Provolone in the Casket: Memoirs of a Mortician

By William F. Higbie and Frank Montimurro

An inside look at the funeral business, Provolone in the Casket is also the life story of Fran Montimurro, a second generation Italian-American who spent 35 years as a New York City funeral director.
With humor, pathos, regret, exhuberance and philosophy, Fran tells the story of his rise to success in his chosen profession as he prepared the famous, the notorious and the anonymous for their final journeys. He discusses the processes and ethics of the funeral business, his religious faith and his personal views of the after life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 12, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462814169

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Copyright © 2001 by Frank Montimurro and William F. Higbie.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE: CALABRIA TO CONNECTICUT

CHAPTER TWO: THE FERRYMAN PREPARES

CHAPTER THREE: THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE

CHAPTER FOUR: AMONG THE STARS

CHAPTER FIVE: CROSSING THE RIVER

CHAPTER SIX: WHEN THE REAPER CUTS CLOSE

CHAPTER SEVEN: LAUGHING POSTHUMOUSLY

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE COIN ON THE LIPS

CHAPTER NINE: EXTREME CASES

CHAPTER TEN: LITTLE POLAND AND BEYOND

CHAPTER ELEVEN: LA FAMILIA

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE FAR SHORE

"Charon was the son of Erebus and Nyx, and the famous ferryman of the dead over the river Styx (or according to some Acheron) into the underworld. He was so named for his bright eyes, chara, ‘joy’, ‘delight’ and ops, ‘eye’. Or perhaps we should say for his fierce bright eyes, since charapos meant more ‘bright eyed’, ‘fierce eyed’ than simply ‘glad eyed’. No doubt he reveled in his work."

Who’s Who in Classical Mythology

Adrian Room

The path down to it leads to where Acheron, the river of woe, pours into Cocytus, the river of lamentation. An aged boatman named Charon ferries the souls of the dead across the water to the farther bank, where stands the adamantine gate to Tartarus (the name Virgil prefers). Charon will receive into his boat only the souls of those upon whose lips the passage money was placed when they died and who were duly buried.

Mythology

Edith Hamilton

PROLOGUE

Norman and Kate appear at the door before the bell has ceased its ringing. Racing greyhounds, saved from the ignominious death administered by the veterinarian’s needle through adoption, they greet all visitors to the Montimurro’s door. Lose a few races and a greyhound is through; that is unless caring people give him a home. The Ford Taurus in the driveway sports a bumper sticker: Live Life in the Fast Lane—Adopt a Racing Greyhound.

A moment later Francis is at the door, dressed in a damp polo shirt, stonewashed jeans and loafers. He grabs both dogs’ collars and I slide into the living room of their mid-1800’s, two-story house. Directly ahead carpeted stairs lead upward to a landing on which a toothless, twenty-year-old cat is sleeping. Somewhere nearby lurk two more cats.

Francis loudly announces my arrival and his wife, Joan, hollers from upstairs, Well, get him a beer, will you? I take a seat on the couch as he heads for the kitchen, followed by the greyhounds. The television is on, the History Channel, Lawrence Joshua Chamberlain and the third day at Gettysburg. Francis is a fanatical Civil War buff who can discuss any major battle at length. When he was past the age of fifty, he entered college and earned his associate’s degree.

That is how I came to meet Fran, as he is known. One October morning an older gentleman strolls down the English wing of the high school in which I teach, substitute’s lesson plan folder in hand, reading room numbers and mumbling to himself. Five feet ten, 185 pounds, neatly combed graying hair, a conservative tie and a beige cardigan. A nice guy, fatherly type, I think to myself, the kind of substitute the kids will destroy by 10:30. I ask him if I can be of assistance.

He laughs self-consciously. I’m looking for room 211, Mrs. Eldridge, Business Subjects.

I explain that this wing only extends to room 208. Go down the stairs at the end of this hall, take the hall behind the library and up the next flight of stairs. Room 211 is the third one on your left.

Thanks, he says with a warm smile, extending a big hand. My name’s Fran. This is my first day. I’m only recently retired.

From what school?

Not from any school, he laughs, I was a funeral director in Manhattan.

Mary Eldridge has lunch the same period I do. Meet me for lunch, I say, Let’s talk.

Fran returns from the kitchen, an imported beer and frozen mug in hand. Despite the two fans whirring away, the room is stifling in the mid-July heat. I can see he is torn between watching Chamberlain’s troops as they fix bayonets and cooling off on the back porch. In the end the porch wins and he turns off the television.

We pass through the dining room and Fran’s collection of hundreds of albums and CD’s—Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Gershwin, Coltrane, Ellington, dozens of operas and Broadway shows—step over the two greyhounds stretched out on the kitchen’s cool linoleum floor and down to the screened-in porch which doubles as his studio. Here he creates landscapes in oils on canvas, often in monochromatic variations that reflect his mood of the moment. The garden furniture is draped with Joan’s early American quilts and knitting. Reflected everywhere is a passion for beauty and the joy of creating it.

Joan bursts in a moment later, a diminutive dynamo, cigarette in hand. She sends Fran back into the kitchen and pours herself a beer.

Don’t go to any trouble about lunch, I say, knowing immediately that I have blasphemed.

When you’re a guest in our house, she firmly explains," you must eat." Her Irish is up and she will not be foresworn.

Fran prepares a salad I would call delicious, but that word is insufficient. Black olives, prosciutto, mushrooms, provolone, red peppers, celery, dried tomatoes, all lightly covered with Balsamic vinegar. I eat two helpings and Joan hands me another beer. I begin to feel drowsy and know it would be perfectly acceptable to take a nap, like the cat sprawled on the dishwasher or the dogs on the floor.

But Fran beckons and I carry my tape recorder into the porch’s shade, a cool sanctuary from the glare of the yard. The trimmed lawn bristles emerald in the sunlight; hummingbirds hover at feeders and flit away, a blip on the peripheral screen. The sun-warmed brook flows silently past the house, a pair of mallards floating motionlessly on its surface. It enters the willow’s shade at the terminus of the lawn and is lost in the darkness. Fran’s canvases reflect this serenity, but look closer and you discover the dim shadows, the deep darkness that swallows the stream.

Fran settles down in the cushioned wicker chair that flanks the redwood table on which I have set my tape recorder. His fingers drum softly on the arm of the chair; his eyes follow me as I adjust the microphone.

Where do I start? he asks.

At the beginning, I say, Tell me about your family.

CHAPTER ONE: CALABRIA TO CONNECTICUT

There is a history in all men’s lives.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Henry IV

My maternal grandparents came to this country at the turn of the century from Cosenza, Calabria in the southern part of Italy, the heel of the boot. At that time southern Italy was suffering a great deal of oppression from the northern provinces. Working as tenant farmers, sharecroppers, they were like drones in the hive, never getting enough to eat or to live properly. And so they wanted to come to America, where the streets were paved with gold. God bless them, I don’t think I could have done it. They traveled in steerage and had a rough time of it, I can imagine. They were herded in like sweating cattle, with toilet facilities that were nil, treated like a lower class of human, and had to cook their own meals below deck. But they wanted to come to America and so they endured it, a month at sea. Incredible.

Many Italian emigrants were making mistakes then because when they were told to embark for North America, they got on the wrong boat and ended up in South America, usually in Argentina. Consequently, Argentina has a very large Italian population with names like Angelo Rodriguez, you know, with an Italian mother or father. I’m just thankful my grandparents got on the right boat.

They entered this country like so many others, through Ellis Island with its endless lines, paperwork, inoculations and medical examinations. My father’s parents arrived here at about the same time, from the same region of Italy, and I assume on the same boat. I never talked to my dad much about them. I knew much more about my mother’s parents, because they lived upstairs from us for many years. I learned a lot about my genealogical background from them. Grandpa Boskello came here first, as did so many other Italian immigrants, and my grandmother was brought over after Grandpa had established himself responsibly as a gardener in, of all places, Greenwich, Connecticut. I am told by members of my family that he arrived in Greenwich at the behest of some wealthy citizens who owned a large estate and needed someone with a green thumb.

Along with their baggage, they brought along their love of food.

Food has always been a big part of Italian life. All of the great decisions of Italian families are made around the dinner table, as are all the great stimulating conversations and arguments, some of them very heated because we liked to discuss politics in our family. My mother was a committeewoman, my uncle was town moderator in the Democratic Party and my brother, the neighborhood doctor, was a staunch Republican. Surrounded by us Democrats, he’d finally get pissed off and yell, You people would vote for Molotov if he was running on the Democratic ticket! Then my uncle, the town moderator, would start fuming and leave the table. But it didn’t last long; it was all in fun. And, of course, the Italian family is a matriarchal society. The men would like you to think it is a patriarchal society, but it isn’t. Mama ruled the roost. My father thought he had a hand in decisions, but he didn’t.

All of my father’s sisters thought they were better cooks than anyone in the whole town, and, believe it or not, most of them were. But they would never be insulting, you know? They’d say, Hey, this macaroni’s very good–but mine’s better. The only ones that use the term macaroni are Italians, since most people use the term spaghetti when speaking of pasta. Consequently we men were the winners, because no matter where you’d go, you’d get the royal treatment.

On Sunday morning we went to church, and after mass we’d come home, and the house would be filled with the delicious aroma of meatballs and sausages frying. My mother was smart; she would leave half a dozen meatballs out, because she knew we’d dip into them before they ever got into the sauce, which we always did. I liked them as much that way as in the sauce, because my mother made such tasty meatballs. Then we’d sit down and eat for six straight hours–salad first, then spaghetti, linguini or whatever pasta she had chosen for the day followed by the meat: sausage, meatballs, bracciolla, pieces of chicken she had left over. God, it was wonderful. That woman could make a fabulous meal out of grass.

We were just getting over all that and she’d bring out roast potatoes and chicken and afterward we’d have dessert. Of course all the while we’re eating, we’re constantly talking. And by the time we were finished (you want a laugh?) about five o’clock, Mom would say, Is anybody hungry? I’ve got some cold cuts. Do you want to make a sandwich? The coworkers I invited home for Sunday dinner would start laughing. She’s got to be kidding! I’d say, No she’s not kidding, and we’d start all over again. It’s a wonder we didn’t look like 5x5’s, but none of our family was really fat.