Lunching in the face of death, followed by a quick tour

I‘ve done creepier things over the corpse of my career.

I’ve: Stayed overnight in a haunted mansion. Conducted a séance in a poltergeist-infested hotel room. Taken a flashlight tour through an abandoned asylum for the criminally insane.

Watched “According to Jim” …

But Wednesday’s Halloween misadventure was chilling, and I don’t just mean the carrot soup.

I was invited to eat lunch at Heritage Funeral Home with senior citizen members of the Red Hat Society.

Thank goodness they weren’t serving lady fingers.

Then, after our meal, I joined some of my new friends on a guided tour through the expansive facility at 508 N. Government Way. I said sure. When you’re at a funeral home there’s always a chance you might bump into someone you knew.

COLUMN INTRUSION: I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why I’m not writing about state Rep. Richard Curtis, who supposedly dressed up like a woman and engaged in wild sex with a porn model. Hmm. How does one get to be a porn model, anyway? Must be one of those community college “extension” courses. Anyway, be patient my perverted pretties. I am busily composing another parody song epic for Sunday. Two words: Tom Jones.

“I think you’ll be impressed with the food,” announced Dennis Murphy, president of Heritage Funeral Home, moments after I arrived.

“It’s to die for.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that Murphy would host funeral home lunches. Murphy, as I once observed, is the P.T. Barnum of the burial biz.

“Remember when you’re at the funeral home,” he cheerily advised his guests, “don’t lay down and you’ll be fine.”

Murphy attracts sizable Memorial Day weekend crowds each year by offering free concerts, collector car displays and replica caskets used by such deceased celebrities as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Bing Crosby and JFK.

This year’s tribute to dead Elvis drew 4,000 gawkers.

Our lunch was a more modest affair. I joined about 19 club members from the Riverview Retirement Community plus a few others. Eventually, we settled into the spacious Heritage Room where tables had been decked out with lace tablecloths, fine china and silverware.

I sat with Esther Johnson, Marnene Arkills and Carol Fernen. This was my first exposure to the Red Hat Society. Judging by these three characters, it must be a hilarious bunch.

We traded wisecracks and talked about the usual: favorite music, recipes, why Carol needs a gun permit …

“I have handguns,” she said.

Alrighty, then.

Our meal included the aforementioned carrot soup, oven-fresh rolls, chicken-mandarin salad with slivered almonds and an assortment of desserts. All the grub was made from scratch by Paula Davis, a Heritage funeral director.

The food tasted wonderful. The chicken was tender and fresh, which was a good thing. (Heritage does have a crematorium so I was little afraid we might be getting Col. Cinders.)

I asked my tablemates what it took to be in the Red Hat Society. Obviously you have to have a bright red hat and some purple garb, plus the courage to wear this color combination in public.

“It’s strictly social,” Esther (or was it Marnene?) explained. “There are no obligations and no commitments.”

What a coincidence. Those are same work standards my editors expect out of me.

Not everyone was up to taking the post-lunch tour. It was a little disconcerting.

Gary Clark, another funeral director, took us into the casket showroom, which featured an impressive array of models.

I like the $10,275 Millennium. True, it’s $10,275, which is worth more than my car. But this baby is stainless steel and sturdy. Grave robbers would have a harder time breaking into it to get to my teeth.

We also entered a visitation room. Fortunately for my stomach and the nice carpet, the room was unoccupied.

Clark (no relation) explained that in order to have a viewing, Washington law required embalming.

I leaned over to Carol and asked: “Did he mean the body or the viewers?”

Carol cracked up.

This was the best Halloween ever.