On Funeral Rites…
Death is the starlit strip between the companionship of yesterday and the reunion of tomorrow.
– Mark Twain
Funerals are a weird thing. I’ve decided that my heirs, if I have any, or barring that any friends that I might still have, will be required by my last will and testament to construct a trebuchet or catapult like-device out of whatever available materials they might happen upon in the inevitable-post-apocalyptic-era (which could very well start tomorrow), test fire said siege engine, then hurl the lovely crockery urn that contains my ashes onto some great abyss, canyon or cliff. Something with a good view and nice weather. Some place where my particulate matter has space to roam. After this I expect people to drink copiously. And maybe burn the catapult, because that would just be cool.
Ridiculous? Of course. But that’s the point. Greet the afterlife with the same gusto with which you lived your life. The Irish got it right with the wake tradition. Mourn the passing, but celebrate their life.
When my grandpa died, we had an Irish wake for him (because he was Irish), and it was a blast. Then when my two best friends died a few years later, we also had one for them. The bar I worked at let us do it there, and picked up most of the tab, too. Irish wakes are the way to go, for sure.