Living across from a cemetery, and on the upper floor of a
high-rise, keeps one in constant awareness of death. This is not a morbid kind
of awareness, especially after a time, but an awareness that we are mortal—truly
mortal. After the initial gravity of this situation, and after some time of
observation, the rhythms and patterns of death rituals become familiar. There
comes a realization that there are folks who deal with these matters on a very
daily basis. For them it may be just a job or a career or it might be a service
to the community.
The comings and goings of friends and family are as varied
as each individual demonstration of grief—bowed heads, hasty or weary walks
into the chapel, lingering in the cold or heat near the mausoleums, racing to
exit the cemetery, parking by the curb near the headstones, slow walks behind
caskets. One day nearly all of the roads were lined with the colorful and shiny
cabs of big rigs gleaming in the sunlight—uncharacteristically cheerful in the plain
place of expiry. Upon departure, each cab in turn let out a blast of horn as
they exited the wide garden of eternal rest. All of these things are the human stuff
of death rituals.
But what of the tools, the processes, the requirements to
prepare for such occasions? A crisp winter’s day drew particular attention to
this in a new process that was observed. A rather large flatbed truck, with a gray
lawn crypt strapped onto it, rolled heavily into the cemetery. The bulk of the
crypt was a plain, deep box, but on top was a more ornate beveled cover. The
backhoe man had already done his work of the precision cut into the earth,
leaving the deep, gaping rectangle open to the air. The driver of the flatbed
truck rolled out of his truck and slowly walked over to the hole. He walked around
it once and then returned to his truck. Over a period of two hours he methodically
unloaded all the tools required of his work—long planks of wood, blankets of bright
green Astroturf, thick poles, two coils of cable, shiny chrome standards, equally
gleaming beams to lay into those standards, a winch and a can of gray spray
paint. He meticulously built around the top of the hole an attractive structure
on which the crypt could sit. Constantly checking that the parts were laid out
correctly, he adjusted and readjusted the standards and cables until he was
ready to winch them tightly. He then attached two beams of steel that jutted
out over the neighboring grave. When he appeared to be satisfied that all was ready,
he set two ramps off the side of the truck, climbed up on the flatbed and mobilized
an electric cart that jettisoned the crypt down onto the grass. It rocked forward
under his guidance to the edge of the standards and then he pushed the crypt
onto the platform, an unusually easy process because of the poles he had placed
on the boards. Now it looked like a formal funeral platform rather than a
gathering of parts. All the pieces, so deliberately unloaded and constructed, had
become a shining launching pad into eternal rest. The man pushed the lid onto
the outstretched arms of steel. He pulled out the central wooden plank from
underneath the crypt and in a spectacularly brief moment the crypt disappeared
into the hole. It was so sudden it was if it had always been part of the earth.
He carefully studied the cover and shook the can of spray paint. He dodged the
spray over a few spots and then loaded the plank onto the electric cart. Once the
cart was on the flatbed, the man got into the cab of his truck and sat there
for some time.
During the final half hour of this process, cars were
pulling in near the chapel. A hearse backed up to the chapel and the casket was
rolled in through the back door. Everything went still for some time. With the
same deliberation of the construction, and in perfect timing to near the end of
the service, the man drove his flatbed truck to one of the back roads of the
cemetery, a respectful distance from the site. It stood there still and quiet
as the family gathered around the gravesite, the minister making the final
declarations over the casket as it was lowered into the grave. The family
quickly dispersed to their cars to get out of the bitter, winter wind.
When the last car drove out of the cemetery, the flatbed truck
came to life and was driven to the same spot near the grave. The man walked to
the grave site, pushed the cover of the crypt over the grave and let it down. In
no hurry as before, he deliberately undid his work, loaded it onto his truck
and drove out the same way he had come in, not blowing a salutatory horn blast.
Living across from a cemetery new things can be learned, and
in observing rituals, one can find a new appreciation for those who help us
daily through the rituals of grief.
Tools of the Grave
Trade
Lumbering, rocking
backhoe
Gaping, cavernous
rectangle
Carved in the sod
Diminutive tractor
pulling
Planks to lay over
Freshly pulled earth
Chairs cloaked in
black
Beneath a peaked tarp
Shiny black hearse
Drawing the dead
further away
Casket-sized trucks
Sliding into metal barn
Hidden behind a tall,
Inconspicuous fence
Narrow smoke stack
Tiny non-human-sized
Boxes return
With ashes and
memories
Of the dead wisped in
fire
~M.R. Hyde
Copyright 2020
