I have always said, ideally, that I'd like to be buried in a busy, in-town cemetery (surrounded by the living), beneath a weeping willow tree, with a fairy on the top of my headstone. No black clothing at my funeral please, no preachers, and no religion! I want music, singing, and cut flowers, bubbles, butterflies, and doves. Ideally.
However, I have learned in my life that funeral rites are for those mourning, not for those who have made the transition to the Summerland.
As long as any of us--my mother or his children--can remember, my father always said he wanted to be cremated. "Just put me in a cheap pine box and put me in the back of the station wagon,” he’d say. “Drive me down to the crematorium, put me on the trestles, and push the button! It's the cheapest way--and it’s what I want, because all this funeral stuff is just a racket! Then, after you’ve done it, you won’t be stuck visiting a lump of concrete for the rest of your lives out of sheer guilt!" We'd laugh and call him cheap, or joke that we’d knock the box together ourselves out of particle board to save even more money. Clearly, there could be no question, in this one matter at least, that my father’s wishes were clear.
Then he died.
"Please, please don't burn granddad, please?" The grandkids just could not handle the idea, on any level (one of them sobbing uncontrollably at the mere mention of it) that we might be "burning" their grandfather. We decided to go against my father's wishes.
My father was an atheist, so he believed death was the unequivocal end to one’s existence and, in view of that, it did not really matter, he believed, what happened to a biological being after it "ceased to function." I, on the other hand, do believe in Spirit and the Afterlife--and, I agree with him completely--but, for entirely different reasons. I don't think it matters one bit, to the dead, what happens to their earthly remains once they have died. But, I think it can--and often does--make a critical difference to the living. Especially those among the most fragile of the living: Children, who are too young to fully understand.
Funeral rites are the punctuation mark at the end of the sentence we call, life. How those rites are carried out can make an enormous difference to those left behind as to whether the sentence ends with a period, an exclamation point, an ellipse, or even a question mark.
My grandmother was an atheist, too. Likewise, my grandfather. Their wishes were for cremation and to leave the crematorium to dispose of their ashes in whatever way they saw fit. We abided their wishes… and I sometimes wish we had not. There is no “special” place to go to lay a flower and shed a tear. No “special” place that holds their earthly remains. No plaque, no marker, no solid reminder of the lives they lived… save for we transient reminders, the family they left behind.
New Year’s Eve, a few years ago, my father’s sister fell to the ground, dead before she lay fully still, of heart failure. Another atheist, she had also requested cremation. But, what to do with her ashes? She had never actually said, that any of us could remember. So, when the crematorium gave the ashes to my sister--in what looked, for all the world, like a huge green, commercial size, plastic mayonnaise jar--she put them on an office shelf, having absolutely no idea what to do with them. She called me to discuss the matter and we agreed that we would make the decision the next time I visited my home in England.
A year went by. All the while, the green jar, pushed to the back of a shelf, was unfinished business for my sister, me, my whole family. Finally, I made a trip home.
A few days into my visit, two of my sisters and I sat talking--and, the subject of my Aunt’s remains became, quite quickly, front and center of the conversation. My younger sister suddenly jumped up, went to her car, and returned with a plastic shopping bag, which she then set down, with a thud, on the table. “What’s that?” I asked. “Aunt Sylvia,” came the swift, firm reply, “And it’s about time we did something with her.”
I had no idea that “cremains” weighed so much. Nor, to this day, can I believe that I actually unscrewed the lid and took a peek inside. This, stuff was my Aunt? Good grief! How unceremonious was that, to spend a year in a giant green mayo jar, collecting dust on an office shelf--and looking for all the world like, well, kitty litter? There was a sticker on the side of the jar giving the name of the contents and the date the contents were rendered ashen. No, “Rest In Peace,” or, “You will be sadly missed,” or anything soft and kind at all. Just her name on a line marked, “Deceased” and, on another line, the date she was cremated--not even the day she died.
I have to admit, I hadn’t given the disposition of my Aunt’s remains much thought in the prior year but, quite clearly, my sister had! And, who can blame her? They’d been hanging about on her office shelf for a year--I bet she felt like she was being haunted by the ghost of Hellman’s mayonnaise. It was undignified and unfair--to both my aunt and my sister, so we decided, we had to do something. But, what? My sister had been making enquiries. Apparently, one could not simply pour out ashes anywhere one chose--there were, in England at least, all sorts of rules and regulations governing where one was or was not allowed to dispose of the ashes of a dead loved one.
We, my sisters and I, spent a lovely afternoon, sharing memories of my Aunt, laughing, reminiscing about days gone by and trying, with all our worth, to think of a respectful, beautiful place we could scatter my aunt’s ashes. My sister lives on the British coast, her home overlooking, in the distance, the ocean and, fairly close in, what are known locally as the Backwaters. Yes, eventually, we came to the conclusion that the Backwaters would be the best place. If we slipped out there under cover of darkness, we could scatter the ashes and no one would ever know. Sylvia’s wishes would have been met (she did not want to be under ground) and, come morning, the tide would come in and she would be taken out to sea. It was the ideal solution. So, that evening, we dressed for the occasion and met up in the kitchen ready to make the short trek out to the Backwaters.
“What are you wearing?” My sisters asked. “Well, I thought this nice black dress and pumps would be respectful,” I responded, looking at their sensible beach walking attire and suddenly feeling somewhat silly. “Do you honestly think you can trudge along the beach in those shoes--and you with Parkinson’s Disease?” they asked and, I had to admit, they had a point. It was also, I could see now, a little too chilly to be running around outside in a flimsy black dress. “I know!” My sister said, “I have aunt Sylvia’s Wellington boots in the mud room, you can wear those! And, I have one of her winter coats, you can wear that, too.” It seemed perfect--a practical solution that was also a nice tribute to my aunt. Suitably attired, my sisters, brother-in-law and I set out for the Backwaters.
My mother was in hospital at the time and the rest of the family lived two hours drive away, so it was only the four of us, but we walked the short trek to the retaining wall, made it over the concrete steps, and down onto the beach area of the Backwaters. With balance issues and having limited familiarity with the area, I required a little help, but we made it to our destination fairly quickly and, with the aid of a flashlight, chose what we felt was an appropriate spot. It was a little windy that night, so I licked my index finger and held it up to make sure the wind would not carry the ashes back at us, which made us all laugh and, then… we became hushed, respectful, and reverent. I spoke a few words--loving, respectful, heartfelt words--and then, scattered her ashes on the sand. (Well, O.K., I tried "scattering" them, but they just sort of flopped out in a big lump.) I wept quietly for my aunt and we stood there for a few moments, each of us in our own thoughts. Then, we headed back to the house, had a nice cup of tea, and sat up until the wee hours reminiscing some more.
The next morning, I awoke early and, as soon as I was out of bed, threw the curtains open to see the high tide. I could not see the spot we had scattered the ashes from the angle of my window, so I dressed and headed toward the Backwaters to take a better look. My mother was having her house remodeled at the time and the builders were already there, hard at work on the addition. The foreman greeted me and commented on the fact that I was up and out good and early, so I told him I was on my way to take a look at the Backwaters. “Let me walk you,” he said, since my balance issues on steps were apparently already embarrassingly notorious by then. I thanked him and he took my arm. We walked to the top of the steps and I looked down, scanning the sand for the waterline. Right then, was when I saw my aunt Sylvia’s ashes. There they were, in a sort of messy pile on the beach, the waterline some ten feet behind her.
“But, what happened to the tide?” I asked, feeling a little panicky, “when will it come all the way in?” “Oh, it’s on it’s way out,” he responded. “Out? Out? Are you kidding me? I thought the water filled this whole inlet? How can it be going out?” “Oh, no,” he said, smiling wistfully, “not anymore--it’s a global warming thing, the water doesn’t make it anywhere near as close as it used to.” He pointed to the exact area where Sylvia was now piled up, “this area is pretty much dry these days.”
“I have to go,” I said, turning wildly and making my way in as big a hurry as I could manage back to the house. I opened the kitchen door, and slammed it shut behind me, leaning on it for fear that someone (no idea who) might come in. The sound of the door startled my sisters, who were, by then, up and drinking tea in the kitchen. “She didn’t go!” I said, in an urgent whisper. “Who didn’t?” They asked, a little non-plussed. “Sylvia.” I said, “She’s still on the beach! Apparently, we didn’t make it out far enough for her to be taken by the tide--what are we going to do? She’s still there, on the beach!” We all three of us, immediately made our way to the Backwaters again and, sure enough, I had not imagined it, there was aunt Sylvia, on the beach with the joggers and the meandering dogs--an abandoned pile of kitty litter being trampled into the sand.
My mother swears to this day that she will not allow my younger sister to have charge of her mortal remains or final resting place because she cannot be trusted with the task! (She places the blame squarely, but unfairly I feel, on my sister’s shoulders because she had the ashes for so long.) Pretty much, the whole subject of the ash scattering debacle is taboo around my mother these days, because she insists we were all irreverent and disrespectful--and there is no convincing her otherwise. But, quite frankly, nothing could be further from the truth. (Well, if anything was disrespectful, I’d say the mayonnaise jar fits that bill.)
The fact is, that our intentions were respectful, reverent, and kind. Can anyone ask any more than that for one they love? It may not matter to you what happens to your body after you die, or it may matter a great deal what happens to it, but at the end of the day, you will have no feelings in the matter at all--only the living will. So, why not give them a break? Consider their feelings a little more than your own. And, recognize that, when the moment arrives, their feelings might change. Make your wishes known, by all means, but then, tell them to do what feels best for them, when the time comes.
Peace Be,
Winnie
