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 he
upcoming execution of Timothy McVeigh has inspired the usual chatter
about the death penalty, though that subject
will not detain
us long. Suffice it to say, in a country where you can get arrested
for smoking in a bar, handcuffed for not wearing a seat belt, thrown
out of school for possessing an Alka-Seltzer, and dumped on by the
Supreme Court for praying at an Alabama ball field, you should be
able to get yourself executed for blowing up 168 people. There's
no way McVeigh can get his due, of course, though he's getting off
far too easy with an injection. At the very least, he should be
ushered into the afterlife with the help of a roaring flamethrower.
The McVeigh
death-talk does bring to mind an issue of broader concern, however:
The serious decline in our post-mortem rituals — the way we
dispose of the body, corpse, remains, husk, mortal coil, etc. Solutions
are available, but first the downward trend is worth a closer look.
Burial was
once very much the noble norm. There was a poetic symmetry in returning
to the earth from which we came, and a haunting finality in the
sound of the first shovel of dirt smacking the coffin. Then came
the placement of the tombstone, with its dates and closing thought
etched in granite, followed by visitations by survivors, many of
whom spoke softly above the sod to those who lay beneath it.
Yet earth burial
lost much of its majesty when the funeral industry began digging
graves with backhoes. Some human activities — sex and grave-digging
being prominent examples — should never be undertaken with
anything but muscle-power (battery-powered devices are most definitely
included in this condemnation). One digs sewer lines with a backhoe.
For a human being, a hand-dug grave shows the proper respect. There
is also a pleasant bleakness in having a pair of muscatel-guzzling
gravediggers standing off by a tree as the Psalms are read, tending
their blisters and waiting to finish up the job.
Burial is further
debased by other developments. A recent newspaper report told of
how many funerals skip Bach in favor of a send-off by music from
rock bands such as Led Zeppelin, most famous for "Stairway
to Heaven." This development is twinned with the advent of
lifestyle-inspired coffins. The Central Florida Casket Company,
for example, sells a casket painted with a golfing motif called
Fairway to Heaven. Sunday golfing is a common practice, but up until
now it was generally overlooked when it came time to deposit the
duffer.
There's also
an AIDS theme: "With its striking red ribbon, this beautiful
casket makes a statement on behalf of the deceased, that each of
us can be an advocate in the support of research to find a cure.
With a common purpose and commitment, there is hope." The Return
to Sender model, meanwhile, is "Packed for the trip home. This
'Express Delivery' parcel is well suited to become a fitting epilogue
for one who has demonstrated the virtues of living life with a sense
of humor. Acuna Matata!" Down in my neck of the woods, they
will no doubt be lining up for The Race Is Over model: "The
checkered flag is down," the advertising material says: "This
well made, high performance casket places the auto racing fan in
the driver's seat for one last lap. Cool caskets for cool people."
Let's hope they're cool, or room temperature at the most.
I've got nothing
against making a buck, but when it comes to scuttling my hash, a
little solemnity is in order. That's why I'm opting for a Sky Burial,
an ancient practice associated with some Indian tribes. This is
a simple procedure: The corpse is hauled up on a dog- and rat-proof
platform (in my case, the platform will be 30 feet tall), where
it receives the eternal ministrations of sun, wind, rain, snow,
and crows. As something less than a purist I've requested a veil
of chicken wire to exclude the crows, but other than that it's going
to be little old me and the great big sky. My family has agreed
to the arrangements, and let the zoning board be damned.
Sky burial
isn't for everyone, and other options are available (besides cremation,
made noble by the Vikings, though diminished by Hitler). One can
have oneself stuffed and sold at auction, which is especially appropriate
for activists and celebrities, who could thus contribute to their
causes long after their demise. Barbra Streisand, for example, could
sell herself off on behalf of the Democratic party, her body perhaps
gracing the lobby of party headquarters. Chuck Heston could perhaps
spend eternity perched over the mantle at some rich guy's hunting
lodge, with proceeds going to the NRA.
As for McVeigh,
all these options are far too exalted. For him, another old Western
ritual comes to mind: Drag him through the desert behind horses
until the bastard disappears.
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