The Great Beyond

…in which Uncle Duke looks into this dying thing.

It has come to my attention that I may, at some point, die. It is a preposterous notion, I realize, given my current state of vigor and vitality. But I am assured, on good authority, that it is quite inevitable.

Now I can’t say I ever actually considered myself immortal; but at the same time, I’ve never actually contemplated the final act, the curtain going down, the fat lady singing, checking out. And I have not yet grasped its full significance. But I will allow that it is worthy of some consideration, on a number of levels. If for no other reason, I’d like my wake done right. The way I understand it, you only get to do it once. It’s not like a wedding or something.

A wake is not something you want planned by guys who wear blue suits and drive black cars to work everyday. Nor do you want to give an absolutely free hand to your significant other, the one who continually tries to give away your favorite sport coat before you die. It is a very individual thing, Death. We all live highly individualistic, highly personalized lives, rich in texture and nuance and theme. And then our deaths, our final send-off, our big going away party, comes out of a cookie cutter.

Well not this corpse. I have some strong opinions on how we treat our most silent majority, and I demand a voice in my own final party. I am the host, after all.

First of all, no chemicals. I was born with blood in my veins and I’d just as soon go out that way. Here I’ve been recycling and composting all these years, and I want to become Class II Hazardous Waste when I’m buried? I don’t think so! Consequently, this will be a one-night gig. I don’t intend for this to be a farewell tour. So all my out-of-town friends better book early.

I do intend to be buried, by the way. Fire has never been a comforting prospect for me. I don’t identify with ashes. On the other hand, I have always had a strong affinity for dirt. There is something very appealing about returning to the earth. We are all mostly comprised of organic molecules which come directly from the Earth and are constantly passing through us. In the end, we don’t own any of the stuff that we are made of. It is all borrowed material we’ve used to make cells with. Death is just the completion of the cycle. We just go back to where we came from. So the thought of my remains being broken down and taken up and becoming tree bark and deer antlers and sweet corn is appealing to me and entirely consistent with my views of a rich and satisfying after-life. In some ways I’m looking forward to it.

Which brings me to the subject of caskets. It is unconscionable to me that we bury our dead in elaborate and expensive vaults, airtight and watertight. And then we put the whole shebang in a concrete vault, lined with copper or stainless steel. In the event of a direct nuclear hit, our dead are well protected. But what’s the point here? We destroy ecosystems to make mahogany and teak and bronze caskets to bury our dead in. You want a real good definition for vanity and arrogance? That one works for me.

I myself would prefer a pine box. It’s cheap and plentiful. Scrap lumber would be better yet.. Even cardboard would be acceptable, I suppose. Lord knows there’s enough of it around we can’t figure out what to do with. But actually, the thought of being laid out in my living room with Frigidaire running the length of my final resting place is aesthetically unpleasing. No, a pine box would be fine. And it will serve a dual purpose as my friends will no doubt all be overcome with grief and for not being nicer to me while I was alive and ask if they can do anything. This will give them something to do. They’ve got all those fancy tools they never use anyway. And it will give them something to think about. There are a lot of little decisions to make---what kind of joints to make, screws or nails, how would old Duke like it lined… blah, blah, blah. Good craftsmanship and attention to detail would be appreciated, though I’m aware of the temporal constraints. Do the best you can.

And one more thing. The guys at the hardware store will try and talk you into Wolmanized. Thanks anyway. Untreated is fine. I’d like to get this decomposition thing going as soon as possible. It sounds liberating to me. I have no intention of being reincarnated, at least in this body. My knees are shot, my teeth are worn out and my athlete’s foot fungi give every indication that they will outlive me, no matter how many times I come back.

Yes, by the way, I do intend on having the wake at my house. Death is the most personal of things, and it is best done in your own home. You spend all those years paying for it---why rent space? And I would be more relaxed there. Parking could be a problem. The street is not really set up for such huge crowds. But a nice, brisk walk would do my relatives good. And my friends could all use the exercise. Unless I outlive them. In which case, they shouldn’t care much.

Transportation is another issue. The traditional hearse has never done much for me. I’ve never said: “Boy, I can’t wait to ride in one of those!” It is a gas-guzzler, and it looks so damn somber. I bet they don’t let you ride in it for free either. No really, if I want to ride in a limo, I’ll rent one for my birthday. For my funeral, it seems to me a pick-up is made to order. Just slide me in the back of my truck there. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ll get cold or anything.

Now how does one dress for one’s own wake? Generally I prefer casual, but it does seem that for your final bash, your big bon voyage, you ought to bring out your best. Why hold back? It’s your last chance to look good. I say, pull out all the stops. If you own a tux, wear it. If you don’t, consider renting. You only die once.

There are so many details and so little time. I really should have begun this a long time ago. They say it’s never too late. But the point is, I guess, that at some point it is too late. Death creeps up and we largely deny it and defend against it and treat it like an alien. We fear our own demise almost as much as we fear getting old. It doesn’t make sense of course, our fear of the inevitable, but we do it anyway. Out of force of habit. Which is the same way we treat our wakes. We back into them with our eyes squinched tight. The last thing on our lists, we never get around to the planning. We allow strangers to take over our final task.

Well friends, consider this my Last Will and Testament. I’m no smarter than anybody else, so I’ll probably never get around to the real kind. You are all my Witnesses here. I am within some nominal and legal bounds of sanity. Let it be known that my eyes are wide open. My wishes are hereby and forthwith printed above in black and white. And they are that I close it out with an exclamation point. When I buy the farm, I want it done right, with style and the proper amount of taste. You’re all invited. Did I mention it was BYO? Where’s a Notary when you need one?