was happening and I really have to give him credit.  Momentarily startled at the sight of the hearse passing him, he "floored it" and the race was on.  He knew he would have to pass the hearse before he simply couldn't go fast enough to do so.  And the hearse was gaining speed.

And you know what?  So was everybody else!

Some may have suspected what had happened.  Others knew only that the motorcade was no longer a typical, slow, respectful funeral procession.  I don't remember if any told me afterward what their thoughts were except that they weren't too surprised that Mrs. Wyatt ("Mother Wyatt," to some, "Hilda" to a select few) might have a different kind of funeral than most.  And now that it was happening, they were not going to miss any of it.

The heads in the pall bearers’ limousine all belonged to the high school athletic team.  They, too, were bobbing left and right as the vehicle leaned heavily on the curves.  Now, with the race to overtake the hearse, there were clearly some very animated conversations among the heads.  But soon the two huge cars began to outdistance ours.  It was simply too difficult to keep up and maintain control.

The final "leg" of the approach to Bisbee was a straightaway, misleading in that it was actually the steepest part of the entry into the city.  Because of the flood control canal on the left, there were street exits only on our right.  'Till now there had been no approaching traffic but suddenly a new complication materialized.  A car approached just as the pall bearers’ limo managed to pull alongside the hearse, both vehicles exceeding the speed limit by a bunch.  The driver of the car was the local law assigned to escort the funeral procession, in a dignified manner, through the downtown traffic.  That this driver was alert and watching for the funeral was probably a saving grace of its own.  He recognized the two big limos, quickly assessed that they would soon run over him and, believe it or not, increased his speed!  Yes, he floored it and beat them to the next intersection where he made a left turn "on two wheels" as they used to say.

I don't know how much of our situation really dawned on him.  Was he able to see the rest of the cars from Tombstone hurtling down the divide?  Did he see the smoke and guess why?  Well, probably not.  But it was clear that he needed, somehow, to clear the way.

With another left turn down the first side street, he turned on his siren (someone said) and managed to gain enough distance to return to the main street and take the lead.

And that's the way we went through most of downtown Bisbee, siren and all, all the way to Phelps Dodge Mercantile where we finally got everybody stopped.

The rest of the trip was slow, cautious, sedate and reserved, the pall bearers’ car in front to act as emergency brakes for the hearse if needed, our limo next and the town of Tombstone following.

There were no accidents and no one was hurt.

My grandmother would not have tolerated that.