I love old graveyards and can wander through them for hours reading the inscriptions. But, having said that, I’m not gonna be in one. I’ve read all about what happens to your body aftyer it’s buried (airtight coffins are even worse–Cecil himself has written on this!), so it’s cremation for mine. I’ll have my ashes scattered in a pond near where I grew up. And folks, make sure you have a will, no matter how young and healthy you are!
Satan – I think I must have been unclear in my previous posting. Both embalming AND open casket are on my ‘don’t do it’ list.
Jess
Full of 'satiable curtiosity
Woke up this morning, put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen and died.
And oh, what a feeling
When my soul went through the ceiling
and on up into heaven I did ride
When I got there they did say,
"John it happened this way,
you slipped upon the floor and hit your head.
And all the angels say,
just before you passed away,
these were the very last words that you said:
Please don’t bury me
Down in the cold cold ground.
I’d rather have them cut me up
And pass me all around
Blow my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don’t mind the size
Give my stomach to Milkwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get 'em out of here
Venus De-Milo can have my arms
Look out Bob’s got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose
Please don’t bury me
Down in the cold cold ground
I’d rather have them cut me up
And pass me all around
Blow my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don’t mind the size
Give my feet to the footloose
Careless fancy free
Give my knees to the needy
Don’t pull that stuff on me
Hand me down my walking cane
It’s a sin to tell a lie
Send my mouth way down south
And kiss my ass goodbye.
- John Prine
I highly recommend you buy any album this guy has put out.
I have only this place to share this but this is almost word for word what I said at my brother’s memorial:
People keep saying “I don’t know what to say.” That makes two of us. I don’t know what to say either. Things like this happen to other people’s families, not mine. You see, there was so much left to share and do and see and say. And in a heart beat, that all changed. And I keep expecting him to show up and go, “What’s going on?” Like maybe it wasn’t him. But it was. I know it was because I brought him down to Moab with me. His ashes sat in the seat next to me and I talked to him the whole way down from Salt Lake City.
It wasn’t even my car, you know, it was my older sister’s car that she sold to our step-brother. I had it because I lent my car to my sister and her new husband – I wanted them to have a nice car to drive around – none of that matters now.
While I was driving down with him I told him how beautiful the day was and how hot the sun felt on my skin. My dog kept looking around to see who I was talking to, she must have thought I was nuts. Because I told him how much I missed him and how much I loved him. But loved is the wrong word. That’s past tense: I love him … In my mind and heart he’s still here. And he’ll never grow old or get sick. He will always be a young, strong, beautiful young man. And he’ll always have that soft marshmallow heart that takes in strays. I mean, he would be the only person that I know who would take in Moochie, this obnoxious cat that whined all the time. No one else would have adopted this cat, but my brother. Because he just couldn’t stand the thought of this cat alone in the world. Even though all this cat did was whine. Whine to be held, loved, fed. Only my brother could see the good inherent in this obnoxious animal.
I can still see him out there somewhere, still taking in strays. And I can feel him still around us because he knows we need him. We’re the strays right now.
This morning everyone was getting all of this together and I was trying to figure out what to wear. You see, I packed six pairs of pants and not a single shirt – and I’m crying because I don’t know what to do. And then I could just picture my brother going, “Why are you worrying about this? This isn’t important. Our family and our friends are important.”
This is my dad’s shirt. And the only important thing about it is that he shared it with me. And my brother could share too. He was always generous with his Halloween candy. Because I always ate mine in the first week. So when I was really jonesing for a piece of candy I could always count on him to share. And this is my way of giving some of that back.
I just wanted to share how much I’ll miss him – his funny words like Zanty and Mention and Kissy Woman – his impish grin – his amazing ability to strike the most bizarre pose for a family picture. So much of my brother…
There is a hole in my family now and things will never be the same but if I remember and love and share I think things will be okay.
The moon looks on many flowers, the flowers on but one moon.
Oh shit, I think that’s too much. I’m sorry but I really needed to share that. I miss you so much, my little brother, I wish you could say something to me.
Best kisses and hugs in the world to where ever you are!
jerk…made me cry at work…
Mom wants to be cremated and her ashes poured in the Miramachi River…she camps there with my step dad…its a happy place.
I cant bear to think of her wake and the plans I will have to make in a few months…a year?..please let it be more!
For me and my children, I have made my feelings known…organ donation…all they can use-take it! Cremate whats left, and put us together in one big urn(if we all go at once)…hopefully when I am very old, I will be the first to go, and the boys each get half of my ‘cremains’ to keep with them, and when they go, they will join me, then long after, their children, my grandchildren will join us too.
It sounds stupid, but I would not want them to be alone.
Crying again…gotta go.
sob
Byz:
Ok…now I understand what’s going on with you.
My deepest sympathies on the loss of your brother. And congratulations over the fact that you can and do still cry for him. That is a good thing
Our love for the people who have gone before us does not die. It is not correct to say “I loved him” in the past tense, because your love is still alive, with you, and fixed in time at the moment he left you. And if that is the only thing that remains of us when we are gone, maybe that’s not so bad.
I’m a big fan of crying. God or evolution or whatever gave us a gift equal to all the other amazing gifts we have; the gift of feeling grief and being able to express it through tears. When it is called for, I cry hard. I cry so hard I give myself a headache and my face puffs up. I even scream. And in feeling all that bad, it kinda feels good. And then I feel entirely better and able to laugh.
So have a good cry.
Stoid
Byz:
Thank you for posting that. Such a beautiful thing to say… and keep the present tense on “love.” It’s been 16 years since my sister died, and for the first time this year I made it almost all the way through the anniversary of her death without realizing it was The Day. I love her.
Byz:
Ask your vet. When we had our terrier put to sleep, (she was 18, and had a stroke) he offered to cremate her. We were going to sprinkle her ashes around our fence (she loved to run down there and chase the joggers), but we never did, and then my parents moved. The dog moved with them - they said they couldn’t bear to leave her up in Maryland.
On human rituals: when I die, I want to be cremated. Have a mass (for the relatives), then a party, and remember me from when I lived. I don’t like viewings and open caskets - the last 4 times I had a friend/relative die, I skipped the viewing and the mass, and went to the gravesite later. It was more personal that way. Well, last 3 times. I’m going to see my godmother’s in November. (Okay, enough rambling…)
Best wishes, Byz. And my prayers, my thoughts, and my sympathies are with you.
Stoid…you are very wise…I cry alot now.
in bed at night, alone in the car, when I let my mind drift to the future.It hurts to do it, but somehow I feel better after.The overwhelming sense of dread is smothering.I called mom at work today (as I do at least twice a day, everyday since she got sick)and she wasnt there…the chemo this week has left her exhausted. I know it is a normal side effect, and all that, but I got so scared I wanted to barf.
on a lighter note to you stoid, cause I know YOU will understand…I adopted a puppy last saturday…she is 10-12 weeks old, and the people who had her neglected her terrible, but she is with me now, I called her Chance…I took one, she got one…she had never been indoors, didnt even know what the paper was for. I have NO IDEA how to train a dog…not a friggin clue…I am COMPLETELY unqualified to train a young dog…well it has only been a few day, and she is still confined to the kitchen when we are not home, but the last 2 nights, she slept with me on my bed, like an angel, and she is totally paper trained! and if you take her out, and say “go pee” she does! I love her already…she brings me great joy and comfort.I hope you are feeling better.
Kelli:
You don’t offer your e-mail.
I would love to help you with your dog training! Please email me: stoid@pacbell.net. Ask anything you like. This is a subject I am passionate about, and NOW is the time to NOT make your mistakes! You can shape your future with this dog right now, and have it be a happy one for both of you, or a struggle.
And thanks for the kind words.
stoid
Sorry for flipping out last night it was a very bad night. I still can’t stop crying and my eyes are so puffy I can’t open them very far. Moving on:
Congrats on the new puppy and I agree that now is the time to start working with your dog. I spent about 20 minutes a day on ‘play training’ with my dog and she was up to speed on most things within a few weeks. The only thing she won’t do? Walk on a lead without pulling. All things considered, that’s okay with me since I rarely need to put her on one.
The moon looks on many flowers, the flowers on but one moon.
Byz, I hope you find some peace…I bet he would be proud of you.
Aha Byzantine, you know what i meant, creamated LOL. Anyway i remember that when my grandfather died, he was cremated. My mom was given the box of ashes (a plasic box with his info on it). We kept that on top of our piano for a couple of years. Then my grandma got a small burial plot for him and her, and we buried him in that. The reason we buried his ashes in the ground was because my mom wanted a physical spot to go visit him. At the burial “ceremony” the funeral home set up some chairs, a small pavillion type tent, and even had the green astroturf surrounding the hole in the ground.We even got a small styrofoam coffin shaped box to put the main container in. Once he was finally in the ground, we said our goodbyes and went home.It was quite nice, i must say.
In Japan a Buddhist funeral last two days. The first day is nothing special, but the surrealism kicks in on day 2. We had a meal and drinks on the second floor where we could still view the body in a plain wooden casket on the first floor. The dearly departed’s two young grandsons made good use of the camera mounted above the coffin and put on a show that caused me to lose beer or sake through my nose several times.
We grouped up for another ceremony after dinner that included friends as well. I had to memorize a simple procedure the involved burning incense and praying as I was family. Once again I was sitting next to my nephews and as they were cracking up everytime the incense tray came around I started to get a bad case of the giggles. I did pray. Not now God. Not here.
A dim candle lit room full of beautiful flowers, an open casket in the center, a priest wearing a funny hat and holding a gong–He gongs. Everybody goes for the flowers and starts stripping off the pedals and tossing them in the coffin over the body leaving only the face uncovered. For the journey cigarettes, magazines, rice and sake in wooden bowls are tucked in around the body. Everybody seems busy, I am fumbling because it is hard to watch what is going on and be smooth at the same time.
The top is brought out and fitted on the coffin. The priest produces what looks like a gold nail and a rock. Each member of the family takes a couple of stabs at nailing the guy into his coffin and then some worker materializes and finishes the job. They rolled him out and his elderly sisters cheerfully bid him farefull waving and saying, ‘Goodbye, brother’.
We drove to the crematorium and there were several large entrances. A couple of smiling guys that looked exactly like subway employees wearing uniforms, hats and white gloves waved us in to an echoing, austere, colorless room with bright lights. There were 4 or 5 large ovens that definately looked like the big terminal at the end of the line.
We formed a half circle around the coffin in front of the oven doors for another brief ceremony. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the grieving family three oven doors away. The families always bring a large photo of the deceased. Their dead guy was so young looking–younger than me. A member of their party had the same problem and we stared at each other, perhaps wondering how impersonal the situation had become. A smiling guy wearing white gloves rolled our box into the oven. A smiling young woman pointed to the stairs.
We were whisked upstairs past a souvenir shop for more beer and elevator music while we waited our turn. Hearing our name over the intercom which somehow sounded like, “Pooch, party of 8. Pooch, part of 8, your bones are ready”, we rushed downstairs.
The master of ceremonies presented us the pieces of bone right from the oven. They broke down some of the bigger bone fragments further so they would fit in the urn. We all stood around a table while a very cheerful guide identified bones for us. He pointed out the bone that’s right behind the ear. He picked it up and commented on it’s quality. We all leaned in closer and went ohhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh. I noticed the ‘no photography’ sign for the first time. And that was it. We were rushed out as another group was being rushed in. It was like Grand Central Station, and it was clear that we are really dropping like flies all over the place and that I should try not to take my own death personal.
My mom wants me to scatter her ashes at Shea Stadium. I think I can accomplish that, if I can get the media to take notice and convince the stadium owners that it would be good publicity.
Remember, I’m pulling for you; we’re all in this together.
—Red Green
For me, donate my organs and then scatter my cremains across the peaks of Alaska, preferably on a windy night during a bright display of northern lights.
Without going back to the post, someone mentioned earlier the creepiness of having an open casket, especially one which contains a child.
My little brother was hit by a car and killed instantly in front of my dad’s house 5 years ago when he was only 7 years old (I can’t believe he would be 12 now!). My stepmom sat in the street literally holding my brother’s brains in his head until the paramedics arrived. He had been hit while riding his bike, the front corner of the car slamming into the side of his head, severely crushing it. (Please take the time to understand the importance of helmets, especially on your kids. It would have saved Aaron.)
At the hospital, both my father and stepmom were able to hold his body for over an hour. The last vision they had of him was his bloodied, mangled body full of tubes, his skull completely crushed on one side and his face bruised and puffy and unrecognizable.
They had an open casket. The mortician worked wonders and with some makeup and a carefully placed ball cap, he almost appeared to be sleeping. Although seeing a small kid lying dead in a coffin might be creepy to some, it was comforting to my parents to see his body repaired and looking peaceful instead of their last image of him.
>^,^<
KITTEN
Coarse and violent nudity. Occasional language.
My father was a suicide. He had recently been remarried, but the old demons had come back. He requested that his ashes be scattered in a river in Oregon.
We chartered a boat and and set off in pretty good spirits as we were thinking that he would think it was all pretty cool.
We passed the box of ashes around, each saying a few words and tossing a handful into the river. When it came time for his wife of four months I noticed she had grown very pensive and tense.
I saw her grab for a handful of ashes white-knuckled. She yelled ‘ya bastard-son-of-a-bitch’ or something like that and flung the ashes into the wind which ended up catching most of us in the face. She really got into a tantrum and handful after handful of ashes were flying everywhere.
We were all pretty cool about it and allowed her to express her grief in her way. The ashes were all over our clothes, in our hair, and spewed obout the deck.
As we left the boat I looked back and saw the skipper cleaning up the ashes–with a dustbuster. Quite fitting; I think my father would have appreciated his send off.
A few days later at my aunts, standing around with my hands in my pocket I felt the sandy remains of my father in my jacket pocket. I slithered up to my sister, smiled, and said, “Put your hand in my pocket.”
I know a woman who is really into ceramics, and she told me that when she dies she wants to be cremated and have the ashes incorperated into some pottery, as a glaze I believe.