Parker Potter is a former archaeologist and historian, and a former lawyer. He is a semi-professional dog walker currently living and working in Contoocook.
A while back, Nancy Jo and I finally completed our estate planning documents. Our property is not the property of the prince, so its distribution is very simple. Still, it was a relief to be able to complete this long overdue mission. I've had several family members pass away recently, some of whom planned ahead better than others, so I'm glad I was prepared. Talk about crossing things off your bucket list.
Immediately after finishing estate planning, I wrote the obituary. do not worry. I plan to stay on this page for a while before moving to obits. I just wanted the survivors to do a little bit of work, but it turned out to be a lot of fun. Highly recommended. Who doesn't want to say the last word?
What happens after the news of my death comes out is that I grew up in a Catholic church with Sunday school and the whole nine yards. Along the way, I learned about heaven, hell, and all the heavenly pit stops. I read Chinese novels and learned about the Jade Emperor, Yellow Quan, and hungry ghosts.
But the ultimate destination of the non-physical part of me is far beyond my pay grade. My responsibility is what happens to my body when the rest of me no longer needs it.
Around here, the traditional place to rest disused bodies is the cemetery, and cemeteries are very interesting places. Three careers ago, when I was an archaeologist, I read an interesting study of images of death's heads, angels, willows, urns, etc. carved on New England tombstones from the 17th century to the 18th century.
When my family and I traveled to China, we were intrigued by the burial customs we saw. In Hong Kong, I saw densely packed Western-style cemeteries with tombstones arranged in a grid pattern. In the southern countryside, mainly through car windows, there were graves cut into hillsides, with entrances that looked like large horseshoes. In the northern countryside, we saw small burial mounds with stones and a tree or two in the midst of cornfields. There was definitely a lot of feng shui involved.
For years, I had intended to bury my body in the cemetery just down the street from my home. I even chose the quote “Custard Gone” for my tombstone. This is a line from a poem published in the university's literary magazine, which describes the scene in Asbury Park in the fall after a day of revelry. I was leaving.
I still love “The Custard Is Gone,” but Nancy Jo's long-standing interest in more natural ways of handling human remains has made me seriously reconsider sleeping soundly in the cemetery down the street. Ta.
First, I'd like to think I've lived a life where people don't need marble slabs or brass plaques to remember me. Additionally, in order to get the tombstone I had in mind, my body would have to be filled with embalming agents and placed in a sealed box. It sounds suspicious, like being locked up in a prison. eternally.
The more I thought about it, the more I became interested in returning my body to nature as quickly and directly as possible, perhaps nestled in the root system of a tree. Even if it had been scattered in a grassy field somewhere, the result would be the same.
The roots lift me up and turn me into stems and branches and leaves and flowers. The leaves I contributed eventually fall to the ground, become dirt, and keep spinning around. You can help create food and shelter for countless insects, birds, and mammals. By creating my own small version of Shel Silverstein's masterpiece, The Giving Tree, I was able to help create shade and building wood for others.
If I were released directly into nature, I wouldn't have to go to prison at all. The water cycle, the carbon cycle, and the life cycle of the plants I feed allow me to get anywhere. I could be anywhere. Become free.
Returning to nature as quickly as possible would also be beneficial to my survivors, and would also prevent them from seeing the waxy-looking husk lying in the coffin. And if I'm released back into nature instead of being sealed in a box planted in a vault six feet underground, my survivors won't have to come to the cemetery to visit me. I come to them floating in streams, passing by on the wind, buzzing among the pollen of bees' legs. Rest while moving.
