2000-08-21
Dear Diary:

����An elderly neighbour who used to live down the road a ways from us died on Friday after a long illness, so today I went in to the funeral home. She was a hard working woman who raised nine children, and remembering folks is part of what you do in a small place.

����The rituals involved in this sort of thing are weird, if you think about it at all. First you walk through a gauntlet of the family, kissing those you know on the cheek, shaking hands with the ones you don't, murmuring bits of condolence. Then you enter what is called The Viewing and stand in front of the casket.

����I never know quite what to say when I'm looking down at someone who is clearly pining for the fjords, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, or my personal favourite, joined Elvis in leaving the building. So there is this little pause as I look down mutely.

����The family member who has brought me almost always says: "Doesn't ______ look good?"

����Now this can be a tricky question, especially if you are looking at the work of

a) an undertaker who only recently left clown college and hasn't dropped his old make-up habits

b) an undertaker who only recently left the world of Madame Tussaud wax figure creation

����So there is another pause as I sift through possible replies. (My favourite, by the way, is the one loudly uttered by my daughter--then about 4--when she was viewing my stepmother: "Ewwwwwwww what's that smell?" Really, you can't BUY memories like that. But I digress ...)

����Marn, boring, safe Marn, always ends up saying something inane such as, "Yes, it's a wonderful job" as if I'm commenting on a new paint job on a house. But that's what's expected. Then I drift off and talk to other folks there, and often it doesn't involve the person at all, but that's part of it too.

����Our neighbour will be buried in a few hours beside her late husband in the little cemetery directly across the valley from our home, I can see it through my window.

����Some folks are completely and utterly unable to deal with the eventuality of their own death, which is fine. Paul and I have bought our lot in that cemetery because so far neither of us has been granted that much cherished Get Out of Death Free Card and neither of us is particularly upset by dealing with death related stuff. Our last fixed address has been settled on for a few years now.

����Paul was the one who chose the location of our lot, I didn't see it until a few months afterwards. And you know what my reaction was? Me, Little Ms. Agnostic I Don't Believe In An Afterlife When I Croak It's All Over ... that woman ...

����I turned to him and said, "But we won't be able to see our house from here." (He'd picked a lot in the lower section of the cemetery, we can't see that part because of trees.)

����I hate it when he rolls his eyes at me that way.

����We've also decided to spare folks the ordeal of lying about how good we look, because we've opted for Death, the Disco Inferno Mix.

����Yep, we're going for cremation, so one day all that will be left of me (after taking whatever can be recycled for organ donation) is a Bucket O' Extra Crispy Marn, eh.

����(I can't begin to tell you how much I wanted to write the phrase, "You want fries with that?" but really, that would have been gross and tasteless. So I didn't.)

����Did I mention I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'm the one who croaks first?

����I tell Paul that it's because I can't imagine having to live without him.

����I'm lying like a rug when I say that, of course.

����The truth is that I just don't have enough insurance on him to keep up a non-stop stream of wine, nubile young men, and song. No point in being a widow if you can't be a merry widow.

    And I can't even bump up his insurance now, of course, because he'd be on to me in a flash.

����Talk about your bad planning, eh.

--Marn

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