I think about my funeral all the time. I kinda always have. Not that I’m a gothgirl gloombetty or anything, I just wanna have things cleared up. I don’t want anyone else to have to worry or wonder after I’m gone; I want to leave behind a straightforward, point-by-point schedule of how things should go, who to call. Sort of like the list your parents leave you when they go on vacation, with the hotel phone, the cell phone, the insurance company, the doctor–but instead, the relatives, the cemetary, and so on. A nice, bulleted list. I can be such a Virgo.
Only problem is, I don’t know what I want. As poetic as it may be, I’m not really into the whole cremation thing. On the other hand, neither do I relish the thought of being sealed in a pseudo-wood vault and dumped in the ground, quietly rotting away until archaeologists of the 31st century dig me up as an example of a 21st century homosexual. And most importantly, unlike Juanita Moore’s fabulously martyrific character in Imitation of Life, I hate the idea of anything involving horse-drawn hearses, assloads of lillies, and Mahalia Jackson. If my loved ones want to do something extravagant, I’d rather they spend money on themselves, not my fat, decomposing ass.
So, what else is there?
Apparently, quite a bit. Last night, as I sat in my living room answering emails and finishing off the aforementioned design projects, I had the TV on and muted, set to PBS. (Although we got full-on cable a few months ago–the first time I’ve had it since, like, 1986–I still tend to watch broadcast channels.) On comes POV, aka Point of View, a show that features documentaries and such from indie filmmakers, usually those of the way-left-leaning variety. Lots of stuff about poverty on the subcontinent, race relations in former imperial capitals, and lesbian horse trainers. You know what I mean.
This one was different. Called A Family Undertaking, it centered around folks who prefer to care for their deceased relatives rather than hand off the bodies to strangers for preparation and burial. Of course, as an indie documentary, there was an implicit bias against the corporate approach to death, made obvious in footage shot at the International Cemetary and Funeral Association convention–essentially a trade show for undertakers, morticians, and others in the business of death. But beyond that agenda, there was something genuinely touching and, well, “right” about the whole home burial thing. Maybe that was the result of well-edited footage and some articulate hippies, but whatever–it’s what I saw.
Being that I live in Louisiana–the only state in the union that still operates under civil law, as opposed to the common law system of the other 49 states–home burial isn’t as easy as it is in many other places. (Oddly, New York–where the boyfriend is from–has the same set of rules.) But it seems like there are probably ways to make it work. My only question is, should I saddle Jonno, who has an admitted aversion to the messier details of life, with preparing my body for burial and placing me in the ground?
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