The Ultimate Lay Away Plan

Somehow the mass marketing industry has found out my age bracket—don’t ask me how—and they send me what they consider to be targeted sales pitches. These tell me reams about what they think about me and what they think is important to me.

The brochures for motorized wheel chairs and hearing aids tell me that I must be on the decline. The offers of dinners to listen to some financial guru means that the marketers think I have some disposable income they can separate me from. That impression is confirmed by the time share offers, the latest one allowing me two weeks a year at a Vail condo for $250,000—for life, the brochure breathlessly says. Wow. I don’t include here the well-meaning offers from the folks at the local senior center who want to offer me ball-room dance lessons, crafts, and the occasional bus ride to go gambling. They after all are not trying to sell to me in the same way. But there are plenty of others lurking behind the banner of providing me with help whether I need it or not.

Of all these offers to help fill my golden years, however, the one that amazes me the most comes from the cemeteries. They obviously believe that I have one foot in the grave and that it will not be long before the rest of me follows.

The pitch from the cemeteries is something they call pre-need. That has to be the ultimate lay away plan. Now, I am an old English teacher, and the logic of the language requires that there be a post-need. This perplexes me. Need I can understand: I have managed to launch myself off a cliff at a ski resort and did not live to tell the tale. Pre-need I assume means figuring out in advance that I might get on one of the double-diamond runs by mistake and that my family might have to do something with what is left of me. But post-need? Does that mean I should buy insurance so that I do not get dug up after the fact either because my family can’t pay or because the city wishes to redevelop the land as it did with Cheeseman Park? The brochures do not have much to answer my questions.

The cemeteries, in fact, all send brochures designed to be soothing. After all, they are asking me to consider things that are generally left to the family. Funerals are for the families. Most of the dearly departeds couldn’t care less. But we are now told, the responsibility for our funeral is ours—not in the sense of arranging for one glorious, gilt-edged ego trip, but to “save” our families from having to make decisions when they are grieving. I’d actually be more worried about families arranging funerals when they are jubilant. But that’s me.

Needless to say, I am not a sale.

All this talk of moving on has, however, made me consider what I would like at the time of need. I like the idea of going out like a valkyrie. Load all my stuff on a boat, put me on top, set it on fire, and shove it out to sea. The Viking way. I realize, however, that there are environmental, maritime, and public health ordinances against this. Too bad. It would have been a very nice blaze.

Since I can’t go out like a Viking, I would like to say to the cemeteries that I do not want your psuedo-sympathy or your rip-off pre-planning. I do not want your eternal flames or side by side urns. I do not want the choice grave sites with a view that you so kindly offer me. I do not want memorials or cherubs or crosses. I do not want flowers. In fact, I do not want anything that will cost this poor old earth we live on any more of its resources.

If I can’t go out like a Viking just cremate me and scatter the ashes where they will do the least harm. I do make one request, however, please don’t store me in the back of a closet as the family has done to my ex mother-in-law. I’d much prefer to blow with the wind somewhere out on the infinity of the plains.