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THE WIND PHONE
When I Die, Bury Me in the Backyard
Busting myths about death and considering “Green” alternatives
“Well, they’ll just have to dig him up and move him. I don’t see any other option!” said Mom.
The cemetery workers messed up and buried my brother next to my friend Cathy. She died seven months before. Her parents were upset. They wanted to be on either side of her. Clearly, my brother had to scoot over.
We were wild in the ’70s, and seatbelts were optional. It was a bad time to be a teenager, at least in terms of staying alive.
I’m impressed at how matter-of-fact Mom was about the issue. I was nineteen, and my brother was a year younger. Mom’s graciousness fell away soon enough, and she gave in to full-on depression. But in the moment? She was pragmatic and didn’t react with anger.
“Warren would have thought this was funny,” she said. It was a divine message from him.
It’s been nearly fifty years since that tragedy, and my thoughts of funerals have evolved, in part because of my brother and another thirty or so deaths.
I’ve come around to a unique way of dealing with loss and even thinking of my eventual passing. No more paint-by-number services with the 23rd Psalm and coffins…
