Being sued

It seems that the bank holding the mortgage is suing all with an interest in the real property. By Texas law, that includes his widowed spouse, and all surviving children.  Lisa and I joined forces to put on retainer a lawyer she knew. We began to fight back.

Noteworthy so far:
The lawyer is only doing this because she does many other things for Lisa. She has been clear that this is not something that she or anyone she knows in her profession would want to deal with.

As far as we have been told, this is an issue with no precedence. That is to say that the lawyer said she could see no example of a similar case in the law books. That means this fight could go all the way to the supreme court, if we wanted (and were rich enough to fight on). Seems no one has been buried out back on property that they did not own outright.

The mortgage contract paperwork Dad executed had no provisions against burials on the land. We anticipate this will soon become a standard clause in future mortgage legalese.

I'll let you know how it turns out!

visited the cemetery on Dad's Birthday

Raul and Lisa visited the cemetery on October 11th to commemorate Dad's birthday.  I was out there three days before that.  It looks good: pieceful and beautiful.  I am sure Dad is happy there.

We had an official meeting to discuss the cemetery.  This is a requirement.  Officers must gather and talk about the state of the cemetery.  We decided to move forward with incorporating the cemetery.  Lisa is going to get the paperwork going on that.  We hope it will help our cause and aid in the family keeping the land for the family cemetery.  We are hopeful that if we become an official nonprofit, the mortgage holder of the larger piece of property the cemetery is located on will elect to donate it to us.  That would be a real emotional relief.  I'll keep you posted.

I sure miss him.

Other dirt, other graves, other thoughts

Dad's grave has settled.  It needs the addition of more top soil.  This is something I had anticipated.  I knew that over time, decomposition of his body and the sheet and box that embraced it would allow for a settling and create an indention above ground.  Simple, predictable physics.

What I had not anticipated is the mental image that comes to mind every time I see the indention.  It sends my thoughts to skulls, skelitons, and unmentionable smells.  I need to address this soon.  A nice top dressing should do the trick.  I want to remember dad as he was, not as I am sure his body is now.

In other graveyards, these issues are accounted for and addressed behind the scenes by a dutyful staff.  I must mention the growing list of maintenance items you should be aware of if your dad decides he wants to be burried out back.

Rent, taxes, utilities, insurance and a fund for unexpected expenses must be funded.  Plants must be pruned and watered, grass cut, grave site policed and backfilled as needed.  Access to and from the cemetery must be maintained too.  I am sure this list will continue to grow as I become aware of more stuff.

Finally, I wonder if there are others who would want to use our family cemetery for their loved ones.  I don't know what the legalities are on that.   I will look into it.  Say, hypothetically, a family lost a little child and was in no financial position to cope with the loss.  Could they be our guests and use the cemetery?  This idea would have pleased dad.  He would have thought: :"Hell, the more the merrier."  Then he would have followed with "Let's all screw the man out of funerals and graves!" 

\Well said, dad.  Now stop shrinking.

Freedom or Just Plain Dumb

Four simple words completely crushed me. "So, What's the point." His eyes clarified that he really meant "so what..." Dads have that power.

I had just completed my masters thesis, which I dedicated to my dad. He told me that since he would never get around to reading it anyway and since we were faced with a long, quiet drive from Austin Texas to Las Vegas Nevada, I might as well explain it to him on the road. "And spare no details" he challenged.

Four hours later, I arrived at my triumphant climax and then paused to catch my breath and his response. He paused in solemn reflection. He always enjoyed drama. Then he trumpeted those four words. I took this pretty hard.

I mention this to help explain myself. You see, since I lost dad, I have gained a freedom. I often find myself musing over how I might have pained over what dad would think, but now that he is gone, I don't have to answer to him. In fact, I don't feel like I answer to anyone now. Well, as long as my wife is not reading my blog anyway.

How unfortunate for him and unfair for me to have allowed this drama to partially define our roles. I wish he were still around, so I could redefine things. I know he would want to support me.

I'm sure he'd encourage me to tell him all about it. Then, he'd smile and say "So what."

The Family Plot: Decorating

So the latest shenanigans involve Lisa, Raul, Agnes and Me decorating the family cemetery. Nothing formal; envision people preparing for a yard sale and you are closer to the real picture. At various times, someone would find something to bring from the house to the graveyard. And why not? It had taken the form of a real cemetery. Now there is a beautiful iron fence, gate, and sweeping trellice announcing in bold: BUTLAND CEMETERY. And there is a real body in there too!

Recent mysteriously appearing contributions include cacti of various types in pots, statuettes from around the house now standing guard over their master's patch, and my favorite, one of dad's hats, with a feather that has also seen better days sticking out of it, perched on the stone that used to be his temporary headsone while we waited for V.A. to send the real deal. (I am not sure if the pile of 5 empty beer cans, one spent bottle of cheap vodka and several dixie cups lying at 11 o'clock to dad's head were placed there as decoration or were a by-product of drunken oversight, but seem to fit the scene nicely too).

During these days of decoration I noticed once as we were leaving, Lisa was hiding something from me. As we exited the cemetery, I saw her lag moments behind me, pull that secretive something from her pocket, and leave it on the aforementioned rock. We did not speak of it, but I wondered what it could have been.

Later in the week, Raul called me. He had been to visit Dad's grave. He said he liked the aesthetic improvements. His favorite, the rubber frog, the one that used to sit on the back porch, now perched on the rock. I could almost hear Lisa and Dad sharing a cross-dimensional chuckle at her special surprise for him and us.

The magic of this whole process begins to take form. Everyone had a part to play in his final days, final dispatchment and final disposition. In doing it his way, Dad somehow empowered us to bring a soul of creativeity the trip with him.

Meaning is slippery. Like a frog. But each of us has grabbed onto meaningful ever-after moments. More importantly, I believe each of us feels like we are co-creaters in meaningful connections with what is now our beloved past.

Dreams of Falling, Anyone?

We heaved the box to the grave on a camping cot, family gathered 'round, sharing the load. As carefully as possible, and holding breaths we slowly reel dad's cardboard cocoon down via two carefully placed and poorly secured ropes. On everyone's mind, apparently, was, "I hope we don't screw this up. We don't want the kids to see Grandpa come sliding out of the end of this flimsy thing and crumple to the ground."


Didn’t everyone’s minds fix onto the firm ground of potential disaster? We were suspended by possible horrors in “what if” land What if he falls out but misses the hole? Does one of us point attention to a singing bird in a nearby tree while side-sweeping him with a subtle shoe? What if he falls out and into the hole. Do we just continue? Do we all act like that was planned and begin shoveling dirt after? What if the box gives way enough around the duct taped top that an unwelcome arm flops out. Do we stick it back in? Do we ask if anyone wants a divinely offered second chance to claim his rings? Do we take turns giving him a farewell shake good-bye?

Months later, as family groups informally recall the home funeral, these scenarios, played out in grippingly disturbing ways in everyone's minds, have become a sort of gallows’ humor. First, there was the surprise in discovering that I was not the only one who was worried about the structural integrity of his paper cube. It was designed to be burned, after all. Nope, sooner or later, everyone there has confessed to having similar dark thoughts about the final maneuver. What drama!

Somewhere along the path, our stumbles have become experience and frailties turned to wisdom. Who would have thought that the universal dream of falling could bring us all together for laughs and healing?

Head Stone In, Family Out.

We received the VA's marker last week and put it in dad's space. It looks very dignified. Unfortunately, dad's will and other plans to leave the house to me did not happen. Turns out, the house and land will be foreclosed on.

Wonder what will become of our little family cemetery? Wonder if there will be some way for the property to return to someone in the family? Wonder why we did not make sure all his paperwork was truly in order? All that planning and talking and yet, things went so wrong on the real property part.

I will keep you posted on this, my friend. Meanwhile, thanks for reading.
Mark

Lost my dad and then lost everything else?

As we drove away from Dad's house, post burial, I reflected momentarily on the doors and windows. I had been sure to lock them up. I also left a light on and the heater was set to a low temp. Never gave it another thought. Just drove away, with moist eyes.

Now I know better!

One must also prepare a vacant house for anyone who may come in. Who has a key? Who knows how to get in? Who are you overlooking that could get in? Could they get into trouble? I'm not just talking about thugs and robbers here either.

I overlooked that I also drove away from an empty and unprotected house that had a rather large supply of booze, beer, morphine (from Hospice for dad, so it was the really "good stuff"), and a loaded 38 handgun.

I overlooked that my 18 year old nephew had a key.

How do you think this story ends?

Did he get the gun and take it to highschool? Did he and his friends take some booze and get in the car only to have an accident down the road? Did he sample what he saw dad take for pain, just to see what it did for his grandpa, not realizing that dad had built up an amazing tolerance for the drug? Did he combine the booze and the morphine and overdose? Or did his drunken grief plus gun translate into a self-sent fatal shot?

Did he give some alcohol and/or drugs to another underage person? Did they get hurt or killed? Did their parents feel justly angered? Did they file a law suit against me, since I am now the "estate" ? Did I lose my own house, car, savings, business, property and valuables in a messy and painful legal battle?

No.

I just learned to be more careful. No one was hurt. No on was hurt this time. I was LUCKY.

PS/ the gun, drugs, booze, and dad's car keys are no longer at dad's house. I don't want to push my luck.

That was Zen (That was Zen), This is Tao. C'mon, Sing Along

Beep... Beep.... Beep... Hiss--Chaaa. That is the sound of life support in ICU. Although it has been nearly 15 years, that sound still echos clearly when I think about my dearest grandmother. She died in ICU. It was a worst-case-scenario affair. The best I could do was navigate the suffering by fostering a safe detachment from the situation. Like Viktor Frankl's concentration camp, that hospitol was an institution I could neither understand or effect. I did have the freedom to choose how I exercised contrrol over my mind, however. Like Frankl, I found the ultimate freedom in discovering that as bad as it got, it could not control my thoughts.

Death's dance went like this for grandma: Two month struggle with cancer and kemo. the congratulations from doctors and family that she survived that. One week later, a heart attack. Then, an operation to implant a "life saving" stint in a critical heart artery. This simple procedure went terribly wrong and bacame a full-on split her chest open and try to get her failing heart to rebound. Her final 6 hours were in ICU following that improomptu open heart surgery. Beep... Beep... Beep...

Thing is, the night before that stint operation, Grandma was clear about one thing. She did not want the surgery, the stint in her heart and most of all, she did not ever want open-heart surgery. She simply wanted to end her 84 years of life peacefully, naturally and now.

The doctor told all of us that was simply not an option. So, next morning they wheeled her in. Nothing but squelched objections and repressed fear registered on her face as I told her it would be a quick, painless procedure. I was terribly wrong.

Once brain-dead, there is little reasonn to have the ICU machines continue to pin the spirit in place. Armed with her advanced directives and liviing will, I agreed when the medical staff gently suggested we 'unplug' her. I held her hand and talked in her ear as she slipped away.

In the wake of tragedy we struggle for meaning. The contrast between how my dad went and how his own mother died is stark and enlightening. The effect of each on my mind was also a point of contrast.

With Dad's home death, there were no machines, false promises of quick, painless procedures, unplugging of robotic respiratiors. There was only the hospice nurse, seemingly wise to the mysteries of life and loss.

I found the tension between these truths somhow soothing: He was dying. His spirit was soon to be freed. The great beauty of life was eclipsed by the mystery of death. It was the natural course of things.

With grandma's death I glimpsed zen--finding deliverence from suffering. With dad's death, I embraced the Tao of death. When it is my turn, if I am graced with the choice, I will surely choose well.

How about you? A quick, modified version of that old Monkey's tune has been running through my head as I write this. Now I have planted that ear worm in you too. You are welcome, my friend.

Happy Hour or Daddy Hour...

We put a park bench by Dad's grave. There at the head is a large Edward's Limestone bolder, serving as a temporary marker. Against it rests freah flowers and candles provided by his grieving widdow. The sun sets just beyond that stone. Across the creek we hear the blatting of sheep and howling of dogs as they settle in for the night at the neighbor's farm. Then silence.

Sometimes I am sitting on the bench alone. Other times, family members add their graceful presence. Either way, I don't feel alone. He is here too.

I did not know how I would feel about having Dad buried on the hill, a short stroll from the farm house. Now I do. It is my favorite place in the world. It is my favorite time 0f the day. And it is always close at hand, when I want it. No drive across endless highways and parkways to enter gateways and cemetery throughways to end up trying to recall exactly where... and then realizing how long it has been since your last visit.

As a child, cemeteries creeped me out. Not this one. It seems to belong here. Our family cemetery connects me to my past, my family, and my own ultimate future. I belong.

Lessons Learned the Hard way on Funeral Ceremony

I know the funeral went the way Dad had hoped it would. No fuss, brief informal comments, then plant him. I had heard him give these instructions for years and was pretty prepared to make it so. I am a peach with it still.

Yet, there are a couple of observations that others have shared with me that I want to pass along. Some felt that the short 7 hours separating his death pronouncement and him being buried and gone was too brief. It can take time to get your mind around such a profound loss. Some needed longer. I now think it may make sense to take the full 24 hours the law in Texas allows to bury the body.

Relatedly, two out-of-towners indicated that they would have flown in for the funeral, had we waited until the next day. They would have caught the next plane in to Austin that evening and joined us in our good-byes. I am sure they feel a lack of closure, having missed the funeral.

Also, if children are present, keep in mind that they have no field of experience that tells them how to behave. Throwing bolders in on top of the casket when the shoveling begins is likely to upset some sensitive onlookers, for example. So be sure to help the younger ones know what they can (and should not) do.

Finally, consider that cardboard caskets are, well cardboard. Several people commented that when they go, and we bury them in the family cemetary, they want a wood casket because they had the (in my opinion unfounded) concern that their bodies might somehow burst the seam and come rolling out for a final curtain call. This did not happen to Dad, but it was mentioned as a concern so I pass that along.

The casket came flat packed. I had to insert slot A into flap B and tape corners. I was emotional and this chore proved to be more !challenging than I anticipated. The fact that instead of having on hand clear packing tape I only had duct tape resulted in the casket looking less like a coffin than a ratty shipping crate. Lesson: prepare the casket in advance and hide it until you need it.

Dad had wisely insisted that the grave be excavated in advance. He knew that trying to did it at the time of need was a mistake. He was right. We would still be digging. You can call any local cemetary and ask for a grave digger's number to get this done in advance too. It cost us $200 and was worth every copper Lincoln.

As long as humans are involved, some things will go wrong. But this is also true if you spend tens of thousands outsourcing death and burial. But for our first green burial and family funeral, I think we did just fine, thank you very much!

Do-It-Yourself-Funeral Ceremony

I looked out at the dozen faces: family, one friend and one hospice social worker (who had become a friend too at this point). I began with an explanation of what they should expect. I told them that if/when they felt like it, they could say something to Dad, us or themselves. They could tell a story or recall an event that was on their mind or they could simply say something along the lines of good-bye to Dad. I reassured them that whatever their heart told them to do was the exact perfect course of action for them.

First up, my Brother, Raul, pulled out a marker and commented on how Dad loved to "beat the system" and certainly had in his final exit. Then Raul pointed out that since the casket was cardboard, he wanted to write a final message to his pop. After he moved to the box and inscribed a short note, he invited anyone else to do the same. Most of us ended up writing something. Powerful. Unplanned. Perfect.

Then a 12 year old grandson produced a dozen flowers and gave them one at a time to each of us. He explained that before the dirt goes in, we should give him a gift. Each of us lovingly delivered our red roses. Perfect.

Stories and tears began to flow as we oscilated between sad realizations of our collective loss and our rich memories of what we had gained through the years of having him in our lives.

This was a Butland funeral. No rules, no wrongs, no expectations of anyone else's role. It was what seemed to make sense to us at the time.

In 20 minutes we were finished with the funeral, but I will cherish the event forever. Powerful. Unplanned. Perfect.

Our Green Burial

Dad was against embalming, said it was just plain unnatural. He also did not want a big deal viewing of his body, saying, "When I'm gone, that's it. No reason to look at the shell that held me."

We wrapped him in his death bed sheets and hoisted him into a biodegradable cardboard cremation casket that we had situated on a cot in the living room of his house. My sister, brother and I did this ourselves. While lifting your beloved's dead body may seem beyond you, and it may be, I have to tell you it was oddly therapeutic for us. We felt as though it was an act of nurturing and caregiving. I am so thankful that we did not have someone doing things to my dad. It was just the family.

Once the sun was setting, we carried the cot with casket to the grave site. The box was placed above the opening on three wooden slats, where it was suspended as we each said our good-byes. More on that ceremony later. We lowered the box and then took a 10 minute break.

When we reconveined, we began the wake, or party celebrating his life. It was now dark and as per his final wishes, we played Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. Each family member had an opportunity to man a shovel and help return the hole to nature. We drank beer, soft drinks, a special spirit my dad invented that he called the Natalia (after my wife, who loved the cocktail), and took turns on the labor.

Many stories, anecdotes and humor graced our time together. I don't ever remember feeling closer to family than in that moment. It was a meaningful connection.

What has happened to our society? We are no longer connected to the most significant events in anyone's life. Birth, Death, Mourning, all outsourced to "experts" who couldn't possibly feel as connected tot he event as family. Sometimes going backwards is really going forward. Here's to the old ways: Midwives and dad's helping mom bring life in, family creating meaningful green burials and the closest people you know throwing a wake of a party when you are really hurting. thanks dad for teaching me that.

February 12, 2009 Dad died

Well it happened as he wanted. Dad slipped into a deep, hospice assisted, opiate enhanced sleep on Tuesday, 2/12/ and did not really ever awaken again. All his kids and his loving wife were there for the last conversations that evening before he went to sleep. He was a lucky man to get to go this way.

He told us that he wanted us to cary out the funeral plans and burial as per our arrangements and we did. He was pronounced dead at 11:30 and by 6pm we had a little family funeral service at the gravesite. By 6:30 the wake had begun, again, as per his final wishes.

So you see, it happened just as it was supposed to. He died, as he lived, on his terms. I will now be posting comments that relate to the funeral and burial that may be of interest to anyone who chooses to follow a similar path. God bless Dad's memory.