The Undiscovered Country

Puget Sound Sunet/ McLaughlin

 

    I killed another plant. Not intentionally- I just don't have my mom's green thumb and rue another attempt to nurture. Thank God I never had children, I sigh in exasperation.

    "Say boss, where do we go when we die?" Ben asks in a surprisingly chipper voice despite the sight of a desiccated plant on the table. I stare at him in surprise, I suppose this is pay back for all the times I lobbed non sequiteurs at mom as a child.

    "Really? Can we discuss something lighter like politics or the collapse of civilization?" I plead.

    "None of us get out of this alive," Ben reminds me of an earlier discussion on fate.

     I shrug in reluctant agreement and take the poor brown thing to the front yard where greenery is flourishing from plenty of rain and it gives me an idea. I return to the dining room and sit down next to Ben.

    "No one really knows. Some believe in reincarnation as a circle of life, death and rebirth, much like plants. There are philosophies and guesstimates about what happens. Maybe we die, that's it or we go to heaven." I'm lecturing and Ben hums in consideration but I get the feeling he's not impressed. 

    "Some have crossed the veil and returned with tales of indescribable colors and unconditional love which begs the questions why did they come back--I mean what are we doing here if it's so wonderful there?" I slump in annoyed despair.

    "Whoa, I'm not touching that one," Ben declares. If he could hold up hands in deference we would.

    "You brought it up so we might as well touch it," I opine.

    " What I find disappointing with near death experiences and communication with the departed is the lack of practical insight. Nobody is coming thru to warn their buddies that strapping a bomb to their chest and yelling 'Allah akbar' is a bad idea or the million other stupid things we do."

    "I heard that life is like school," Ben offers.

    "Yeah, with no text book or memory of the last grade. Like, we're all suppose to figure our way around without a map," I complain.

    Ben's leaves droop a bit and I back off as I promised Gwen the plant lady to be gentle with the ficus. My intensity is probably why plants die around me. I take a new tack. 

    "Oscar Wilde said 'life is far too important to take seriously,' and I think the same can be said about death. Many cultures revere and celebrate the dead but not in this dour Christian based country, oh no, it's to be feared and defeated like some Marvel comic villain. But plenty of people have provided us with example of hilarious deaths, I assure you." I inform Ben.

    Like the multi-millionaire owner of Segway scooters who died after plunging 80 feet over a limestone cliff --on a Segway. Or a lawyer in Toronto who was demonstrating to visitors the strength of the glass in his 24th-story office by throwing himself full force at the pane. Not surprisingly, he and the glass piece plunged to the street below.

    "No way, you're making that up," Ben nevertheless is laughing.

    In the irony category there's Aeschylus the famous Greek tragedian, killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle that mistook his bald head for a rock. He had been staying outdoors to avert a prophecy that he would be killed that day "by the fall of a house".

    My favorite place to find stupid deaths is the Darwin Awards, where people through their own stupidity have removed themselves from the gene pool.

    Death by train is especially stupid because some are unable to grasp three important facts about them, they can't stop quickly, can't swerve and in a collision they always wins. Nevertheless, some idiot stalled his car on train tracks and when attempts to repair it failed, called for help while standing on the tracks.The engineer spotted the guy with a phone to one ear and a hand covering the other to block the roaring sound of the oncoming train. Ben finds these stories amusing.

    "Then there are the many euphemisms for shuffling off the mortal coil," I say, continuing the jovial tone.

    "Bought the farm," Ben rejoins.

    "Kick the bucket,"

    "Take the big dirt nap," he says, getting into the humor.

    "I've always liked assume room temperature," and we burst into hysterical laughter.

    " Funerals are so depressing. One guy dying from cancer made a recording of him pounding an a door and insisting he wasn't dead yet played at his burial. 

      "I want a memorial and have my cremated remains put on a tray in my totally awesome oven. Afterwards there will be a raffle for the stove. I figured that would guarantee people will show just for a chance to win it." I confess.

    " I think a New Orleans jazz funeral is the way to go," Ben decides.

    "Or go big like Brunnhilde's immolation from Die Gotterdammerung," I suggest and our lively discussion dispels the loss about the plant. Next time, better light and more water I tell myself.