Laura Del Gaudio - The Undertaker: A Memoir of the First Woman Funeral Director in the Core of Brooklyn

Copyright 2019 by Laura Del Gaudio

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The Undertakert is a work of nonfiction. Apart from the actual historic figures, events, and locales that provide background for the narrative, some of the names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously to bring the historical narrative alive.

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To my son Robert, who leaves me speechless, Steve Eisner, Maura Burke, and Lisa Brahee who made it all possible.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.

Thats how the light gets in.

LEONARD COHEN

O NCE UPON A TIME in the land of historic downtown Brooklyn, there was a funeral home known as Del Gaudio and Son. Upstairs in that sturdy, grey and black, castle-like building, I sat under my grandparents kitchen table and listened intently to the conversations of my family as well as those of the family members of the deceased. On the first floor of this castle, the dead were embalmed, dressed, and made ready for viewing, which took place over two days from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. with no break. Then, on the third day, the funeral procession occurred.

When I first became aware and stepped back to see what it was I was looking at from under the table, the first thought that came into my head went something like this: Life aint no fairy tale. For some reason, life has always slapped the notion of fairy tales right out of my head. Surrounded by adults, and with two older sisters, fairy tales didnt last too long especially with an uncle illegally running cigarettes up from down South, and another going to jail for forgery.

My Aunt Camy, a tall, handsome woman, would have taken me out with one look if she had ever even heard my thoughts spoken in such clear Italian Brooklynese. She was the one who looked me right in the eye and said, Chewing gum makes you look like a cow chewing its cud. Oh, shoot me now at the thought of it! Please! was what I wanted to tell her. But Mom would have come out with her trusty wooden spoon and said, Come here. Yeah, like that was going to happen. I never once spoke back to Aunt Camy. She commanded genuine respect. I learned not to let any of my Brooklynese thoughts escape, unless they were spoken without offense to the ear when in her company. Forget expressing those thoughts while chewing gum. My greatest fearbeing banished to the basement of the funeral homekept that one in check. I was quite content to sit under the table so I could listen and learn about this aint no fairytale stuff.

Today, in my sixties and getting closer to a procession of my own, I am thinking back to the vital lessons learned about life. My death will be a celebration of life and nothing else, if I can help it. I will tell you where (and how) it all started.

Walking through the front door (not the double doors to our Brooklyn Funeral Home, but the one to the left that led to the apartments) there was, on the right, an open entrance to the funeral home. If you passed that and walked down two steps, there was a long hallway that led straight to the mens room. On the left was a flight of stairs up to the first landing, where the ladies room was. If you walked around that landing and made another flight of steps, you would find my grandparents apartment. You could also walk down that hallway and take another flight up to a second apartment. As a child, it seemed to me that the place never ended. I remember the bannisters from the ground floor up were an off-white with every possible color speckle embedded in it. It was fascinating.

When you entered into my grandparents apartment, you entered a small, darkened foyer. The light was switched on only when the space was in use. On the right was a small wooden desk that held two black rotary phones. One was the house phone; the other was the business phone. There was always a pad of paper and different colored pencils that said Del Gaudio and Son Funeral Home on them. I really liked those pencils. The colors made them eye-catching, but I never once took them to school.

Against the far wall stood Grandmas sewing machine. Between the small desk and the sewing machine were two doorways: one to the left that led into the kitchen, and one to the right that led to the living room. It was in the kitchen that I learned about life and death and everything in between, both dark and light. The wall to the right was tiled halfway up with white tiles. A strip of black tiles at the top divided it from the rest of the wall. The floor was white tile also, and very easy to clean. It shone beautifully, especially when the sunlight from the kitchen windows, which were smaller than regular-sized windows, sparkled upon it. I loved it. Now that I think of it, that could have been the beginning of a great surgical room. In any case, all of this made it easy to sit on the floor and try to capture dust particles, but this would become frustrating after a while because it was so difficult.

Opposite the wall I loved were the stove, sink, and counter space, with cabinets underneath. If I climbed up onto the sink and stretched and twisted myself a bit to the left while looking out of those windows, I could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance.