Sitting Up with the Dead

A once widespread custom that now exists only in the memories of those who remember, sitting up with the dead is perhaps a more humane way of handling loss. A childhood experience made it unmistakably clear that life in the South follows traditions both distinctive and deeply rooted.

Mouth agape, I can only say it was the closest I have ever been to transforming into the proverbial deer in the headlights. I stood there, transfixed, unable to move for a moment too long. Shocked and bewildered, wondering how on earth no one could have prepared me for this—this was the exact moment when I knew without a doubt, us Southerners were categorically, undeniably, of a different breed. 

Born in rural Southern Georgia, and not too long after I had steady legs to carry me, my parents uprooted and decided to raise me in metro Atlanta. Atlanta was the “Big City” where its vast fields of interstates and herds of people conducting business warded family off from visiting like a talisman charm. We were hours away from Mom’s side of the family, but never too far to visit like clockwork for major holidays, life events, and the inevitable births and deaths. The dichotomy of four hours distance from Atlanta seems to be splitting cultural hairs, but over two centuries of Georgia statehood has not managed to wash away the traditions of the settlers to this particular region. 

You see, Southerners as a whole don’t know we’re different until something hits us like a sledgehammer that lets us know without a doubt—yep, we sure are. Maybe it’s when we hit the invisible geographic boundary line that delineates the availability of sweet tea on the menu. Or when for the first time, we have to actually stop and explain what our phrases mean. With a husband from New York City, admittedly I think he thought I was speaking a second language for several years. Ok, maybe twenty-five years later, he still does. And let’s not even go into our food. Apparently, the world (gasp!) has not been properly introduced to boiled peanuts, fried green tomatoes, potlikker, and lace cornbread. 

And so, it is at my “mouth agape” scene that I understood, truly, how different we are. About ten years old at the time, we had returned south for a great uncle’s funeral. Ambivalent to the four-hour drives, I was ready to pay my respects in the expected fashion if it meant being able to see and play with my cousins again. At the appointed time, we drove from one dirt road to another until we arrived at a simple, brick house with cars neatly parked in the expanse of open space. Ensuring we smoothed out our outfits as we exited the car, the screen door was opened before we got to the welcome mat and we stepped inside.

My shoes melted and conjoined with the floor, and gravity won the battle with my lower jaw. How on God’s green earth did no one think to—I don’t know—prepare me for this? There was an honest to God, open casket in the living room. With a body in it. And flowers arranged all around. Like this was normal.  Like this is just what you do with your living room. On some twisted version of Better Homes and Gardens makeover edition. 

To this day, I don’t remember what I specifically said, but I know once I gathered my ten-year-old wits I said something to the effect of “There is a casket in the living room. Why is he in the living room?”  I couldn’t fathom why this display would be happening. Our family roots may have been humble, but everyone always had what they needed, and goodness gracious, everyone always got buried.       

Carefully out of earshot of anyone else, Mom took me aside and whispered that this was the old way and how it used to always be done, and after the viewing, we’d be going to the graveside service. Without allowing room for more questions, she pointed me to the kitchen.

Just beyond the living room was the kitchen, where apparently every casserole dish in the county was in attendance. Competing in their own beauty pageant of sorts, the casseroles and desserts covered every horizontal surface in a three-room area, giving kudzu a run for the money for the title of most invasive species. The aroma was intoxicating to the senses; all the culinary delicacies the South had to offer cohabitating in one place. Delicacies woven from worn, penciled recipe cards, stained from use and passed from one generation to the next.

And yet, my stomach turned. The garden of Eden beckoned, but there was an open casket in the living room. How could I eat? How was everyone else eating? Managing only a few meager bites, I surrendered my plate to the trash can.

Truth be told, I don’t remember much of his graveside service, but I know the pull of that particular small cemetery all too well. Nondescript, this small cemetery abutting an even smaller church could be anywhere; places like these cover the landscape of the South. But this place, this place is ours. 

The churn of time has ensured that we continue pilgrimages to this sacred site. Generations of my family have been arranged in ever increasing rows, from the infant to the aged, ready to welcome one’s final return home. The Spanish moss on the old trees sways in the wind, a reminder that our roots are not solely a figure of speech; we too revert and become part of the land. 

I never saw another viewing in the old way again. Shocking then, I understand it now and am grateful to have borne witness to such a tradition. Sitting up with the dead (what we call this custom) is not practiced with any regularity in the times we live in now. Like anything else, traditions evolve and are lost to both aging memories and history books who do not prioritize the customs of simple people.

Practically speaking, out in the country, funeral homes were not nearby nor in ample supply. A home was the only logical place. But moving beyond practicality, sitting up with the dead seems to be a more humane and caring way of handling loss for those left behind. Rather than a loved one immediately disappearing from a home and their loved ones, there exists a time of transition. A time to process what has occurred without being separated from one another. A final day or days wherein an absence is not so keenly felt. Even if a bed lies empty, the physical body is within the home and can be visited until the time for internment arrives.

Decades after that day, my accent long gone, I am used to the surprise people have when I tell them I am from Georgia. We are now an anomaly in the Big City, and being “from Georgia” requires explanation, though how much detail depends on my comfort. I may simply nod my head when a first-generation Georgian, who has never lived beyond the suburbs, tells me they are from Georgia. Or on the rare instance I find another with ties to south Georgia, we may spend thirty minutes trying to determine how our families may be connected—last names, places of business, or even church attendance.

Southerners are different. Those three words have spawned a litany of books and essays, all catering to one aspect or another. Differences, like people, erode with time; it is the storytellers and writers who record that which time must not forget.