Perpetual Care

Late last week, I was driving over Moose Hill, slowly, with the windows down and the radio off on a beautiful clear October morning. There are times when just driving through can put me in a reflective mood. The bright sun was slanting through the trees as I passed the white pine plantation I visited earlier this summer and pondered where I might want to be buried (See “Stolen Moments,” June 13, 2006.). Now, I’m not a morbid person, prone to frequently contemplating my own death, even though a few of my posts have touched on this. Maybe it was that call from the doctor telling me to make an appointment to discuss some test results. Anyway, the crisp light through the deep green boughs striking the soft brown bed of needles reminded me about my earlier thoughts about a final resting place. I’ve written about my fantasies of finding a new place to spend the rest of my days (See “Could I Live Here?,” August 21, 2006.). I also sometimes think about where I might want to spend eternity.

A short while later, on the return trip I decided to take a road that passes a couple of cemeteries. I could logically wind up in one of them. There has always been something about this place that made me vaguely uneasy, but not for the obvious reasons, and I am beginning to understand why. The road takes me past the maintenance garage. I go by there once a week or so, and I see the maintenance crews coming and going, buzzing back and forth in their trucks and gasoline-powered golf carts. I see them with their stand-up power mowers, their two-cycle weed whackers and their big yellow backhoes. All headstones are flush with the ground, not to show that we are all equal in death, but to facilitate mowing. Irrigation, fertilizers and herbicides no doubt keep the grass green. Even death is powered by internal combustion.

For the record, I’m a guy. I like power tools. Some of my best friends are power tools. I recently bought a new chain saw that I love to wield in a studly way. That doesn’t mean I don’t consider the ramifications of ubiquitous machinery use. I’ve pondered the way so much of our daily routine is dependent on gas-powered equipment (See “Hornets from Hell,” May 13, 2006.). We plant lawns so large we must hire landscape crews to mow them. We pave driveways so long we must hire snowplows to clear them. Do we need to be burning fossil fuel to mow our graves? Forever?

I don’t know what happens when we’re gone. Maybe the closest we get to heaven is that we’ve done some good in this life, we didn’t hurt too many people too badly and that we are remembered with fondness and love. I’m old fashioned in that I like the idea of being buried in a special place and that someone may visit someday. Perhaps they will leave a small stone to mark their visit. I hope it will be in a place where they can sit and think about life, think about the world, and not be disturbed by the sound and smell of roaring engines.