I experienced a memorable moment in my life last week, right up there with an F in college algebra, my first root canal, and the time my Volkswagen Beetle blew a piston during rush hour on the New Jersey Turnpike – I bought my tombstone.
I’d prefer to believe that death is what happens to other people, but when my time comes, in my vanity, I want to be buried underneath a twelve-foot, weeping marble angel, carved in Italy, holding my limp body in her marble arms. I’m thinking about that statue of the “David” by Michaelangelo in the Vatican, before that crackpot attacked it with a hammer. I saw it before and afterwards, and the repair work was amazing.
Or maybe have my grave topped with a stone effigy like the kings and queens buried in Westminster Abbey. More down to earth, my wife wants to be buried by her twin sister who has passed away, and at their family cemetery over in rural Walthall County, so my options are limited. Specifically, since my sister-in-law, a retired schoolteacher, was very frugal and bought the cheapest tombstone possible, I didn’t want to show her up and had to buy one just like hers – twin Georgia granite stones, one for her and one for her husband, joined together with a crock pot for flowers in the middle. The salesman over at Foxworth said “not to worry,” however. He said that he had been in the business for over forty years and this “economy” model was the local best seller, five times as popular than anything else. So much for “standing out” in the crowd. I have guaranteed anonymity for eternity.
In many ways, buying a tombstone reminded me of buying an automobile. I have nothing against those who sell cars; in fact, I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I really should have been a used car salesman, but once you walk on the lot, there are so many things to consider. For example: what type of granite do you want? That pure black, high dollar stuff comes from India. How big of a “monument” (never a “tombstone”) do you want? How big is your burial plot? How far away is it? “We charge by the mile for delivery.” What information do you want “pre-engraved” on the stone before your death? What “image” best represents your life (The salesman showed me a stone being engraved with commercial chicken houses, owned by a successful local chicken farmer)? Do you want a stone urn for flowers built into the monument? If so, how many? Do you want a colored picture of yourself permanently affixed to the monument? At what age? What about solar lights? A bench? A repository for jewelry or other keepsake? A white, chipped marble “topping?” Wind chimes? The list goes on. At this point I’m thinking, let’s add some dual exhausts, mudflaps, and maybe a satellite radio. You never know. I halfway expected him to offer me an eternal flame, but I guess I’ve never seen a propane gas delivery truck in a graveyard.
When I told the salesman that I didn’t want a vault, he said, “You know the weight of the earth might crush your casket?” I replied, “You know that I will be dead and won’t care. It will just speed up the natural process.” The phrase, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” which you often hear at funerals, especially graveside, well sums up what happens to your body. Some may be surprised, but the Bible doesn’t exactly say those words. They come from the Anglican or Church of England Book of Common Prayer, published in 1549. What the Bible says is in Genesis 3:19 when God tells Adam and Eve that, because of their sin, he is throwing them out of the Garden of Eden: “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Regarding a vault, I didn’t see any need for my mortal remains to be protected from a nuclear explosion. If my grave caves in, as the salesman warned it might, surely one of my relatives will just drop a dump truck load of gravel on top of it.
Picking out the stone turned out to be the easy part. Now we had to decide what went on it. We had to make some decisions then because the stone would be suitable engraved and placed on site in the cemetery as soon as it arrived from the quarry. The only thing missing would be our death dates, which would be stenciled and sandblasted on by a private contractor. Having it in place would also prevent some stranger from parking him or herself beside my sister-in-law.
We were asked, “What image best represents your life, and what do you want for your epitaph?”
Thinking about the chicken farmer’s image of the chicken houses, I was trying to think of something appropriate when, again, my wife, as always, the voice of reason, spoke up and said, “As a retired teacher, I would like an open book, representing knowledge and education, carved on mine.” Inspired, the salesman listed some possibilities: the skull and crossbones (death is inevitable and the great equalizer); the weeping willow (symbolizes mourning and sorrow); the hourglass (your time has run out); a lamb (innocence and youth – probably a non-starter for me); a dove (peace: gone, but in a peaceful way); and clasped hands (depends on how to interpret it – could mean “goodbye,” “hello,” “welcome,” etc.) None of these did anything for me, so I suggested an anchor for obvious reasons: my life’s work, a Christian symbol, etc.
He saved the most difficult question until last: “What do you want carved on the stone for your epitaph?” I immediately had visions of crowds of people gathered around my tombstone, awe stricken and marveling at the immortal words I’d chosen. A Sunday afternoon family destination. A tourist attraction rivaling Marion County’s mini–Grand Canyon, Red Bluff, located just a few miles away. Visions of the “Great American Novel” condensed to one line flashed through my mind. While my thoughts were racing, my always practical wife spoke up for herself. She said, “How about ‘She loved and was loved?’”
Standing there, it wasn’t that simple for me. A lifetime of success, failure, heartbreak, happiness, and a mental montage of experiences flashed through my mind. This is so important. How do you sum up a life in a few words? What words do you want accompanying you into eternity or at least until the next hurricane buries your tombstone under the nearest oak tree?
I thought about “Hello, darkness, my old friend,” but I’m a Christian, and that sounds so “terminal.” Besides, that’s the first line to Simon and Garfunkel’s song, “The Sound of Silence” (1964), and that’s a time of my life that I’d just as soon forget.
Then, some Shakespeare popped into my head, and I thought maybe I was on to something. After Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark dies in a bloodbath, his friend, Horatio, says farewell to him in Act 5, Scene 2: “Goodnight, sweet prince.” The full quote is “Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince, and flight of angels sing thee to thy rest.” I dismissed that, however, as just too phony, even for me.
Then I thought about an excerpt from one of my favorite poems, “Requiem” (1880), by Robert Lewis Stevenson. The final stanza reads:
This is the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor,
Home from the sea, and the
Hunter home from the hill.
And this is the excerpt that I thought of placing below my name and dates of birth and death:
... HOME IS THE SAILOR, HOME FROM THE SEA
As I pondered this momentous (for me) decision, two random thoughts crossed my mind, and which put the whole exercise into perspective: Robert Lewis Stevenson’s last words: “What’s that? Do I look strange?” and Rodney Dangerfield’s epitaph: “There goes the neighborhood.” It’s also good to remember that, in a generation or two, whatever monument you put up might fall out of favor, like Confederate statues, and someone will tear it down.
I should probably just donate my body to the William Carey medical school for the benefit of science. The problem is, I taught there for several years, and someone might recognize me, floating around, naked, in a vat of formaldehyde or whatever they preserve cadavers in. They would die laughing. I also doubt there’s much a fledging medical student could learn from this worn-out, run-down body, except maybe something philosophical, or even theological – like “the wages of sin are death,” or “you reap what you sow.” On the other hand, they might use my body for some ground-breaking research on how someone so ugly could live so long.
To be honest, I would prefer the simple, flat, granite gravestone that has been provided free of charge to retired military personnel and eligible veterans off and on since World War I and which was reinstated in 1994. I obtained one for my father, a World War II veteran, in 1997. The inscribed data is minimal but sufficient: the member’s name, rank, branch of service, dates of birth and death, major conflict served in (if any) and a religious symbol of their choice. The stone arrives by commercial freight line, stands about four feet tall, and is very heavy. No base is provided, and it must be installed by the next of kin. An alternative bronze plaque is also available. Your local Veteran’s Administration Office can provide the details, or you can go online.
There’s also a book that everyone should read if you haven’t already: “The American Way of Death” (1963), by Jessica Mitford. It was a number one best seller and was extensively updated in 1997. Either one of these books will cause you to rethink how we treat death in America and could save you thousands of dollars.
About that Volkswagen Beetle on the New Jersey Turnpike - around 1970, in the dead of winter, just outside Jersey City, I was headed back to my ship in Boston, and my old Bug gave out a puff of smoke, lost power, and barely rolled into the breakdown lane. I stood by the car, in uniform, knowing that the engine was toast, wondering what to do, and a long, black Cadillac pulled in behind me, and three gentlemen in dark suits got out. Now this was long before the movies, “The Godfather” and “Goodfellows,” came out, but I knew the Mafia when I saw them. I figured I was a goner. We chatted a bit; soon a tow truck showed up; my car was towed to the nearest VW dealership; I was put up in a motel across the street; my car was repaired the next day, and I was on the road to Boston. I never paid a nickel. Go figure. Obviously, I didn’t have any money, but I guess the military uniform saved me. I suppose that even “made men” can also be patriots.
Over my many years in the Navy, I lived in San Diego, California, a total of eleven years; however, I was hardly ever there as my home address was Fleet Post Office, San Francisco, CA, to reflect the three different ships I was assigned to. San Diego is a city of many parks. In one, there is a granite statue of an oversized book carved with the final verses of Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” which basically says that we are writing our own epitaphs every day simply by the way we live. Let me leave you with this thought: in that passage, the angel, Michael, reminds Adam, and, in turn, readers – about the path to true happiness.
Then wilt thou not be loath/
to leave this paradise,
but shall possess/
a paradise within thee,
happier far.
Light a candle for me.
—
Benny Hornsby of Oak Grove is a retired U.S. Navy captain. Visit his website, bennyhornsby.com, or email him: villefranche60@yahoo.com.
