History lost?

I remember reading an article a while back that brought up a few negative points about cremation. Nothing bad about the process itself, it was more along the lines of the disappearing history we will face with fewer fields of headstones to visit as we research our family roots. History lost? I have to admit that my initial reaction was one of agreeing with this premise, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like driving to Walmart to check prices; it’s just not something we physically do much anymore.

I do love walking through an old cemetery though. There is something about seeing 1789 chiseled in stone that quite frankly makes me feel weird. I can visit an antique shop and view tools and furniture items claiming to be from similar times, and while I appreciate the effort from a pre-power tool perspective, it just doesn’t give me that same connected feeling. I know that what lies below the stone in a cemetery is nothing more than a vehicle that the driver has long since abandoned, but reading the beginning and ending dates and some small passage that someone deemed important enough to carve in stone is both touching and powerful.

 Unfortunately no one will have an “ah ha” moment with my headstone; there won’t be one. Unless something changes drastically in the next few years, I don’t think the tour bus industry will lose any revenue by the absence of a grave site for me anyway, but that’s another story.

My brother was cremated and I plan to have the same thing done with my remains.  Honestly that word, remains, is what made this decision easy for me. I just can’t seem to find a good reason for my body to remain. Having a place to visit my memory or my essence (if you so desire) will be as simple as visiting the location where my ashes were scattered, or maybe just some place I loved. If you have no experience with this scenario, let me assure you that it works about as well as any. All you really want is to remember.

This past weekend I visited the location my family chose to scatter the ashes of my little brother; the Jekyll Island Pier. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and the pier was crowded with people enjoying the location much the same way three little long-haired boys did many years ago. To leave his remains among excitement, salt water, fishing equipment, vacationers and the mystery of the swift murky ocean water was an easy decision for a grieving family; it was a location that described him perfectly.

We had a good visit that day. We did fish a little, but I think we all three just stood there and thought about him for a while; you could say we visited and paid our respects. I remember worrying that having a small ceremony and placing his ashes here would stigmatize the location for me. I feared that I would not want to visit and that when I did so I would lapse back in to the fresh sadness I felt when he died. I have to say that I was wrong on both counts. I feel like I belong there; I have a right to be there. I feel like an insider that paid for his partial ownership with nothing less than the most valuable item he had.  This magical place now belongs to us.....all!