By Tim Sanders

Last week I got one of those phone calls that always causes a thoughtful person like myself to pause and reflect. After I’d hung up the phone, I went into the bathroom, paused, and reflected. I like to reflect in the bathroom, because there is a really large mirror in there. I reflected as long as I could stand it, and then went into the back yard to ruminate. But we’d recently had our lawn mowed, so I couldn’t ruminate for long, either. I considered going to the basement and ricocheting, but thought better of it. I didn’t want to hurt myself.

The phone call that spurred such furious mental activity was from Johnny Usry, who owns Cherokee Memory Gardens. I’ve known Johnny for years, and both my parents and Marilyn’s father are buried in his cemetery. Aside from the fact that there are no large marble monuments supporting proud marble military leaders waving impressive marble lightning rods atop prancing marble steeds, it is an excellent cemetery. There are also no soaring, inspirational inscriptions about bands of angels flying the dearly departed to his rest, hallelujah, and no endearing poetic epitaphs bearing bits of personalized information. You know:

‘Neath this stone you will find,
What remains behind,
Of the Reverend Bishop Fowler.
He was smote in the head,
By his butler, Ned,
Who mistook him for a prowler.
Well done, thou good and faithful
servant.

No, you won't find any of that foolishness at Memory Gardens, and it's probably just as well.

At any rate, Johnny called to let me know that a prime spot near my parents’ and Marilyn’s dad’s plots had become available. The owners, he said, had relocated. Not that they’d already moved in and then crept out in the middle of the night, mind you. No, they hadn’t moved in yet, but had instead moved to a new location above ground. In another state, I believe. And since real estate, as they say, is all "location, location, location," Johnny thought he’d let me know the double plot was available.

I appreciated his call, but it reminded me of an anecdote from my childhood. It concerned a revival meeting and a dramatic scene where the evangelist in charge of the proceedings asked everyone who was going to heaven to stand. The entire congregation rose to its feet, except for a very inebriated fellow who’d heard all the shouting and wandered into the church thinking it was a Democratic rally. The evangelist noticed the man still seated at the rear of the church, and asked, "Sir, don’t you want to go to heaven when you die?"

"When I die? Oh, yessir, your honor!" he replied. "I thought you wuz getting up a load to go right now." Call me shortsighted, but I’m in no hurry to climb aboard that heavenly bus yet, either.

I told Johnny we’d look at the plot, check out the view, and assess the septic system in a few days. When it comes to burial plots, a lot of people neglect their plumbing. I also wanted to make sure cable was available. We’d put off purchasing burial plots for several years, due mainly to my insistence that buying plots before you really needed them was tempting fate. If you were raised by thrifty people, as I was, you’d hate to have property lying fallow, and you’d want to get some good out of it. Call me an idiot, but I was in no hurry to purchase prime cemetery real estate and then feel compelled to get some return on my investment by using it. I knew a fellow in Decatur, once, who actually rode his motor scooter into a street sign simply because he was tired of paying for accident insurance and never getting any use out of it.

I know a lot of people who feel reassured knowing they have a burial plot ready and waiting for them. They have their headstones all clean and polished, and they can visit their graves any time they want, look at their names on those headstones, dab a tear from their eyes, and smile wistfully. "There lies good old me. I was a fine fellow," they say to themselves, "and I will be sorely missed. I kinda miss myself already. To say nothing of my dear wife. I can just picture her standing here, sobbing. In the rain. All wet and pitiful. ‘Alas, my prince is gone,’ she’ll say. Bless her heart, she’ll go through a crate of tissues a week."

I don’t find any of this reassuring. Oh, I know it’s better to have all of your arrangements made so as to simplify things for your survivors. But hey, they’ll still be alive, it’ll be me who’s gone, and they should be thankful for that. Finding me a grave site will be a small price to pay.

Besides which, I am not confident that my widow would spend an inordinate amount of time at my grave, weeping uncontrollably. Oh, she’d probably make a good start, but eventually, after a few months, the novelty would wear off. One day she’d stand there, gazing down at my headstone, thinking about the true meaning of life and what, in the grand scheme of things, was really important, and she’d have an epiphany. She’d say to herself, "The next one will be taller. And he’ll have a full head of hair, too! Thick, bushy hair! And he’ll love shopping! And hate motorcycles! And I’ll make absolutely sure he has no intention of blathering about all of our family secrets in some stupid newspaper column, either!" And within a few more months she’d be dating again, and eventually remarry and move to another state, leaving me with an empty adjoining plot to keep me company. And she’d probably have my cable disconnected, too.

And even on the odd chance she were to remain a widow and move into the plot next to mine, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see her half of the headstone read "I’m with stupid," with a bronze arrow pointing in my direction.

Those are the kinds of thoughts that would race through my mind, were I to gaze prematurely at my own headstone. But Marilyn and I will visit Memory Gardens, look over the property, and check out each and every one of the prospective neighbors before making a decision. I know that Johnny Usry knows his business, and keeps his real estate in excellent condition. From what he tells me, he’s never had any complaints, and so far not a single resident has moved out. But you can never be too careful. We wouldn’t want any loud music on the weekends. Sometimes we like to sleep in.

Of course during the Iron Bowl weekend the neighbors can make all the racket they want to. We always do.