8/16/05

view for the hilltop

Annette McDaniel

Remains at large

Some time ago, a close family friend died. It was not unexpected, for she was elderly and had been ill for some time. With your own loved one, however, a death is never timely—and I only relate this tale knowing that my friend would be amused.

Marion, the deceased, had no estate and only a small burial fund, so her two daughters had her cremated. The ashes were placed in a small wooden chest with a brass plate on the outside and a pouch for the death certificate on the inside of the lid. A sturdy plastic cover separated the paperwork from the ashes.

Because Marion died in California while living with the younger daughter, the girls planned a memorial service for later in the year in Kansas, where they had grown up. The California daughter would bring Mother home for the ceremony, and the ashes would be interred next to her husband, who had died many years before.

The date was set, and the few remaining friends and family were notified. The daughter in charge of Marion’s remains took a vacation with her best friend, starting a leisurely drive east. Time was not a factor, so the women, who were avid antique hunters, sought out small, out-of-the-way towns along the route to explore. They were to meet up with the older daughter and her husband in Colorado and caravan the rest of the way to Marion’s final resting place.

Then, in a small New Mexico town, a mere dot on the map, fate took a bizarre twist. As the women slept at the only available motel in town, thieves, noticing an out-of-state license plate, broke into the vehicle. They took the radio, CD player, Fuzz-Buster—and Marion.

The local sheriff and his deputy were friendly, compassionate, and concerned. They spent the next couple of days looking for clues as to who would desecrate a burial urn. Meanwhile, the tearful younger daughter had to explain to her sister what had occurred.

Two weeks later, the culprit was apprehended when he attempted to dispose of the CD player. When questioned, he admitted that he and a companion had briefly been in possession of Marion’s remains. “It looked like a jewelry chest,” he mumbled.

When they had broken open the box and discovered what they had stolen, they pitched it into the nearest dumpster. The lone garbage collector, who was also the town drunk, could not remember where he had disposed of that particular week’s collection.

Goodhearted residents, donning rubber gloves and paper masks, descended on the 30-acre plot at the edge of town. They spent several days sifting through the odoriferous debris, with no success.

When my mother told me of the abduction/theft, I thought, How horrible! How awful! Then I laughed until the tears flowed. I could not stop. Mom tried to keep it together, too, but to no avail. I was not surprised at her reaction, for she was the one who told the gentleman from Memorial Gardens that she was prepared for final interment because her children knew how to build a bonfire and she had a three-pound coffee can!

I only hope that when my turn comes I can bring such glee to those left behind. If, as I believe, death is a mere extension of life, let my departure be a joyful occasion, or even a hilarious event. If I’m wrong, then let’s all laugh like fools while we still have breath!

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© University of Kansas Medical Center, Center on Aging, August, 2005.