Whether its objects to represent your life & passions, or just stuff to mess with archaeologists’ heads, what would you like to have on display at your funeral &/or buried with you?
A Celtic cross pendant around my neck
Buddy Christ dashboard statue
My car clip-on holy medals- St. Christopher/Crucifix/Guardian Angel combo,
St. Michael the Archangel, The Risen Christ, Madonna & Child
My 1970s teen-years NIV Bible
Books- Atlas Shrugged, Frankenstein, Dracula
Photos- My grandparents, parents, brother, Mom & I with Bob Dole,
Mom & I with Sammy Terry (Indiana TV horror movie host 1960s-80s),
Ronald & Nancy Reagan
What we buried with Mom-
A multi-colored Cross necklace, lapel pins of Angels, Red Hatters, King’s Daughters Hospital (where she worked & volunteered after retirement), angel figures, A teddy bear she slept with soon after Dad passed away, other little stuffed animals, her Gideons New Testament, family pictures.
What we displayed with her but kept- a plush Boo the Cutest Dog in the World (he was her little buddy all through her illness but she wanted us to keep him & take him to things to represent her) and a small Pozzy Bear (a white teddy bear which used to be made for Crystal Cathedral).
Nothing buried with me. I don’t want to be buried. I just can’t see the notion of trying to reserve a tiny piece of the planet to hold my remains for eternity.
I’d rather be cremated, or donated to science only because being ground up and used for fertilizer doesn’t appear to be an option.
At my memorial I think it would be cool to display pictures of me taken throughout my life so everybody could remark, " He started out good looking, what the hell happened?"
I’m with BubbaDog’s first two points. I’m not on board with the last one because I don’t care about a “memorial” either. I’ll be dead and totally unable to know what’s going on.
Ditto this. I also don’t care about a memorial. I don’t have any children, SO, or parents (well, my mom is living, but she’s pushing 90, so presumably she’ll be gone by then), and I don’t really care if my friends decide to do something or not. I don’t plan to be there.
Its not that I’d ever like things buried with me to love me; they cannot nor I appreciate them. I can’t tell time from that watch nor see through those glasses.
Rather, on my death, I would hope that people who read me & may feel that they have come to know me come might come and ask to speak over that cold wood box.
I’d ask you’d read something that I’ve written that has made you laugh … and as such, do your best to make what few people show up laugh.
Make my sons laugh, please? If you’ve loved me, I ask this of you. Make them cry with missing me until they know that I am with them every single time
they smile and laugh, knowing that my sense of humor lives on within them. Please hug them if you can and you’ll know just why I’ve loved them so!!!
Should you have some name of note to protect, fear not, for I promise that I shall not say a word. And should some name-dropping relative take your time
with conversation after, please smile, be patient, and know why I come here and call you all “family”.
My grandmother was buried with her favorite lap size quilt, her and my grandfather’s wedding bands, and a note from my grandfather (contents unknown).
My grandfather was buried with the framing hammer he used from the 1960s until his retirement in the 90s and beyond.
The only possession of mine that I want to go with me would be a coin I was given on the day I was baptized (not really religious anymore, but I still have it).
Why would I want to have any stuff with me? I’m not about to be using it. Let the kids have it, sell it, donate it and throw out the remainder. I don’t have anything I would want displayed at a memorial service, but I guess my survivors might put up some photos or my bathrobe.
We are on for cremation as well. Why waste land? You want to have a place to remember me by? Donate to get a plaque on a bench in the park. In a nice shady spot.
On second thought, I have been wearing a St Francis of Assisi medal around my neck for the past forty years. Maybe that could be a dollop of slag among my ashes.
My first teddy bear and my stuffed plush donkey. The latter isn’t plush anymore, his fur all worn off, and his innards compacted so he’s floppy. There’s a seam up his belly where I, wanting to be a vet, tried to restuff him when I was eleven.
Look, I know it won’t matter to me, but maybe the things will say something to other people. Worn and shabby as they are, I can’t bear to part with them.
That doesn’t really narrow it down much.
I want as many of my organs as possible donated to whoever needs them. The rest can be dumped in the ocean. My partner and I are in agreement on this, except his organs are 20 years younger.
