There’s a scandal brewing over at Arlington Cemetery, with the Army reporting an unacceptable number of burial errors. Not the kind that involves burying soldiers who are not entirely dead, which tends to resolve itself in a few hours. This is a matter of mislabeled, unmarked or improperly marked graves. And this is a scandal because, as anyone who has even a rudimentary knowledge of zombies knows, we like to know where our dead people are at all times.
We go to great lengths to assure this, and always have, going back to the earliest days when some people marked the spot with an entire pyramid. Nowadays we mostly use stones and plaques and plastic petunias and teddy bears, but it’s the same concept.
It’s more important to some people than others. My siblings and I buried our parents somewhere in Bozeman, Montana, after first reducing them to an economical shoebox size, per their instructions. I visit each of them several times a day but in thirty years I’ve never made the trip to the Bozeman cemetery, and I don’t think they mind. The shoebox size takes up less space. We did the same thing with my sister, who would never have taken up much space anyway. Her ashes were turned into the soil of her bodacious vegetable garden, where she spent some of her best time, and now–I snuck a peek a year later–she is marked by a massive bean plant. I go back and forth on whether to tell the current homeowners why their vegetables are so big.
It did always strike me as an odd use of the scenery to plant people full-length in rows and rows, even though I enjoy walking in cemeteries. How is it we haven’t run out of room? Apparently in many locations we have, and have taken to stacking up. They won’t do it to people who are just a little dead, but the deader you are, I guess the less you mind.
Another way of taking up less space is to save only the head, which is standard procedure in cryogenically frozen people. I find the thought of preserving my head horrifying and would never consider it, unless maybe I’d had some work done. These people have arranged for this treatment beforehand in the hope that they can be revived when whatever killed them is cured, and they’re okay with coming back as what can only be termed an extreme quadriplegic. One of these outfits dropped the ball a while back and accidentally thawed someone out, then refroze him, and his still-limbed relatives are hoppin’ mad about it. But what if they come up with a cure for cancer and still haven’t conquered freezer burn?
The problems at Arlington stemmed from the conversion of the records from paper to digital. They’re lucky they only misrecorded some names. If I’d been in charge of the project they’d have to change the name of Arlington Cemetery to The Blue Screen Of Death. Still, I guess it’s a horrible thing to go to all the trouble of visiting a loved one and trimming up the grass and putting out a jar of peonies only to find out that the target bones of your affection are several yards away. It’s like voting for the Clear Skies Act and discovering it was really the Polluters’ Preservation Initiative all along.
The whole matter becomes even more complicated if you’re not sure if someone’s even dead or not, which can happen if they watched a lot of TV. Not too long ago, the folks in Japan were out looking for their officially-oldest man and when they knocked at his door, they were turned away repeatedly by relatives who did not want to disturb his rest. It turns out he was already thirty years past disturbing, tucked into his bed with a blanket over his mummified remains. If people are old enough, they don’t look much different from mummies, but still. You’d think his relatives would have noticed something when they tried to get him to sign the deposit slips for all those pension checks.
Apparently scientists have now worked out how to dissolve a corpse and simply pour the residue down the toilet. Undertakers in some countries are already offering the option. Very environmentally positive, I must say. No polluting crematoriums, no clogged-up graveyards. Just treat and flush.
I always have been in awe of the notion of floating a burning ship with the body into the sea. Something pretty darn regal about that.
But the cremation thing….I've always had a nagging notion…what if I am play dead? I don't know…I think I'd rather suffocate than be crispy fried.
A meaningful, insightful post which forces me to think of these things because I am at the age where I should be thinking of these things and I don't want to — so thanks a lot!
This post coincides nicely with the book I am reading, "Stiff: The curious lives of human cadavers" by Mary Roach. She is right up your alley, Murr. If you haven't read her, you really should.
I think I'm in favor of something like the shoebox option. I sometimes think that having my ashes become part of a tree would be nice.
I never think about these things. I'll have plenty of time to think about being dead when I'm…um…dead. Eternity, even…
Very interesting post, and that last picture… is it for real? You would think his relatives might have noticed that he stopped eating and drinking anything a while back. I also read Mary Roach's book Stiff. It was filled with amazing innovative uses for cadavers.
Grandpa's riding around in a box in the back of a car. Someday we'll get him sent off to the cemetery he wants to be buried at. Still waiting for the relatives who insist that we do this to cough up their portion of the cost. Until then, he seems comfortable enough back there…
I love that your sister's like Mary Mary Quite Contrary, making that vegetable garden grow. I think that's what I'd like, to be part of the earth and growing things like all lush and gorgeous. Of course, that's assuming my remains would have that affect . . .
I think Kat's onto something with Grandpa. That would be the perfect choice for dogs, wouldn't it? No marking stones under the old apple tree–no, go for a ride!
I've heard about the dissolved-residue option and wrote about it here. It's all very well and all, but I hadn't heard about flushing down the toilet. Clearly that would be the ultimate tribute to me: all gathered solemnly around the can, and KER-SPLOOSH. I'd better write that up and get it notarized.
When I die I'm leaving my daughter 20 bucks and all my worldly goods, which take up all the room in the shoe box, so it will be up to her. After all, I'm gonna be dead, what do I care?
When I turned 50 I started getting solicitations from "The Neptune Society," for pre-paid cremations, which I frankly though was just rude. Personally, I wouldn't care if they tossed me in the landfill where they put the dead horses. I'd consider myself among superb company.
I'd worry about coming back as a revived head. Where would the food go when I ate?
Definitely of the shoebox persuasion in our family (although Mom tried to talk me into putting her into my garden…naw, Mom, it's my zen spot, we'll go for a degree of separation here). Had a good snort at the cancer/freezer burn line.
Murr, I just wondered, do you ever lie in bed and think things up and get yourself laughing so hard you can't go to sleep?
I laugh a lot. Peeing and drooling are what keeps me from getting any sleep.
I prefer not to dwell on such matters, imagining that I shall continue in perpetuity, irritating the neighbours and forgetting to water the plants. My actual post demise is something I shall leave to others to worry about. But as long as it's a fancy shoebox from an expensive shop, I shall be happy.
True story: MY mother-in-law died two years ago. She was buried in a local cemetery in Corvallis. Two weeks after her grave side burial ceremony, we went back to the grave site AND HER GRAVE HAD BEEN MOVED! Now get this, when we asked why they hadn't told us about this they said: (wait for it) "They didn't think we would notice!"
… and no, in case you're wondering, they didn't move her because she would have a better view in the new location.
Holy crap.
For a funny yet provocative book on the whole subject of death and burial read The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch. Part of my summer reading and one I recommend highly. Lynch is an undertaker and gives you a birds' eye view of the profession to show that it's a whole lot more than embalming and dead bodies. That's really the least of it.
For a funny yet provocative book on the whole subject of death and burial read The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch. Part of my summer reading and one I recommend highly. Lynch is an undertaker and gives you a birds' eye view of the profession to show that it's a whole lot more than embalming and dead bodies. That's really the least of it.
Holy crap.
Definitely of the shoebox persuasion in our family (although Mom tried to talk me into putting her into my garden…naw, Mom, it's my zen spot, we'll go for a degree of separation here). Had a good snort at the cancer/freezer burn line.
Murr, I just wondered, do you ever lie in bed and think things up and get yourself laughing so hard you can't go to sleep?
When I die I'm leaving my daughter 20 bucks and all my worldly goods, which take up all the room in the shoe box, so it will be up to her. After all, I'm gonna be dead, what do I care?
I think Kat's onto something with Grandpa. That would be the perfect choice for dogs, wouldn't it? No marking stones under the old apple tree–no, go for a ride!
I've heard about the dissolved-residue option and wrote about it here. It's all very well and all, but I hadn't heard about flushing down the toilet. Clearly that would be the ultimate tribute to me: all gathered solemnly around the can, and KER-SPLOOSH. I'd better write that up and get it notarized.