When It’s Time To Go
“RING AROUND THE ROSEY, A POCKETFUL OF POSEY
ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN.”
According to some sources this old nursery rhyme has come down to us from the time when The Plague – The Black Death – swept through Europe killing millions.
“OK, kiddies, let’s all sing about contagious diseases and mass cremations. Ashes, Ashes – All fall down!”
What brought this to mind was a story in the local newspaper.
It seems that some local Yutz stole a pick-up truck. That happens about fifty times a day around Terre Haute (That’s French for “Can you drive a Stick-shift?”). The unusual part of the story was that in the truck was a container holding the ashes of the late owner of the vehicle. I guess that he liked to go for a ride even after the fact.
I’ve heard of people having their ashes tossed into the ocean, spread over the grass of their favorite golf course, even shot into space, but I’ve never heard of strapping an urn full of ashes into a child-seat and hitting the road.
Whatever makes you happy.
Some people make elaborate plans for the disposal of their remains. My wife, the lovely and perpetually planning, Dawn, has a list of about a dozen places where she wants her ashes sprinkled
Not Me Practicing
about. I have promised to carry out her wishes, providing I don’t bite the dust first. Given her list I will respect her desire and pick up a ton of Frequent Flier Miles at the same time. I can’t reveal her list here because that would alert security guards all over the country, keeping me on the outside looking in.
Spoil Sports!
I have made my own wishes known, but I doubt that those left behind will actually follow through for me.
Rather than spend a fortune on an elaborate funeral or even a “Toast & Roast” cremation I have told everyone what I want done once I have achieved room temperature.
I have decreed that my surviving family and friends are to take me, put me inside one of those big plastic Hefty Leaf Bags and put me out by the curb. To expedite matters I have directed that they tape a cardboard sign to the bag reading, “FREE!” I will guarantee that within ten minutes I will be gone to my reward.
My wife does not approve.
I have offered up an alternative “Weekend at Bernie’s” style option where my pals “Take me out to the ball game” – put a hotdog in my hand – and just leave me there. I can’t think of a better place.
If my passing comes outside of baseball season (Is there such a thing?) I then I suggest that they take me to the airport and set me down with the rest of the stiffs. It could be days before anyone notices that I seem content and not caring that I have no luggage. I know that you can’t take it with you.
Just don’t box me up and leave me in the car. I don’t want to end up like that poor guy whose ashes are now riding around town in his old pick-up truck.
Down the Hall on Your Left 