Sadly, she went to the Spirit In the Sky.
I find myself wishing her name was Norma, and remembering how I got the biggest laugh when we were at the mortuary choosing the casket for my mother, and making arrangements for her funeral.
The rabbi was falling flat asking the usual questions in order to weave together a eulogy for my mother who he had never met. At a real, "Help me out here..." moment, and after a period of uncomfortable silence, I offered that she'd once gotten a hole-in-one. I knew the rabbi was a decent golfer.
My father and sisters instantly cracked up, because my mother had a legitimately earned 35 handicap, even though she probably played 4-5 times a week for years.
Before a packed chapel paying respects to a 63 year old woman, the rabbi touted her love of the sport and built to lauding this crowning achievement within a life otherwise focused on being a loving and loyal wife & mother, rather than racking up the kind of achievements that the rabbi had been trying to elicit from us. The majesty with which he spoke drew some knowing laughter, lightened the mood, and warmed hearts. I've never thereafter been uncomfortable about humor surrounding death and memorial services, but I've also never again taken the lead. The mood always needs to be read, and quite often humor is the last thing that should come up.
RIP, Marcia Greenbaum.