The other night we watched a DVD called To Dust. The story is simple—young man loses his wife and grieves that her spirit cannot find peace. An orthodox Jew, he buries her, without embalming, in a plain pine box with three holes in the bottom, so her corpse can return to dust.
Except he doesn’t know how long this takes, so he continues mourning longer than tradition calls for. His two sons are confused, his mom and his rabbi try to get him back on track. Eventually he hooks up with a mild-mannered science teacher to figure out how long it takes someone to decompose. They drive a long distance to visit an experimental cemetery where he views corpses in various states of decay, and, assured that his beloved will become dust, he reclaims his normal existence.
So… all of this connects with DeathFest 2019, an annual event hosted by the Natural State Burial Association. This has nothing to do with zombies or Halloween. This group represents a growing international movement promoting old-fashioned burials as an alternative to expensive undertakings, sensible land use, and a quick and easy way to return us to dust.
DeathFest is designed to answer all questions—how, where, why we can dispose of ourselves when that what occurs. They are looking for land to dead-icate to natural burials. They envision this place, where folks are buried no more than three feet under so aerobic decay can happen, as a park where the living can come to picnic and otherwise honor their loved ones.
We own some small acreage in Grandview, and I have often said, for all I care, you can drag my carcass out in the woods where the coyotes and buzzards can do their thing, followed by ‘coons and possums and earthworms and centipedes, sun and rain and snow. Save money. No methane from cremation, no non-decomposition from embalming fluid, no impenetrable casket.
But our place could never be a dusty resting place for dozens of like-minded Arkansawyers. The brutal thunderstorms we experienced lately would wash out dead guys for the coyotes to feast upon, so when their relatives came to picnic and play Frisbee, they’d find Grandma not as the GPS promised, but scattered about, her left arm under a black walnut, poison ivy and briar twining through her eye sockets. Not to mention someone would have to cut a road downhill from the county road so these celebrants could get in to cavort among the corpses. I guess we are off the hook for offering land.
But that’s what old Ozarkers did, in a sense. They probably cleaned the body, stayed up all night watching, read some Bible verses, laughed and cried about the dear departed’s shenanigans, dug a big hole, wrapped ‘em up in a handmade quilt, and planted them. The grave would have been marked with a wooden slab, cross, or native stone with words carved in to identify the person.
There is a little old cemetery just up the highway from our place, and family and church graveyards abound in these hills and small towns.
In the past year and a half, I have buried three old dogs here. One is buried in a hefty bag, supplied by the vet who put him down so we’d have time to dig. The other two are wrapped up in blankets, all are probably decomposing.
Grave digging in the Ozarks is serious business, because you are going to find rocks—big rocks, little rocks, back-breaking rocks. These canine graves are in a row on a fence line, crowned with big rocks, to keep critters from unearthing them.
We have a 19-year-old blind cat who will join them when he uses up his nine lives. My wife says she’d be pleased, if she goes first, for me to put her there, too. But she recognizes that might make it hard for the kids to sell the place—“Oh yeah: see those big rocks over there? That’s Mom and Dad—they don’t mind if you live here.” Please discuss.
Kirk Ashworth