Who’s on first?

“Knock knock,” someone calls from outside my office door.

“Who’s there?” I laugh..

“Actually, Minister, it’s not a joke, sadly. It’s Marie here. May I come in?”

Marie oversees our little community cemetery. Our church is too small to maintain its own burial ground, so following funeral services we bury caskets and urns in the community Harbour View Cemetery. It’s a lovely spot, overlooking the harbour, a convenient place for family and friends to pay their respects to their deceased relations. Committals have occurred there for almost one hundred years, pioneers and paupers alike. It is filling up but is not yet full. At the rate we are going, however, that time may come, sooner rather than later when a “no vacancy” sign will be erected.

“Come on in, Marie. Do you want a coffee?”

“Sure that would be great. I need some of your time to work through a problem.”

I boil some water and find the ground coffee. Green Store brand; groan; It will have to do. As for sugar and cream . . .

“Do you take anything in it?” I ask.

“Just milk, please.”

I run upstairs to the kitchen, all the while wondering what her problem is. She looks more than a little stressed. Definitely no smile; bags under her eyes. I return to the office.

“Here you go. Now, what’s your problem? More fights in the killing fields?” (Dark humour I know. Just can’t resist when death is the topic of the day.)

“You, and I, have been awfully busy this past couple of weeks. And over Christmas too. I feel for the families who will relive their loss every Christmastime.”

“Life goes on for sure, but yes, bad timing,” I agree.

“Three committals in fourteen days. Rather a lot, you might say, for our little cemetery don’t you think?”

“Yes indeed,” I say. First there was John, a great guy, full of fun and a few stories to boot. Like when he was on the fire department and the truck ran out of gas heading to a burning barn. Whoops.

“I love how you conducted John’s ceremony,” she continues. “You stood at one end of the casket and claimed him for the Lord. The Legion got him in the middle, medals and all, and the Masons did their thing at the far end. Truly impressive; a model of community collaboration.”

“Not the way I prefer to do things, but once the service  moves from the church to the community graveyard, ceremonies get creative, though sometimes confusing,” I add.

Marie continues, “Then there was Shirley; I thought you did a marvellous job; a lovely, intimate graveside ritual. So much meaning. Deep. Spiritual. Christian.”

I like working with Marie; she’s thoughtful and kind, though a bit disorganized sometimes. “Thanks for the feedback, Marie. That means a lot to me. I often wonder how people receive what I can offer.”

“And finally, there was Marjorie,” Marie says.

I smile. “Yes, Marjorie. Such a lovely lady. Married to an old logger who must feel very lonely right now. Married about forty-five years if I recall correctly. Anyway, what’s the problem?”

“Well,” she said, looking very embarrassed, “I’m not sure where we put Marjorie.”

Deadpan, I exclaim: “You’re not sure where we put her!”

“Ah, no. She must be in one of two plots. I hope that you can remember which one.”

 “Don’t you make notes? Don’t you take pictures or draw something in the dirt? You’re professional aren’t you? Don’t you have forms to fill out or something? Don’t you enter the burial location in a register?” I can’t believe what I am hearing.

Marie is defensive. “Actually Mac and I are volunteers, so I am not a professional from a funeral home or an employee of a cemetery corporation. And no, small cemeteries like ours are not regulated, at least not right now.”

“Oh dear. Sorry, I have overreacted. Sorry . . . Well, let’s head over there and try to remember ‘who’s on first’ shall we?”

“Yes please,” she says eagerly.

 We walk through the village centre to Harbour View. Approximately forty or so markers sit atop family or individual plots, some in good repair, others in various states of neglect. The problem with cemeteries arises from what is (or is not) done years after the committal. You definitely get what you pay for. Commercial facilities in larger communities will charge many thousands of dollars for plot access and upkeep. Access to Harbour View costs a mere fraction of that. Harbour View is a bargain—with conditions attached.

Three plots were heaped with a foot of so of dirt. It takes a few weeks for soil to settle; once level, markers will only then be placed and secured. I immediately remember where John was placed. There were so many participants, and I can still visualize the Masonic whoops and calls. No problem identifying his final resting place.

I have no clear memory however of which woman was placed in the remaining two plots. There is no telltale feature associated with either committal — a plant or tree, a nearby rise, or a ditch, nothing.

Thinking about it, both women were similar in character, in lifestyle, and in kindness; hopefully, they are also forgiving souls, laughing from far up yonder.

So why don’t we just decide? That’s all we can do, I think to myself. We are not going to exhume a body, that’s for sure. Everyone is the same anyway — we all live, work, and play in the space between birth and death. We have no control over the timing and circumstances of our birth. And apart from the negative health effects of reckless living, we cannot determine the time and circumstances of our death. For everything in between, we are caretakers, of ourselves, and of each other.

I know, I’m preaching again, but families and friends would like to know where the earthly remains of those departed are located; they deserve to know. This is a big “whoops” moment for sure.

“So Marie, what do you suggest we do?” I ask.

“We could flip a coin.”

“Or how about a game of darts,” I propose. “Closest to the bulls eye decides the matter.”

“How about ‘rock, paper, scissors,’ best out of three?”

The possibilities are endless it seems. In the end, we make a decision—I will not say how—with compassion, discretion, and respect, and with a modified prayer:

Rest eternal faithful souls; wherever you are.

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Another chapter in the series Stories from Somewhere, fictional reflections of an unidentified place at an unknown time. Other chapters are listed here.