I’m in no rush here, but before I kick it, I’d like to find a place to be buried, somewhere to rest my bones that I can call my own. And in that place they will hoist a plumb-straight headstone, a slab sculpted in the style of Howard Roark, a final crown of polished marble, clean lines springing up from my skull, stamped with a sans-serif epigram, chiseled dates that span centuries: 1974-20??
If that doesn’t happen, I’ve got a few fallback options.
There’s the family plot in Jeanette, Pennsylvania, the churchyard where I always figured I’d end up. I’ve even come close to giving the congregation a call to find out how one goes about making a reservation. Nothing wrong in adding another link to the familial chain of being, to be cradled near great-grandmothers never known. And it would be neat to have my casket walked on by future cousins twice-removed, to have children point to the ground and ask: “Who was this one?” (“I don’t know, dear. I don’t know…”)
Another option is cremation and scattering. It’s convenient and practical and I’ve always had a happy spot back in the woods, in the Cuyahoga parkland to the south and east of Peninsula, Ohio that would do just fine. I’ve got a few forever friends that know it well, who could find it again and guide you there. Trust them when asked to leave the cars unattended, to jump a gate and wander down disused gravel drives. There I’d soon merge with stream-valley sycamores, stealing sun, deep-rooted to the sandstone earth.
Locally, there’s still a lot space available ‘midst the founding fathers of South Dakota, many of whom have been laid to rest in a sprawling cemetery just a few miles north. Adventurous gentleman, confidants of fortune-seeking hucksters and rogues, they’d be fine spectral company. Undoubtedly, their tombs are well-stocked with tales that can now be told, such as would make for an entertaining eternity.
But here’s the problem with all of that:
It’s looking back, eyes to the past, blind to the the mysteries yet to unfold, of the greater things that shall come to be. The blessings of the present are good, are more than sufficient. But I’ve got this hunch that there are risks still to take, unexpected opportunities ahead. There will indeed be further dancing lessons from God.
So ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But when it comes to my time of dying, bury me not where I used to be, but were I got off to, where my best work will surely be done.
I’ll see you there.
In the meantime, here’s the song for today, a solo acoustic guitar take on “In My Time of Dyin'” — something I first heard from Bob Dylan, who picked it up and passed it on. I tried to ape a little Daniel Lanois production on this: 1 guitar + 4 mics = endless sonic options.
The last few months have taken too many from us. To Dave, Greg, Landon, Wayne, Barry, and MC. With every take, I was thinking of you.
