A gentle laugh is the best medicine
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
My stepfather once told me there were three things I had to remember
about life.
One, it's short. By that, I guess he meant I shouldn't bother trying
to read and understand my car-park building's 117 terms and
conditions for parking there. (There goes the summer hobby.)
Two, life is meant to be lived. Dang. Time to pack away the Laura
Ashley cardies and try bungee jumping from the front pergola again.
(Memo to self: use shorter elastic this time.)
Three, always check which way the wind is blowing.
Derek was probably talking office politics, although now I can't help but take him a little more literally.
You see, this dear, kind stepdad of many years died recently in
Perth. And this has me pondering death - both its dark and lighter side.
We, as a society, don't talk about death too much. For that reason,
I have only just now learnt many quirky things about dying that I
would never normally find out about.
For instance, when you die you have no say over what happens to your
body. It's all up to the next of kin, no matter what you say in your
Will.
This fact gives my brother a disturbing amount of glee, as he's been
unkindly threatening me with wreaking final revenge for that
unfortunate purple-hair-dying incident I inflicted on him in his
childhood. I am trusting my mother will stop him in time, lest I
meet my maker looking like a KISS extra.
I also discovered in Perth that its crematorium posts out ashes via
standard express post envelopes.
I know this because when I checked in at Brisbane for the service, a
motel clerk handed me a familiar Aussie Post envelope and told me,
patting the carboard box within: “Your stepfather arrived safely -
but he isn't saying much.”
(Good thing for him that I chuckled. His horrified boss, who had
walked in behind in him, hissed to his clerk a minute later, “Death
is no laughing matter.” Probably not, but it helps.)
I learnt one other thing about death. Ashes, when scattered, stick
on everything if you're not careful.
This was something our funeral director told me as a discreet
warning because he knew we were to scatter Derek's ashes at sea.
He told me of the time he watched a man scattering ashes from atop a
beautiful hill, watched by a circle of mourners. At that precise
moment, the wind blew up, changed direction and, well ...
To put it politely, the mourners were choking on more than just
their grief. And for weeks, they kept finding bits of their loved one in
their jumpers, suit pockets, socks ...
The earnest funeral director said the mourners had no problem getting it out of their clothing - although all did make a pact not to tell their dry-cleaner what was what.
I tried not to laugh; I really did. But as I mourn Derek's passing, and remember his three truths, even he couldn't blame me for having a gentle little grin at his last life's lesson.
I think he'd like the fact that, even in death, he can still make me laugh.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 16 SEP 1997