Move Over, Mary Kay

It was a day I dreaded to see end because we would see my mother for the last time. Her visitation had been the night before, and we had her moved to the church she loved so much, for her funeral service the next morning. I cringed at visitations because someone would always say how “good” the person looked. It seemed like such a weak attempt to comfort a loved one, or maybe the only words positive enough to express when you are at a total loss of something else to say. In my mother’s case, it was the very first thing I noticed, and I was amazed. She looked absolutely beautiful; radiant. There was a reason for that.

When my mother was young, she was such a natural beauty and didn’t need makeup. When I was young, all she ever wore was lipstick. Red lipstick. Red lipstick was the only makeup in our house, until my sister and I became overwhelmed by peer pressure and advertisements to conform to using all the lotions and potions to beautify ourselves.

I once analyzed my mother’s skin type, identified her “season and colors,” gave her a facial, and showed her how to apply the perfect makeup. She was losing her eyesight by that time and understandably refused to wear anything near her eyes. I only saw her with minimal makeup again, on my and my sister‘s wedding days. Until her visitation. It was ironic, how something she shunned in life could make such a difference on this day. So I was happily stunned and it was such a comfort to me because she looked so “good.”

This isn’t a sad story; it is a celebration. The last celebration my mother, my sister, and I partook in, together. We couldn’t be in each other’s presence very long, before we would be laughing our butts off.  My mother had a sense of humor, and her visitation would be no exception.

Our family came in first and filed by the casket—my mother had 11 other brothers and sisters, so all the surviving siblings, their children, and grandchildren, added up to quite a few pats on my mother’s hands and kisses on her forehead before neighbors and friends took their turn. Before too long, I noticed a wet spot on mother’s forehead and instinctively tried to wipe it dry with my thumb. Oh my goodness–it didn’t dry off like saliva normally would. Makeup slid off her skin like a mudslide might let go of a California hillside.  I looked from her forehead to my thumb and back again. I didn’t know where the brown paste had gone, but it was as if it had never existed.

I immediately told our family friend, Mr. Funeral Director. He told me she had a bruise there and he had applied additional liquid makeup once they moved her to the church, because the lighting made the area light up like a Christmas tree. I must have been so engrossed in the “whole picture“ and hadn’t noticed the spot.

“Oh . . . good . . . so just reapply the liquid beige skin.”

“I took it back to the funeral home.”

What? You did WHAT? Who wouldn’t put it into their suit pocket instead of driving it back to the funeral home two blocks away?

I quickly rummaged through my purse and found a creamy beige foundation and a disgusting, well-used sponge applicator. The funeral director’s wife (Mrs. FD) and I attempted to smear the makeup on so it would cover up the bruise. The more I rubbed, the more I began to find the situation ludicrous. I knew my mother would too. I began to giggle. I’m not sure if Mrs. FD giggled along with me, stood calmly by, or high tailed it out of there. (Sidebar:  Does mortuary school require a class in standing stoically by a casket for hours in the curriculum, and if so, are there potential funeral directors who fail the class, miserably?)

Have you ever met someone who can laugh inappropriately when they are extremely nervous? You have now. The giggles became louder. I couldn’t stop and it was going to have to run its course. How was I to know they used a special theatrical/funeral pancake makeup? By the time I had decided I was denuding more than I was covering up and it would be best to just back away like nothing had happened, my volume went up. I was making so much commotion, my sister came over to check things out.  Through gasps, I told her what had happened. She had no choice. She couldn’t not laugh either, so she joined in. True to “Nolen girl” form, all three of us were once again cackling—mother and both daughters. Okay, so it was just two sisters, hunkered over their mother’s head with traffic backing up, but we knew she was laughing just as hard as we were.

I’ve often wondered what all the visitors were thinking, with the Nolen girls laughing hysterically, tears streaming down their faces, lovingly looking at their mother. Probably something they’ve always said when they’ve talked about us anyway: “Those girls just ain’t right!”

Thanks for the memories, Momma.

This story was originally published in Oxymoronlover’s Blog, 2010.