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Those Things They Buried:
You Can Take It with You
by Scott Saalman
Last year, Grandma Lil’, my mother’s mother, died.
She was 89 and had been holed up in a nursing home for far too long. It was a death mourned, yet one too that, based on her dwindling quality of life, brought relief to us all—it was one of those deaths.
At the funeral home, before the lid was closed and sealed, I witnessed my crazy uncles put two items in the coffin: five Hoyle playing cards fanned in her right hand (Jack of hearts, Jack of diamonds, Queen of hearts, King of hearts and Ace of hearts, the perfect Euchre hand if hearts is trump—a loner); and a cold can of beer smuggled in from the nearby K of C.
Now before you hastily judge what my uncles did as lowbrow, keep in mind that the writer Christopher Buckley, as reported in his new memoir, “Losing Mum and Pup,” buried his father with a jar of his favorite peanut butter, along with his wife’s ashes and a TV remote control. You’d be hard pressed to name someone more highbrow than the Buckleys.
A rosary, in my grandmother’s left hand, was pressed to her chest.
The grandsons were pallbearers.
We carried our grandmother through the cemetery rain. The ground was a muddy mess. The dress shoes, worn by my brother Pat, were sucked from his feet by muck when he veered off course, as if the dead below played a practical joke. Seeing him straining with only his white socks showing in the mud caused my grief-stricken mother to laugh with surprise and exclaim, “Patrick lost his shoes.” A few others chuckled. At least something good came from Pat’s misfortune.
The coffin lowered as Grandma Lil’ staked claim to her predestined six feet, which is one of life’s few guarantees.
Today, I still think about those other things buried with Grandma Lil’: her rosary, her cards, her beer.
I still think she would have approved.
Those three items summed up her simple life. Before the nursing home, she was a devout churchgoer and a fierce, lifelong Euchre player; and all through my life, rarely did I see her without a beer. She was that kind of grandmother. She enjoyed her life.
It was the perfect send-off for her, put into play by my crazy uncles, the gesture done with the utmost respect for their dead mother.
I think about my own inevitable dirt nap now, one that hopefully won’t begin for at least four more decades, pending my quality of life. What items summing up my life should be placed in my coffin?
Here’s my list.
• My worn paperback copy of “The Stories of John Cheever,” the best short story collection ever. My all-time favorite story written by anyone is in there, “The Swimmer,” which I first read on Easter break during college in 1987. I have read it every Easter since. Why stop? You might as well throw in “The Short Stories,” by Ernest Hemingway, too. Both books, more than any others, continuously remind me why I have always wanted to write. While you’re at it, toss in the first Scholastic book I ever ordered from school, Arnold Lobel’s “Frog and Toad Are Friends,” which hooked me on reading. It’s very thin and won’t take much room.
• A bag of Scrabble tiles. The hours spent playing Scrabble are some of the fondest hours spent here on Earth, my opponents some of my fondest people.
• My indoor XM radio. I can’t imagine living without satellite radio. Without it, how will I be able to rest in peace?
• A picture of my son and daughter in the same photo, both smiling. There might be one in existence. There is a five-year age difference between my offspring, so seldom are their smiles synchronized. If you find such a photo, I want a copy. Show me I’ve been a good dad.
• All my Van Morrison CDs. There’s no better singer-songwriter than “Van the Man.” I have 20-some of his releases. His latest, “Astral Weeks Live at The Hollywood Bowl,” is heaven to my ears. Maybe I’ll simply download all his songs to my iPod. If so, the mp3 player can replace the bulky XM radio to conserve coffin space.
• A pillowcase with that perfume scent I love, to make me feel un-lonely.
• A rosary, for superstitious reasons. Who knows?—maybe that string of beads is the big key. Someone will have to buy me one, though. Or at least run a thread through my Scrabble tiles. I have long believed Scrabble was sent here from heaven.
• And finally, a trusty crowbar…just in case I change my mind about the whole damn death thing.
Who says you can’t take it with you?
OK, so my casket will need to be a bit bigger than Grandma Lil’s.
If space is an issue, remove my shoes.
You can give them to my brother Pat, a potential pallbearer. He might need a back-up pair, especially if it rains. I hope it does rain. It seems easier to leave in the rain.
copyright © 2012 by Scott Saalman
Scott Saalman writes a monthly humor column for The Herald in Jasper, Indiana. His essays also appear frequently on The Trend talk show, which airs on PBS radio station WNIN in Evansville, Ind. His short stories and essays have been published in various literary journals and magazines. His essay, Cider Day, appeared in an anthology of Indiana writers, called Home Again: Essays and Memoirs From Indiana (Indiana Historical Society Press, 2006). His essay, Swing Shift Kisses, was published in the nationally-released book, This I Believe: On Love (Wiley, 2010). He is creator of Will Read For Food, a stage show that mixes his essays with songs performed by local musicians, which raises food and monetary donations for the food bank in Jasper, Indiana.
