It was sometime in the ‘60s—post-Beatles, pre-Woodstock—that my sister was all riled up about what a huge waste of land burial sites were. With a sense of foot-stomping authority usually reserved for dictators, she laid claim to the fact that all told, cemeteries in these United States took up land equal to the size of Connecticut.
I chose not to engage in her discussion as I was not interested. Also, this was in a time before Google and to gather the information that might be needed to refute her declaration would have taken the better part of a day. It would have meant going to a library and searching painstakingly through the library’s index and then locating the books and finding the answer to said question.
Again, I was not interested.
Given my preoccupation with death and all that goes with it, I knew it was only a matter of time before the subject might arise. Indeed, I happened to find a photograph I took at the Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague, Czech Republic, and I started wondering if my sister’s argument had any merit. The last burial at the Old Jewish Cemetery took place in 1786. Years before, in 1478, another Jewish cemetery was closed; its excavated land becoming what would be called New Prague.
Maybe there was a land shortage and, if so, might the U.S. also be running out of space to bury its dead?
I felt a sense of urgency to discover answers. In fewer than thirty minutes or so, I found out that there are approximately 3.5 million acres in Connecticut and today, so many years after my sister’s posit, I learned that approximately 144,000 acres across the country are devoted to providing a final home for the deceased. Surely there were fewer acres dedicated to the deceased then than there are now. Even if all American cemeteries were in the predominately Presbyterian Connecticut, there’d still be room for the state to supply the world with all the nutmeg we’d ever need.
Land use is no longer much of an issue. Fewer and fewer of us are choosing burial as a final option, instead, going the cremation route or being hoisted high in the air on an elk’s hide to rot under the summer’s sun. Only a handful of us will have our cadavers pushed to sea in a burning boat—kind of an at-sea cremation inspired by the Vikings.
Jews, we are told, are to be buried before the first sundown following our death. We are also told not to eat pork or shellfish. At a local restaurant the other day, three of us Jews had clam chowder soup. There was bacon.
Not to be too maudlin, but I’ve been wrestling with my wishes about my final resting place.
Burial appeals to me only to the extent that I’d get a tombstone that I could use to inscribe with some final dash of wit and/or wisdom. I’m also claustrophobic and afraid of being buried alive. I know the argument that I’d be dead (unless I’m not) and that there’s nothing more to do than just slowly turn to dust.
But the dust would most likely be trapped in a satin-lined casket and therefore not available to replenish the earth.
Although only three states require that the dead be in some kind of container, the funeral industry presses hard to sell caskets, frequently using sales tactics that make the next-of-kin feel like schmucks because they opted for the pine box.
Fire is another one of my fears. That brings into question cremation. Again, I know I’ll be dead and I’ll not feel anything (unless I do). The problem is that I’m making these decisions while I’m alive and it sends shivers up my spine.
Under no circumstances do I want to be embalmed. I remember the smell of formaldehyde from freshman-year biology. Why anybody would wish to be preserved like a laboratory frog is beyond me.
The idea of turning my death into a crime that a few of my friends could commit appeals to me. They could get together and steal my body from wherever it is and then transport it to some mountain ridge where the bears and the magpies could consider me dinner. Over time, there would be nothing left of me but bones—bones that would be found by some curious archeologist and pondered for several months. Perhaps I’d have been covered with a millennia or two worth of dirt, much like the woolly mammoths.
To be part of scientific discovery appeals to me.
My sister stuck to her disdain of cemeteries and willed her body to science. She had a rather grandiose vision about what her death would provide to the world of medicine. But rather than providing any insights as to how the brain worked (as was her hope), she became a practice body to somebody on the way to becoming a doctor.
But the real benefit of bequeathing your body to science is that when you die, a phone call brings the meat wagon to pick up the deceased and deliver it to some scientific institution. There are no charges for anything once the plan is in effect.
Granted, there are no ashes to put on the mantle; nor are there any comforting words about the deceased that may come up during a funeral.
I don’t want to be buried just so my friends come and lay the occasional flower or wreath against the tombstone. I’m going with the science program. I’m instructing my survivors to erect a tombstone somewhere with some pithy remark that will reflect on a life I’m glad I had.
I just hope that I have enough time left to come up with a suitably entertaining comment.
Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska
Mushrooms on Toast
This is a wonderful appetizer, full of the meaty taste of the mushrooms.
2 Tbs. unsalted butter, more as needed
1 pound thinly sliced portobello or cremini mushrooms
1 tsp. chopped fresh thyme
2 small garlic cloves, minced
Salt and pepper
Splash of sherry or Marsala (optional)
¼ cup crème fraîche
4 thick slices country bread, toasted and each slice cut into four points
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
Heat a wide skillet over high heat and add butter, swirling pan. When butter begins to sizzle, add mushrooms and cook over medium heat, stirring, until lightly browned, 6 to 8 minutes.
Add thyme and garlic, and stir to coat. Season well with salt and pepper and continue to sauté for a minute more, then add sherry, if using. Add crème fraîche and let mixture simmer for 2 minutes.
Meanwhile, toast bread slices until golden. Lightly butter them and place on individual warm plates.
Spoon mushrooms and juices over toast points. Top with chopped parsley.
As per usual, a delightful Sunday morning read. I do wonder how “shivers u my spine” became a negative. I find those shivers very stimulating, almost erotic. It is indeed a wonderful world.