We grew up carrying coffins.

My family did not own a funeral parlor. Nor did we live in war-torn Iraq or Syria, nor in Dublin when “The Troubles” plagued Ireland.

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We were raised in relatively peaceful south suburban Chicago. But the fact that there were six brothers, all born in the span of eight years, made us a uniform-looking squad of just the right number for ferrying the deceased to their final resting place.

Funeral rites were important for both sides of the family. For the Polish on my mother’s side, and the Irish on my father’s, wakes were huge events, for religious and social reasons. No baby sitter was ever called the night of a visitation, as my parents carted all eight of us, including my two sisters, to nearly every one they attended.

The Irish send-offs were festive and patriarchal. Kenneth, Pat and I would hang out in the mourners’ lounge, soaking in cigarette smoke and eavesdropping on the stories and off-color jokes of the grown men. There was liquor somehow, somewhere, and we knew we could usually count on a cash handout or two — belated birthday gifts — from guilt-ridden, bleary-eyed, long-time-no-see uncles.

Polish wakes, matriarchal, had better food. Relatives brought dishes of spicy cabbage rolls, or golabki, and platters of prune and strawberry kolackys. Or the bereaved might invite everyone to the restaurant across the street from Resurrection Cemetery for a luncheon of succulent Polish sausage swimming in sauerkraut.

Around the time that Kevin, the youngest among us, turned 14, so that all six of us were able-bodied young adults, my parents’ relatives began eyeballing us for funeral duty. Big enough, we were now numerically perfect for pulling, or shall I say hauling, our weight.

When Grandpa McGrath died of emphysema, my father didn’t even ask. He simply told the funeral director that his six sons would be carrying his father to the grave site.

Following Grandpa Ray’s funeral, it seemed everyone thought of the McGrath boys when they lost a loved one.

The night before we carried my Polish grandmother, Rose Cichoszewski, to her plot at Resurrection, Mrs. Mazulis, a neighbor on our block, stepped out of line at the funeral parlor to approach my mother.

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“When it’s my time, Gertie, I would like your boys to carry me home.”

Over the course of the next decade, the six of us became adept at lifting the casket in concert, and walking slowly and rhythmically with a slight side-to-side gait.

At the moment of greatest solemnity, when we let go of the handles after setting the casket on the collapsible stand by the grave, we stood at attention.

Everyone quiet. All eyes on the coffin before the final prayers.

At the undertaker’s signal, we would remove our gloves and lay them on top of the casket.

Upon returning home, we carefully hung our dark suits in the closet, where they would wait till the next passing.

Admittedly, we took pride in the ritual. And I suspect we developed certain character proclivities related to our separate roles.

Kevin, initially challenged by the physicality of the task, eventually transformed himself into the toughest McGrath.

James was always the most upbeat, which I attribute to the fact that since he was skinny, he was positioned left and center of every caisson, ensconced between Charlie and me, the burliest. So James could take frequent rests without consequence. Once, at an Irish uncle’s burial in mid-February, he used the handle more as a grab bar to catch himself from falling on the ice.

Net was the most socially adept. Great at small talk. He was front right, head of our procession, and unofficial greeter of latecomers to the early morning ceremonies.

Pat became the family wiseacre. He brought up the rear right, farthest from the funeral director.

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“Gentlemen,” a certain director once said: “As soon as we load the coffin into the hearse, go directly to your cars and please do not stop.”

“Not even to comb our hair?” said Pat, as we coughed and stifled smiles, while glancing at the director’s crooked toupee.

Inevitably, family members branched out. Brothers and sisters moved to Arizona, Wisconsin and Florida. No longer a six-man unit, we were honorably discharged from our duties.

Halloween, celebrated on the last day in October, began roughly 2,000 years ago, according to Bowling Green University professor of folklore John Santino. It commemorated the day when the dead crossed over into the other world. Today, he says, celebrating with images of ghosts, skulls and demons is a cathartic and safe way for dealing with the concept of death.

Which may also explain why we treasured our job as pallbearers.

More specifically, I refer to those final, privileged minutes with Grandpa Joe, Uncle Don or Bill Doyle: Those interludes when mourners filed in or out of church, or were parking their cars, while my brothers and I hovered protectively around the casket, waiting in silence.

I liked to think that the deceased knew he was encircled by the McGrath boys, and the knowing felt like a conversation.

It was similar but different with each person we carried “gentle into that good night.” Each life a novel with multiple chapters. The departed’s physical manifestations fading, but their imprint on the world, on us, infinite.

Some might expect that chronic consort with death could render one callous, cynical and forlorn.

On the contrary, all those journeys with my brothers felt more like affirmations of life. And of our own humanity.

David McGrath is emeritus professor of English at the College of DuPage.

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