DEATH AND CLEANING AND ME

Our first Christmas in Ohio was filled with laughter and tears, the sharing of jokes and some all-too-serious discussions about the future. When it was over and the out-of-town families had returned to their homes, a small, anonymous package appeared on my doorstep, delivered by my current best friend, the Amazon delivery person. Ruth. Intrigued, I opened it to find a cunning little book titled, “The Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.” My first thought was that I already owned it. My second, and lingering thought was that my children were trying to convey a message: Get rid of your stuff. It seemed an unfair nudge considering that I have downsized two households (mine of 36 years in Virginia, my mom’s of 60 years in Michigan) during the past year and I’ve gotten rid of A LOT. My 1,300 square foot bungalow is not overcrowded (note I did not claim that it was clean). Then I took the stair chair down to the basement and surveyed the acres of boxes containing model trains, doll furniture, books, cookbooks, family photographs, trophies, sheets and towels used during vacations to the Shore, books, more books and even a few pieces of furniture that I knew, even before the move, would never fit into our new home. “Maybe they have a point,” I said to Pete, who had no idea what I was talking about. “What?” “Cleaning. Downsizing. The kids.” His gaze shifted to the colorful daycare-type cubbies in our living room that contain magnetic paper dolls, crayons, stuffed llamas, a dress-up box of princess items and the solidly built dollhouse my grandfather made for me in 1959. “I thought we already downsized the kids,” he said, referring to the trio of small granddaughters that brighten our days. (He didn’t actually say that. But I’m sure he was thinking it.) “I guess I really should do more sorting and cleaning,” I said, hoping, in vain that he would argue with me. However, I am nothing if not gifted at avoiding any sort of cleaning so I moved on to another topic that had come up during the holidays. “What happens to us after we die?” After a brief pause he replied, “burial?” As if not certain of the answer. “Well, right. But where? I mean we’ve just moved to Buckeye land where we literally know fewer people than there are fingers on my right hand. We’re strangers in a strange place.” “You’re afraid no one will visit?” “It’s not that.” (I am not a fan of visiting gravesites or hanging onto the ashes of dearly departed dogs.) “I just don’t want to be lonely, you know? I mean, you spend your whole life building a community of family and friends because being with people takes away the shadows and makes you happy. You know, it takes a village. Why wouldn’t the same principle apply in death?” “You couldn’t talk to them,” he pointed out, correctly identifying my main concern. “I know. But it would be nice to be surrounded by, you-know, loved ones. Where are your parents are buried?” “Pennsylvania,” he said. “Or, Delaware. There was a tree.” “Yeah. I don’t remember, either.” “Ann Arbor,” he said, referring to my beloved hometown. Of course I knew what he meant. “That’s complicated.” It occurred to me that we must have discussed this sometime during our forty-two-year-marriage but it seemed like a new topic, for some reason. “Many moons ago my paternal grandparents bought four plots at a local cemetery intending to accommodate themselves, and my dad and mom. But then, when one of my brothers died at age thirty-four, they reversed course and decided to go with cremation so there would be room in the remaining plots for my folks and both of the twins.” As I told the story, the old resentment sprang up. Naturally, neither the original plans nor the revised version had included me. It took me back to the days of family vacations and the motel rooms with two double beds and a cot. Guess who always got the cot. Pete had nothing to say to my grievance so I called my brother. “Have you thought about where you’re going to be buried,” I asked him. “Sure,” he said. “We found a cute little cemetery near us. There’s a tree on a hill and the place is lousy with gravestones marked “Emmons.” “What about the Ann Arbor cemetery,” I asked. “Well, I really can’t see the point of having my body – or my ashes- or whatever shipped out to Michigan. Too expensive.” “Maybe you should just stay in Ohio,” The choice of least resistance. He had a point. “Or, maybe, dad’s prophesy will come true. Remember he used to say he thought he would be the first exception to the rule. Maybe I just won’t die at all.” “Forget it,” said my brother, who has seen my basement. “There’s no way around it. You have to get rid of more stuff. That’s why I sent you the book.”