From Sybil Bruncheon's (Not So) Merry Memoirs:

I wish there was a less grim aftermath for Christmas.... I always dread this part of the celebrations. When the trees first start appearing at the street-corner lots lit by strings of bare light bulbs draped mock-gayly between street lamps and parking signs. Salesmen/tree choppers manning their vans and coffee thermoses through the night while their trees of all sizes and varieties lean against each other, stacked and bound with twine til they're examined, and either chosen or rejected for purchase. Little spruces perhaps only a year or two old resting against grand firs of maybe 30 years.... all of them cut down for the ultimate sin; being beautiful.

I know "they're grown for harvesting"..... I know "they're recycled" or "used for mulching".... but I have always, always been haunted by the Hans Christian Andersen story of "The Fir-Tree"... and the end of the story. My parents gayly read the fairy tale to me on Christmas eve, and then that last paragraph... I remember that I was convulsed (literally!), and inconsolable... and they were stunned at my reaction. They never looked at me the same way again... because I was no longer a simple child... with a child's simple sensibilities.

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Sybil Bruncheon's "A Simple Request"...

When I die, which is unfortunate, (but necessary!), I have the following requests to be fulfilled by my dear friends...

1] That the funeral ceremony itself should be kept to three acts, and certainly no more than five! If Shakespeare could tell his wonderful stories like HAMLET, A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM, and CORIOLANUS in five, I think it will appear that I'm filled with hubris to request an entire weekend-long cycle of recitatives, epic poem readings, interpretive dance and contortionist performances (with or without full nudity), pie eating and throwing contests, bizarre miming with quarrelsome pets, and juggling (possibly with sharp and/or burning objects).

2] That only the most attractive photographs of me be posted around the stadium (or wherever the funeral is held to contain the expected crowd) and that said-photos never be the candid ones of me bending over to dry myself fresh from the tub, eating difficult food items often from far-off countries where only Andrew Zimmer and Anthony Bourdain would eat, and finally, that set of "French post cards" I modeled for when things got particularly tight during my blacklisting in Hollywood... (Senator Joe McCarthy can go f*uck himself!)

3] Concerning the above, the "attractive" photos should be published in the hard-bound and leather trimmed funeral-program to be (forcibly!) sold to all the attendees of the funeral... $29.95... not a bad price for a 312 page volume!... especially autographed by the deceased! If enough people complain about the price, I suppose we could do a paperback version of it, but WITHOUT autographs!

4] During the breaks between the acts, when the gourmet delicacies and dinner courses are being served, there should be an open mic or perhaps several mics for guests to feel free (or pressured!) to tell cheerful and even inspiring anecdotes of my life, my talent, my physical beauty, and any stories of me saving orphans, kittens, or houseplants from devastating fires, earthquakes, or banking malfeasance.

5] The decorations and dress code should, of course, be black... but with cheerful pops of color, perhaps in boutonnieres for the men and wrist corsages for the ladies... or perhaps BOTH for the gender-fluid or reassigned mourners! (Please! No baby’s breath!) The wait-staff should be dressed in white jackets and ties so as not to confuse the guests during beverage and hors d'oeuvres service... and later during the sit-down banquets!

 6] All music both as performances during the various acts and in the background of the meals (or in the elevators) should be of an uplifting nature whether profoundly sad or raucous and even bawdily entertaining! Classical pieces, Broadway show-tunes, and sailor shanties are all welcome, especially accompanied by ballet, adagio, apache-dancing, and tap breaks! Again, partial or total nudity is permissible if it enhances the message of the musical piece. (A small stipend has been set aside for performances by outsiders who are only "guesting" at the funeral and are not actual mourners! Equity guidelines are in place... and will be strictly enforced! We can't have various show-persons hoping to take advantage of a tragic occasion to profit!)

7] At the end of the entire funeral pageant, we can politely (but firmly!) ask all the guests to please fold their chairs and stack them neatly against the walls in an orderly fashion to help the overworked wait-staff with their clean-up. A funeral that size will require at least two or three days of clean-up, and I won't have my legacy be that working people were disadvantaged or traumatized by my passing. Besides, depending on where my funeral is held, there might be other bookings or rentals to follow almost immediately: 4H Jamborees, county fairs and livestock shows, demolition derbies, or public executions.

8] During the public funeral procession to the cemetery, the crowds of mourners behind the 22-horse-drawn (highly decorated!) funeral carriage should not only openly cry, but also laugh, (loudly!) to emphasize my ability at comedy! I would prefer that they hold and read from small pamphlets of my writings and wave them in the air as they pass the hundreds of onlookers... if they laugh and point at the carriage, it may convey the wrong idea of my passing. Just a thought.

9] At the cemetery, it should be revealed that, as a surprise bonus for my guests, the coffin should not only be open, but that it should be doused with gasoline and set on fire, and that Mummie has decided to be a giant hibachi for an after-funeral barbecue! (Public cremation will also make our Indian friends and any ancient Romans feel a certain welcome to the festivities!) Square dancing, jug bands, hog-calling, and all sorts of barnyard merriment should thoroughly remove all the typical funeral-dreariness from the day (or early evening by that point!) Guests can either change into outdoor and festive attire... or disrobe completely! For vegetarian and vegan guests, a selection of kabobs should be offered. Everyone else can eat barbecued pork, chicken, sausages, beef, lamb, goat... but with their hands. There's no need at this point to drive the expense of the funeral up with fine china, silverware, and linens. Half of them are show-people anyway... they won't know the difference!

10] … and finally, please make sure to film the entire thing... every moment, every nuance, and in all the locations!... Just in case there IS some sort of after-life, I should like very much to watch it again and again and again to know that someone actually noticed I had been there at all... and wasn't anymore. In any event; don't be sad! Death will have come for me as an old and comforting friend. I thank you.

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Sybil Bruncheon’s “A Summer's ending”...

...it was late in August, maybe almost Labor Day weekend, as a matter of fact. That Summer had been a famously hot one with hundreds of thousands of sweltering New Yorkers from the Bronx to the Lower East Side pouring out of the infernal subways into the blinding light and faintly stirring breezes of Coney Island's shore. In keeping with the "New Woman" of the Roaring 20s who could now smoke, drink hootch from a hip flask, ask a man to go dancing, and vote, young nubile lasses were now being hired to serve as Lifeguards on the shore. It was no longer considered unladylike for a girl to have a suntan, a strong toned body, and the physical capability to drag a man half-again as heavy as herself through pounding surf to safety, his desperate family, and cheering throngs!

To wear the special and provocatively lusty uniform of a Lady Lifeguard was considered both a badge of honor and a mark of shame depending on who was looking on... and that's why it was especially heartbreaking when, during a ladies-only smoking break, the entire party of the Secaucus Synchronized Senior Shallow-Splashers were swept out to sea... All in their 80s, the kindly old folks were picked up "as one" by a rogue wave, and delivered into the waiting maw of a riptide that swallowed them whole before the dumbfounded crowd staring onshore. A whole minute, (or was it more?) passed before the first choked scream rose from a stricken child clutching her rubber seahorse by the throat and pointing! Had she really seen her grandma and her grandma's funny-fishy friends disappear into the roiling green waves? Her young shriek was joined by one, then another, until finally the whole seashore howled with the grief, horror, and wrath of a thousand voices, all helpless, hopeless, and horrified that something so terrible could happen while the sun shone so cheerfully, and calliope music drifted from the midway. How? How could it be real??... and where were the lifeguards that had only an hour earlier been waving and smiling, watching over everyone, protective, almost proprietary about the souls entrusted to their care? Gone... all gone. Bathers and lifeguards... all gone. Giggling smokers snuggled under the old pier, and lost loved ones... gone.

But, even as the waves carelessly continued to brush across the sand, the weeks and months, and years began to wash the sharpness of that terrible day smooth. Like a bright red shard of broken glass speared in the sand, deadly even to look on, becomes smooth as the same sand and sea wash and tumble it, season after season. Finally, it lies like the perfect pebbles around it. Rounded and inviting. Only its scarlet red remains. And no one remembers the glinting edge of pain... just the late Summer sun… and the calliope music… and the whispering of the water on the sand...

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