Part 1 - It
Was A Great Life
The phone
rings in the kitchen.
"You'd better answer it
Ronnie," Annie, my wife, says, "It's probably the funeral home."
I run from the living room where
we're reading. Through a west facing window, the late afternoon sun catches my
eye, temporarily blinding me. I stub my toe on a table leg and stumble into the
kitchen where I pick up the phone. God, that hurt! I sometimes get gout in that
toe and it's really susceptible to pain...which is big time right now.
"Hello, this is Ron," I
say, gritting my teeth, panting a little.
"Hi Ron, this is Martin
Freeborn from Sorenson's Funeral Home, returning your call. Sorry it's taken so
long to get back to you. It's been pretty busy around here the last week or so."
He sounds perky and cheerful, not at
all like the dour, businesslike person I'd been prepared for. The pain in my
toe immediately vanishes as I focus my attention. What do you say to a
statement like that? He's talking about dying and death here. In my mind I see
dead bodies stacked up in a back room somewhere waiting for whatever's in store
for them. I want to be polite, but congratulating him on a flurry of business
is a little out of my comfort zone. I quickly rack my brain, trying to come up
with an appropriate comment while also trying to remember if I'd heard or read
about anyone around town who has died recently. I come up empty on both counts.
Martin interrupts my thoughts,
"Your message said you were interested in a plot up at Lakeview?"
Whew. He lets me off the hook.
"Yes," I say, recovering, "Thank you so much for calling me
back." I hear the formality in my voice. Am I really talking about this? A
last resting place? I clear my throat and try to speak normally, "Yeah,"
I say." There that sounds better, "The cemetery just down the
highway. Overlooking the lake?"
I can actually hear him grinning, "Yes, Ron, I know it well. It's the only
one in town."
God, I'm coming across like a complete
idiot. I take a deep breath and muddle on, "Do you have any spots up there
for..." I was going to stay new tenant, but stop myself. It doesn't sound
right, somehow. "Are there any plots available?" There. That sounds
better.
I hear some papers rustling. I
imagine Martin checking an ancient, couple hundred years old, map of the
cemetery, thin as parchment and folded into sections. He's carefully opening it
up to look over locations for what's available. (In reality, it's probably a
newspaper he's putting away. I'm sure all their records are on the computer,
but then again, what do I know?) "We have a number of spaces, Ron. Do you
have any family buried there? Someone you want to be next to?"
What an odd way of putting it. I'm
taken aback. Is this some kind of trick question? Do they only allow people in
who have relatives? I didn't think this conversation was going to be so hard.
Or unsettling. "Um, I have a few acquaintances there," I say (well,
two, actually) and proceed to tell him about Annie's friend for one and her
cousin, for the other. I know I'm stretching the facts and, truth be told, I
didn't know either of them very well at all, but I do want a plot there.
"That's excellent. Do you want
a space near them?"
Not really. "No, that's Ok. Any
place will do." Why am I starting to perspire? I rack my brain and quickly
I add, "Maybe up on the hill, overlooking the lake?"
"Excellent choice," Martin
says, "We have lots of spaces up there." I make a mental note that
the correct term is space not plot or
spot or location. I, apparently, have a lot to learn when it comes to the
correct vernacular regarding cemeteries.
He pauses, waiting, I think, for me
to say something. Suddenly I'm at a loss for words. This is really happening. I'm
talking to a guy about my final resting place. Do I really want to call it
that? Man, so many questions start popping up that all of a sudden that my mind
goes totally blank.
After another beat he continues, apparently
choosing to ignore the poor soul on the other end of the line, "Well
anyway, Ron, why don't you go up and look around and decide where you want to
be. You have been up there before,
haven't you?" he asks, with the emphasis on have. Do I detect the
slightest bit of condescension in his voice? Naw...It's probably just my
overactive imagination.
I nod my head for a few moments
before I think to answer, "Yeah, sure, lots of times," then
immediately regret my answer. I can picture Martin thinking what a strange man
he is talking to right now. One who not only has trouble talking on the phone,
but who also enjoys spending his free time wandering around in cemeteries,
looking at gravestones and contemplating death. I suddenly wonder if he might
alert the local police to me. I'm really perspiring now. Man, why am I so
paranoid all of a sudden?
"It's good you've been to it,"
he says, allaying my concerns somewhat. "Take a little drive over there,
look around and check on few head stones near where you want to be. Call me
back with a general location and we'll get you set all up."
What an odd way of putting it.
"So there's space available?" I ask, feeling rather smug that I'm now
using the correct term.
For the first time during our
conversation he chuckles, which, I have to say, given the circumstances, is a
little disconcerting. "Yes, we do, Ron. We have lots of spaces," he
pauses and then chuckles again, "Unless, of course," he adds,
"we have a run like this past week."
Geez!
He quickly quotes me a price and we
both hang up. I wipe the sweat from my brow and wish I still smoked and drank.
I could use a little of each right now. Maybe a lot.
Annie comes in and rubs my shoulder,
"How'd it go, big fella?"
I'm grateful for her touch and human
contact. "Fine," I say, "Good. The guy at Sorenson's wants me to
head up to the cemetery and pick out a spot, I mean space." I clear my
throat, "Want to come along?"
Annie averts her eyes for a moment,
thinking, and then looks at me with loving concern, "Do you want me to?"
Her mom and dad have passed away
within the past year. This whole cemetery and burial plot thing for me is a
little close to home for her. I don't want to drag her up to Lakeview unless
she wants to go and I tell her that, "It's not that big a deal, Annie. I
can do it myself."
She hugs me, "Why don't you go
ahead? Call me when you start home and I'll make some tea for us to have when
you get back."
I'm so grateful for her.
"Sounds good," I tell her, giving her a tight hug back. Then I grab
the keys to my car and head out the door, "I'll be back in a while."
Lakeview Cemetery is located a mile
outside of town, off highway 112, on the south shore of Long Lake, the lake our
town is named after. The cemetery's been there for nearly a hundred and fifty
years. Martin told me there are over three hundred people buried there and room
(as he put it) for over a hundred more. "Plenty of space for you,
Ron," he told me, laughing a little, "In fact, more than enough for you
to choose from." (I can't begin to imagine what his dinner table
conversations are like.)
I take a left off the highway at the
entrance, drive a hundred feet in and up a slight rise to a roughed out parking
area, roll to a stop, turn the key off and get out. I'm the only car there. It's
early October and just after six at night. Since I started thinking about doing
this, I've kept coming up with reasons not to. Now, I just want to get it over
with and not put it off another day. I'm a little wired and force myself to
take a minute to try and calm down.
Lakeview is the exact opposite of
the pampered cemeteries with trim bushes, pretty gardens and manicured lawns
that most cities have. This one is more on the shaggy side, only lightly
maintained, with long grass and overgrown shrubs thriving beneath tall, shady
trees. It's definitely not formal at all and, to tell the truth, I like the
casual feel to it. The sun is low to the west, casting shadows through the
graveyard. The air is cool and crisp and the trees in the area have started to
change colors. Looking across the lake I see rolling hills of oaks and maples
turning red, yellow and orange with myriads of hues in between. Low sunlight
filters through the colorful leaves above me and adds to the mellow feel of the
place. All things considered, it's a beautiful time of year to be checking out
burial plots, I mean spaces. I like being outside anyway, and there's a nice,
outdoorsy vibe to the area. I'm calming down and feel myself getting into the
mood to look around.
I should be clear here. I'm really
not going to be buried at Lakeview. When I'm gone, I'm going to be cremated and
want my ashes scattered on Long Lake; I just want a location (space!) for a stone
for sort of a memorial marker. What do I mean, sort of? I - want - a - stone - for - a - memorial - marker. There,
that's better; nice and definite. I learning to accept what I'm doing; planning
for the end of my life, and I'm starting to get my head wrapped around it. I
want something that says that I was here. I was on this earth. I lived and died
and now I'm gone, but once I was here. Sound weird? Well maybe...but it makes
sense to me and I'll tell you why: throughout the twenty one years of our
marriage, Annie and I have done a lot of family ancestry research. One thing we
found was that it helps to track relatives if there's a burial marker of some
sort. That's why I'm doing this. Since my ashes are going to be scattered, I
figured a stone for a memorial was the next best thing. The idea is to leave a
foot print behind; something for later
generations to see. I explained all this to Martin while we were talking and I
got the distinct impression he could have cared less. In fact, I thought I detected
his finger tips tapping away on his desk as I blathered on and on. When I finished all he asked is how I wanted
to pay for everything.
Walking around the cemetery is...how
can I put this? Different? Well, of course. Strange? No, that's really not it. Interesting?
Maybe that's it - but not interesting like watching a special on climate change
on PBS is interesting. (At least it is to me.) No, this is like trying to tap
into some inner connection between yourself and the land you are walking on.
Some would call it getting a feel for the
place and that would be as accurate as I could put it. Standing next to my
car and looking toward the lake, the land slopes away to the left. There are a
lot of headstones there and I walk down and wander around, idly looking at
names and dates of births and deaths. Annie's friend is buried down here. So is
her cousin. I check out both their stones. Someone's left a bouquet of flowers
for her friend. Who could have done that? I don't have a clue. To my right, hidden
in a grove of trees near the lake, a group of what looks to be high school kids
are sitting on the ground talking quietly. I like the fact that they respect that
they are in a cemetery and are being mindful of the dead. Then I catch of whiff
of marijuana. Hmm... Well, maybe mindful is not the correct word.
I turn and make my way back up the
hill and stroll past my car over to the other half of the cemetery. The ground
is nice and level here. My boots are shuffling through tallish grass and fallen
leaves, and the swishing sound is relaxing to my state of mind. To my right the
highway noise is muted by trees and underbrush, all turning to vibrant fall
colors. The burgundy red and blaze orange of the sumac is especially pretty.
I'm feeling calmer, now, wandering
around. It's not so bad being here. In fact the more I walk, the more I feel
outside noises and distractions disappearing.
My attention begins to focus on my task - looking for my space. Some of
the headstones here are very old, crumbling a little, covered in gray and green
lichen, and dating back to the 1870's. The oldest one Annie and I have found up
here is from 1859. The name is illegible and we can just make out the date, but
the interesting fact is that the person was buried one year after Minnesota
became a state. I think it's pretty amazing to have a grave here that old.
But that's not why I said it was interesting being here. I guess what I
was trying to get at was that being here really is different. It's not the way
I normally would choose to spend my free time. Thinking about death and a final
resting place is not something one does every day. But here I am, doing just
that. Interesting, different...you can add weird to that, too, I guess. Anyway,
call it what you will, I'm here and I am coping with it just fine. It's
something I want to do.
At the far end of the cemetery to my
left and overlooking the lake is an open area. I don't know why there are no grave
stones here, but it's open and empty and might work for me. I walk over and stand
in the middle of the space. It's about ten feet from some brushy, shrubby
overgrowth and a line of tall maple trees that mark the edge of the cemetery. Just
beyond the vegetation there's a steep cliff cut in the hillside leading down to
the lake. It's the highest point around - about forty feet above the shoreline,
and seems like a good spot. I turn in a circle a few times, looking around,
getting a feel for things. Then I look up - tree tops bend over the space and their
branches form a canopy above me. Through them, high in the sky, I can just make
out a wavering flock of birds flying, probably geese. There is no wind and the
air has the feel of fall to it. Somewhere, someone is burning leaves and the
scent fills me with a vivid happy memory of my childhood when Dad and I burned piles
of leaves I'd helped him rake. In the underbrush a chickadee calls, then a
nuthatch. There is a calm and a peacefulness right here that I haven't felt
anywhere else in my meandering around. I suddenly just know that this is the place I want to be. The connection is strong.
It feels perfect.
I sit down and look around, soaking
in the atmosphere of the place. Faraway, down to my left I can just make out a burst
of laughter from the kids which quickly fades into the growing twilight. An owl
hoots on the far side of the lake, it's haunting voice fading into the
stillness. Then nothing. The birds nearby have gone quiet. Silence settles in. The
sun has dropped below the horizon and the air is still. It's so peaceful and
quiet...I lay back and look through the woven branches of trees into a sky turning
to a soft mauve. I close my eyes and let the stillness take me away.
One thing Martin wanted to know was
about my grave stone. (I prefer to call it my memorial stone.)
"Want do you want to put on
it?" he asked me.
Well, now that was a good question.
What does on put on the stone that will mark their place on earth for eternity...or
at least the next one hundred or two hundred years or so. I'd thought about it
a lot since I'd first committed to doing this but so far had come up empty. I
told him I hadn't decided and that I'd get back to him on it.
As
I lay on my space, (I'm starting to get comfortable thinking about it like
that) I start to focus my attention and think; what do I want on my memorial stone? A few days earlier I looked up a
site on the internet that listed possible headstone inscriptions. If you want
to make yourself nuts in a hurry, check it out. (No, I'm not going to give out
the address. It's easy to find.) Trust me, though, there were pages and pages
of them: short ones like, "Dearly Beloved" or " So Loved."
Longer ones like, "And The Beauty Of The Soul Revealed" or "Our
Love Is A Love Always Remembered." Sayings by famous people, "Death
is the key that opens the place of Eternity - Milton" or "We all
shine on...- John Lennon." And, of course, there were religious ones,
"Forever to dwell in the House of the Lord" and "I sought the
Lord and He heard me and delivered me from all my fears." And, finally, non-religious
ones: "Too Well Loved Ever To Be Forgotten" and "His life was like
music, a song written on the wind."
Actually,
I made that last one up, but, trust me, there were a lot of them. Funny ones,
sad ones and everything in between. Frankly, it was kind of mind boggling. After
I'd looked them over for fifteen minutes (which, believe me, was a lot longer
than it sounds), I shut down the computer and went to my file drawer. In it I
keep a bunch of old comic books I'd bought at antique stores and on eBay to
share with my grandkids. I selected a Looney Tunes and opened it up and read for
a while about Bugs Bunny driving Elmer Fudd nuts and Daffy Duck just being
Daffy, to clear my head. I have to say, it took a couple of stories of being
entertained by their antics before my mind was back to normal.
Putting thoughts of comic books
aside, I lay on the fragrant grass in the growing twilight of the early fall
evening and let my thoughts wander. I wanted to see what would happen - to see
if somehow a saying would come to me, a saying that would make sense; one I
could use to mark my place on this earth forever.
What happened next was unexpected,
but actually quite pleasant. Out of the blue, memories of my life started
running through my brain like old film on a movie reel. I thought I'd share
some with you: the day my youngest brother was born (my first memory), the day
my best friend knocked me out with one swing of his brand new #32 Louisville
Slugger, warm twilight nights as a youngster playing hide-and-go-seek with
friends in my old neighborhood, the scent of a fresh mown lawn, learning to
skate and play hockey at the rink down on the corner, Dad falling off a ladder onto
the driveway and surviving, my first orange tabby cat, me forgetting Mom's 33rd
birthday when I was seven, summers at the cabin up north, Dad and his friends
listening to jazz in our living room, fishing with my uncle, Mom's portrait on
the wall in the dining room painted by her friend, my aunt teaching me how to
play solitaire, Mom and Dad having cocktails and listening to Benny Goodman
records in the living room, my best friend in our new neighborhood and I building
a mini-bike, Mom teaching me how to play cribbage, a friend who died of
leukemia, early doo-wop and Motown, failing English in seventh grade, Buddy
Holly, the first girl I kissed, Dion and the Belmont's, my first car (a little
red Triumph Tr-3), Friday night football games, the perfume my high school girl
friend wore, 'The Sounds of Silence', landscape paintings with cows in pastures,
getting an A in English in twelfth grade, 'Like A Rolling Stone', working at Swant's
Service and Gas Station, Mom and Dad getting divorced, the summer of 1969, the
pacific ocean with Dad, stargazing in the Rocky Mountains, my first born child,
my second born child, Bruce Springsteen and 'Darkness On the Edge of Town', Lake
George, leatherwork, Drew Avenue South, the guys in Hop the Train, sandhill
cranes on the Platte River, watching the snow fall at night, Christmas lights, the
uninhibited laughter of my grandchildren (and seeing them grow), molten orange
sunsets, hiking in the desert, bike riding, walking anywhere and anytime, bird
watching, the job I held for twenty years, the soft light of dawn, working at
two different garden centers, Lake Constance, blues guitar, sobriety, winter
night fires by the fireplace, Hayseed Cree, working in the garden, soft
rainfall, talking with Mom anytime, Manitobagifts, reading books, my last home
(our little bungalow), bluebirds nesting in the front yard, my wife for all
these years.
And that's just the preverbal tip of
the iceberg.
I could take each statement and
write about it for days, but I don't want to belabor the point. Suffice it to
say that each memory is a thread woven into a rich and colorful tapestry made
up of family, friends and events that have enriched my life and made my time
here on earth the wonderful journey it's been. One I wouldn't trade for
anything.
But how to sum it up into a short,
all encompassing saying that I can put on my memorial stone? I mean that's the whole
point of this, right? A simple statement that says something about me and about
my life; something that people who have known me can look at and nod in
agreement (hopefully), and people in some far off future can look at and get a
feel for the person who was me. As I write this I'm thinking: Is this too vain?
Is this too over the top? I don't know. I don't want it to be. I just want to
do it. Sort of a 'leave behind' marking the end of my life and my time here.
It's been a good life, of that I have no doubt. Why not commemorate somehow?
And then it comes to me. It has been a good life. In fact, it's been
a wonderful life. Wait, that's already a movie title. That's Ok, it's not
really what I wanted, anyway.
Restless, I get up and walk through
the grass to the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. I must have lain on my
spot for a long time. I'm a little stiff and I swing my arms to loosen up. The
water is mirror smooth, and there's a reflection of a nearly full moon rising
in the east glowing on the lake's surface.
The scent of burning leaves is lingering in the air. The kids down the hill to
the left are still there. I hear their muffled laughter and it makes me smile to hear
them happy. I look up and see the stars, stars I've watched and felt connected
to my entire life. Letting my mind go to be free to play back memories of my
life was fun and has left me uplifted. It occurs to me just how happy I am. Like
a kid I shuffle around through the fallen leaves, enjoying the feel of them
beneath my boots. I feel excited with what my memories have shown me. It's been
better than a good life, it's been a great one. I walk in a little circle,
scattering more leaves, enjoying playing in them. And then it dawns on me. What
a perfect saying. I smile to myself and feel a sense of relief (a sure sign
it's the right thing to do.) I decide that I'm not going to worry myself about
it anymore. I've thought about it long enough. Simple sometimes really is the
best. I've got my saying for my memorial stone: "It's Been A Great
Life". Five simple words that say it all.
Finally. What a relief!
Feeling a slightly euphoric, I carefully
make my way through the dark cemetery to my car, open the door and sit in the
driver's seat. The interior light is the only light around and I blink as my
eyes adjust. I take out my phone. I'm relieved and happy and want to share it
with Annie.
"Hey, there. Just wanted to let
you know I'm on my way home," I say, after ringing her up.
"It's kind of late. I was
getting worried. Are you Ok?" she asks.
I try to allay the concern in her
voice. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm doing fine." I check the time. It's just
after 8:30. I've been here for over two hours. The interior light has gone out
and I sit back and stare into the darkness. A burden has been lifted and I'm
feeling both mellow and jubilant, two entirely different feelings that,
interestingly, work well together.
She's quiet for a moment and finally
decides to believe me. "I'm glad. You sound good. Calm."
"I am. I'm really good," I
want to tell her everything, but decide to wait until I get home. "I'm
leaving right now. I just wanted you to know I've decided on a space and what
to put on my stone. I think you'll like them both."
"That's good, Honey, really
good. Do you want to tell me now or when you get home?"
"How about if I wait until I
get home? There's a bit of a story that goes along with it," I tell her. I'm
thinking of all those memories.
"Sounds good." She pauses
and then asks, "Not to change the subject, but..." I grin. We've been
together for a long time. I can picture what's coming, "Can you do me a
really big favor?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm in the mood for a treat."
A new shop called The Dairy Store
has opened in town specializing in homemade ice cream. We go there a lot.
"Let me guess, licorice?"
I can see her smiling on the phone,
"You guessed it, Ronnie."
"A pint of licorice it
is."
"Get something for yourself,
too, Ok? Well celebrate."
She doesn't have to twist my arm. I
can see a pint of salty caramel in my future. "Will do. Anything
else?"
"No. Just hurry home, Ok? I've
missed you."
I check the car's clock: 8:42. The
ice cream shop is open until 9:00. "I'll be home soon."
"See you, Sport."
"Love you, Babe."
"Love you, too."
I start the car, turn on the
headlights, pop in a CD, turn around, and inch out to the highway where I put
my foot on the brake and stop. It's pitch dark out and the high beams from the
cars coming from both directions temporarily blind me. I blink to clear my
vision and wait a minute for a break in the traffic, listening to the music and
taping my finger on the steering wheel. After a minute there's finally an
opening. I turn to the right and start shifting through the gears, accelerating
down the hill toward town. Low level clouds have moved in and the lights on the
buildings reflect a soft glow in the sky. There's a feeling of calm to the
night. Annie's waiting for me and I'll be with her in no time. I can't wait.
Those memories start playing in my head again, a lovely movie rolling on and on
and on. It really has been a great life, one I wouldn't trade for anything. And
you know what another great thing is? There are lots more memories to be made,
of that I'm sure. I'm looking forward to all of them. I shift into top gear and
whistle a little under my breath, smiling as I head for home.
(To be
continued...)
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