The Strange American Way of Death: Part III, Conclusion

Growing up around the poet of practicality, my wise Oakie dad, I imbibed gallons of home-brewed wisdom.  “The American burial business is sheer nonsense.”  When Pop died, mid-swing with a wedge about 100 yards from the 3^rd hole at Teton Lakes, we followed orders.  In June of 1998, the first Oakie funeral went down at Rexburg cemetery.

1. One particle board box;
2.  No Viewing;
3. Family burial [and golfing buddies Karl Edwards and Lee Gifford] before the memorial service;
4. A series of rather informal comments about this amazing man.

Cost?  An outrageous $2,200.  Later, in August of 2001, my mother followed Pop.  Same scenario.  Cost?  $4,400.

Last October, we buried our little Lonesome Dove.  One exception to earlier funerals: We did embellish and add programs.  Later that evening, we laughed and cried till midnight.   We were still munching on the famous anything-but-funeral dinner, provided by our dear friends, Don and Joan Hammar.  No green Jell-O. Scott Samuelson called the ceremony, “a work of art.” Quite a comment coming from a REAL artist. Alyn Andrus, my bishop when the stake organized the 15^th ward, called it “the best damn funeral I’ve ever attended.”
 

The cost of Carolyn's funeral?  $5,800.  “Inflation,” the man said.  “And I’ll need to take the dividends on your funeral policy [a maximum $4,400 package].”  The inflation rate was really zero, but the $2,200 low-ball affair had morphed into $5,800.

What am I trying to say here, folks?

1. There will be “inflation” whether there is or not.  Your “average" $12,000 funeral will soon be pushing $20,000. 
2. Buy a funeral package now—this afternoon and lock in a price.  Ask yourselves the painful question, “Just who is going to pay for this EVENT?  Your children?
3. Count the emotional costs: one uncomfortable hour of looking at a walnut or cherry wood box that distracts the congregation from the speakers.  Yes, a whole hour or more waiting for the final departure, the cutting loose, the “final” good-bye—the coffin in the ground. Do it earlier; put it--the “body--” which is NOT the person, in the ground.  
4. We buy coffins and plots “with a view of the Tetons” as if we were really in there.  No, the person has become an “it.”  The Spirit ascends.  She is NOT in the box, so why not particle board [no longer made in America; must be imported from—no, not China—but Canada.  Something is rotting in Denmark.
5. Bury early in death, then, and focus in LIFE on the good-byes.  Let your constant “view” of her be your most recent conversation, lingering hug, your heartfelt, “thanks for being in my life.”  We overdo what morticians cloyingly call, “closure.”  Get closure today.  What if  we loved each other and lived our lives as if it were our LAST DAY?  Let us heed Thoreau's warning, “live deliberately [so] that when we “come to die, we discover we had not lived.”
6. Finally, bury locally.  I have a friend whose wife wants both of them to be buried, “by tradition,” with countless former family member in another state.  They are NOT there; they are in the Other World. Why hang around a cemetery when you can see the stars up close, read all the books in the Trinity College library and climb the Grand Teton without fear of gravity?

I was deeply touched when so many came to say good-bye to my little Lonesome Dove.  I only wish that more had come on those long winter days to say hello.

Do the math.  Investing and even saving is a challenge these days.  Save for the future and buy your funeral today—in the cool of the day, without the burden of grief and, sometimes, a little guilt.  A walnut box and a $500 dollar spray of lilies won’t change much.

But what of respect for the dead?  The real reverence for those who are gone is locked in the vault of the human heart.  When you talk to your friend today, touch his arm, or tell her she radiates like the sun; squeeze his Little League muscles and say, “that’s my boy, my all star, no matter what ESPN says.”