JimFormation

“And so are you,” says my favorite author, Robert Fulghum, in his latest blog piece.

I intended to do an honest-to-goodness introduction of his essay which details his semi-annual review of his last will and testament, but it just didn’t work out that way. Mr. Fulghum’s essay does just what it intended: It had me looking into myself.

What do I want to happen to me and my things when I’m dead?

Unlike Mr. Fulghum, I don’t have a will. But if I did, it would be very short:

“When I die, give everything to my wife. She can make all the important decisions too, because no one is going to do what I want to do.”

You see, I don’t want to be embalmed. I don’t want a casket. I don’t want to be burned. What a waste.

I want to be buried under a Great Elm or Great Oak tree. I want some of that stuff that makes up Me to fertilize and feed that tree. I want that Great Tree to be my memorial. When my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren come to visit, they can sit under the cooling branches and say, “Dad’s in there.”

As far as my viewing — let me pause for a moment — I don’t like the term viewing. It’s a hideous term. I’m out there displayed for all to see. Dead. It’s embarrassing.

I want a good, old fashioned wake! A wake hearkens back to my ancestors when they held wonderful parties for their recently dead. They propped him in the corner in the hopes that he would wake up.

I want a party where I’m tied to a chair. I want my family and friends to tip a few glasses my way. With a wink, I want them to insult me. I want you to tell my stories and repeat my bad jokes. I don’t want you to mourn my death. I want you to celebrate that I lived.

And I want a clown — Yes! A clown!

And I want him to tie balloon animals. And hats. I want all of you sad sacks wearing balloon hats.

Throw in a slight-of-hand magician too. When things really start to get somber, he needs to step up his act. I hope he screws up too. I hope he can’t find your card. That’d be a hoot.

I’ve said this before too. I want a third-rate, washed-up actor to show up at my wake. He needs to come in unannounced and not talk to anyone. He must approach my body, kneel, weep quietly, and just as quietly leave.

You’ll all whisper, “How the hell did Ralph Malph know Jim?”

And when everyone is gone, and only my wife, children, and closest friends remain, I want a man in a kilt with a wondrous beard to play the bagpipes for me. I want him to play that song that makes everyone cry. Know that that is when my Soul will finally move on. It will float away on his haunting melody accompanied by the tears of those who spent this life with me, and it will go to wherever it is that old Souls and broken hearts and no-longer-heard notes go.

He will leave the room just before my wife does. She will turn around, blow me a kiss, and in her heart she’ll hear me say,

“Turn the lights out, Baby. It was a good run. I love you — I always have, and I always will.

“And if there is another side, I’ll be waiting for you. You’ll see me, I’ll be wearing the balloon hat.”