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It's
a fact of life. As we get older we gain more experience of
funerals.
And bereavement. Sooner or later, time and time again, it
happens.
My mother died some years ago, and two months later, we
gathered
friends and family and took a boat and scattered her ashes
where
the waters of Port Tobacco Creek meet those of the Potomac at
the
foot of the farm where she was born. An osprey rose from the
bankside trees and danced for her. It was her wish, and she and I
had planned it together. It was good.
Mom reckoned
cremation would be 'convenient' for me, living across
the
Atlantic. Personally, though, I haven't found cremations very
satisfactory. Crematoria themselves are a bit too much like fast
food joints with drive-throughs...characterless, sterile,
impersonal,
time-limited...but to each his/her own.
Lately
I've also been to a lot of burials of the more normal sort.
Ministers and lay friends doing great honour to passing heroes,
friends and loved ones, all called home sooner than we would
wish.
Our local burial grounds are among the finest places to
return to the
soil from which we all originate, here or
elsewhere. However I would
rather not be drained of juice and
refilled with formaldehyde -
again, to each his/her own.
A
while ago a longtime good friend, teacher and hero died at 48,
having fought cancer long enough to get his kids into their
twenties.
The bulk of the trees I have planted are partly a
memorial to Tim
Stead, who was an inspired and inspiring human.
A hundred and fifty or more friends gathered in Wooplaw Wood,
a
pioneer community wood established near Lauder by Tim and
others in
1987. There were toddlers and infants in backpacks and
twin-stick
silvertipped seniors; folk of all stations, but no
dark suits, ties
or undertakers. Tim arrived in a white transit
van. His willow
basketwork casket, flat cap and sawdust mask on
top, was drawn
through the wood on a tracked log extractor and
lowered into a grave
dug by his friends in a beautiful space
among the trees at the edge
of the wood looking out over the
border landscape.
Northumbrian pipes played; poetry and many
fine words were spoken; a
lone fiddler broke our hearts and eased
them as well, and the more he
played, the more strongly the birds
joined in. Any who wished were
able to look down and toss in a
few crumbs of soil. There was no
sense of hurry. Friends, some
meeting after long absences, spoke
softly together and the
stronger young began to refill the grave,
returning first the
clay and then the topsoil and restoring the
forest floor with its
mossy, leafy litter, where birds will soon be
seeking their
living again.
Though I might have fewer friends, I hope my
burial may be similar.
And If I must be burned, can it please
be on a bonfire? (I shall
make sure to hypothecate sufficient
funds for sausages to roast and
lots of drink)
I am part
of the sun as my eye is part of me,
That I am part of the earth
my feet know perfectly,
and my blood is part of the sea...
There
is nothing of me that is alone and absolute, except my mind,
and
we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself,
it is
only the glitter of the sun on the surface of the waters.
--D H
Lawrence
also: from an interview with Wendell Berry (the whole of which is worthwhile)
"I decide to probe Berry about his attitudes on the
widely accepted
virtues of the view of fragile Earth from space.
Berry has a certain
puckish grin when he is out to puncture some
popular icon, which
spreads across his face as he drawls, "That
view didn't do much for
me; it looked like a poor old Christmas
ornament."
"I ask him if he doesn't find, as I do,
the experience of flying
over a piece of country particularly
beautiful and enlightening
about, say, the geology, hydrology,
vegetation patterns and so on.
Berry chuckles. "Tanya
will tell you about me and flying. As soon as
that thing takes
off, I'd just as soon lie down in the aisle between
the seats
like an old dog (pronounced "dawg") and go to sleep until
it's over."
Then he looks at me and, a little more
seriously now, polishes his
argument. "Let's say you were
from somewhere else, seeing this Earth
from space for the first
time. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't
be satisfied with
that view; I'd want to get closer, walk around on
it, even get
down on my hands and knees. That's how I prefer to see
the
Earth."
On a cold and windy day, Berry loads up some
tools into his pickup
truck. I squeeze into the cab next to two
of his granddaughters, and
Berry drives us to a graveyard. There,
we join a group from town who
are clearing brush in the back part
of the burial ground, where the
graves of Berry's people lie next
to others, who lived before the
Civil War.
We work for a
while gathering up the brush into piles and set fire
to the
piles. We begin to stand around them to warm ourselves as the
wind
picks up. Berry is paying close attention to an older farmer in
a
pair of mechanic's coveralls and a ballcap, who has begun to tell
stories about the people buried around us. The man is close to
seventy, but he's muscular, and has a very smooth, unlined face.
He's
chewing a wad of tobacco, and he spits occasionally.
The
tales seem to have a formula, featuring the remembered person as
a
comic character at the center of some hilarious misadventure. A
couple of the other men have gathered to listen and poke at the
fire
with sticks and hand tools. Everyone bends toward the old
man in the
wind as he delivers the punch line, and then they
explode outward in
laughter.
Berry takes me back to the
graveyard a day or two later. I remark
that the stories of the
dead people seem to have been preserved as
comedy.
"For
some reason," Berry says, "that's the way the men remember
things, but the women tell stories about the sad things that
happened, and there are plenty of sad stories in this graveyard,
people who died young, women who died in childbirth...."
His voice trails off and we fall silent for a long time.
Berry turns
the pickup around and drives us home to supper in the
gray evening
light....."