Whistling past the graveyard

Please don’t bury me down in the cold, cold ground
I’d rather have them cut me up and pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane and the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears if they don’t mind the size – John Prine, Please Don’t Bury Me

I went by the cemetery where my mom is buried and visited her grave for a few minutes Saturday.

It’s in a pretty non-descript spot, on high bare ground near the back of the cemetery. There’s really not much of a view. A few feet away from her grave there’s a chain-link fence surrounding some ramshackle house. Not far from the cemetery there’s a train track, but I don’t believe trains run through there anymore.

I’m not sure why we visit the graves of our loved ones, except to put some new fake flowers there, and make sure the headstone hasn’t been vandalized. I really don’t feel anything when I stand there. I guess I should feel sad, but I don’t, because I don’t associate her with that place. It represents nothing about her life, or who she was. She’s not there at all.

I think we feel and remember our loved ones in everyday experiences. If I walk into a house and smell turnip greens cooking, I remember her. If I hear one of the old gospel songs she loved, I think of her. If I hear a new joke that I think she would like, I regret not being able to tell her and hear her laugh.

But standing in front of a concrete slab surrounded by hundreds of other concrete slabs? It just seems odd to me. I guess I’m somehow missing the intended experience.

The grave next to hers was decorated for Halloween. What is that about? Were they expecting trick-or-treaters? Nearby, there was a headstone that featured a picture of the Winnie the Pooh character Tigger, with the inscription “Bouncy bouncy, fun fun.” Must be a child, I thought, but then I looked closer, and the man died at 37. I guess he really loved Tigger.

People memorialize their loved ones in all sorts of ways these days that are strange to me. I’ve seen plenty of the “In Memory Of” inscriptions in the rear windows of pickup trucks and other automobiles. Last week I saw one, and underneath it listed the birth and death dates of the person, and the person they were commemorating had died at the age of 91.

Some people have T-shirts made in honor of the deceased, with a silkscreen picture. Maybe I’m a little old-fashioned, and I guess people can grieve any way they want, but it all seems too much to me. I mean, where does it end? What’s next? Bumper stickers? Key chains? Bobblehead dolls?

My mother didn’t even have a funeral, just a graveside service, because that’s what she made my dad promise he would do. Knowing her, she didn’t want to “put anybody out” by having them come to a fancy funeral. Sure, it would have been nice to have a ceremony, with some of her favorite songs, and maybe a eulogy or two, but that’s not what she wanted. And none of that would have made the memory of her any more special.

I hope I don’t die for a long, long time, but when it happens, I want my family to make me some promises. No T-shirts, nothing on the back of the car, no decorations on the headstone, no roadside memorial if it happens in a car accident. No cartoon characters on the headstone, and I don’t really care where you bury me. Just make it someplace that’s easy to get to.

I don’t want to put anybody out.