Backyard Burial

Wendy Hughes

Wendy Hughes is a southern California writer who volunteers, a lot, at the Center for Inquiry/Los Angeles.

“I wanna be buried in Brad’s backyard!” When this an­­nouncement rose in a wo­man’s voice above the cheery con­versation at Richard’s memorial “party,” the rest of us mentally reviewed our plans, if any, for our earthly remains.

For me, occupying a box in­side a vault among a sea of similarly encased strangers for eternity had never seemed appealing. After the first couple of visits, I had decided that the cemetery where my father had been buried wasn’t really where he was anymore. The number and quality of my visits there de­creased annually, to the point where it is not even an aspect of my relationship with him.

There are alternatives to cemetery burial, and I think the nature of the life of the person is a foundation for deciding among them. In his mid-fifties, our friend Richard was showing symptoms of several serious health conditions. Although a nominal Christian, Richard was no churchgoer, and he was most at home with his friends.

Richard’s father had died young; his substitute father was his older brother. His mother had probably been bipolar. Richard once told a story about taking a train trip with her when he was little and playing a game of cards. During the card game, the train went through a tunnel, and, in the dark, his mother started screaming. There was something about that story that seemed to illustrate the uneven playing field of our society.

Richard had gotten into some trouble around high-school age and was sent to attend a school in another town. Richard and Brad, his best friend, rode bicycles for hours to meet each other midway between the San Fernando Valley and the town of his banishment.

After Vietnam-era military service, the counterculture was Richard’s welcome-home party. He tried marriage; he and his wife made better friends than lovers. He never fathered children. I was never sure if that was a deliberate choice—whether Richard suspected that he would not be a responsible father or if it was just chance. Either way, this left him free to earn just enough money to pay rent and buy food and other essential items. As long as he had a car with a viable internal combustion engine, he could tinker and keep his wheels turning—the key to survival in Southern California.

To me, these were atypical choices. My life was modeled on the marriage-family-grandchildren-retirement pattern. Rich­ard held a series of low-paying, dead-end jobs, sometimes wash­ing windows for extra cash. He had to learn to improvise, yet he always looked happy. Richard liked to drink and have fun and didn’t seem to worry about his future.

Nobody knows, of course, the day and time of his or her own death, unless it is an execution or suicide. This person who had struggled to earn a living most of his life died on April 15. One of his old girlfriends commented that he’d do anything to get out of paying taxes.

Richard’s wish was for his friends to have a party in his honor after his death; he didn’t want anyone to grieve. Members of Richard’s family did not object, nor did they object to his wish regarding the disposition of his remains. They asked only to take some of the ashes to sprinkle on a beach in Northern California.

The memorial gathering was held on a fine spring day. Pictures from decades of parties, camping trips, weddings, and holidays were passed around, and everyone told stories. It was at first disconcerting to find myself having fun and then to remember that all our friends were present—except Richard. Small portions of the ashes (now called “cremains”) were divided among friends who wished to keep their own mementos. Late in the afternoon, we buried about half of the ashes in the backyard of Brad’s house, the home of Richard’s lifelong best friend, and planted a tree over them. The tree later failed to thrive, so a different species was planted. The successful plant is a succulent that tequila is made from, but that’s just coincidence.

Friends have come by over the years to honor him. Jana, our friend who follows Native American customs, once came by to pay her respects. She stood barefoot on the earth. To describe what happened next, I offer her words:

I faced East, as it’s where all new things begin—the place of the sunrise, a new day . . . rebirth; but you can face east any time of day. And I sang a song, the Ocean-Healing song. I sang that one because of his connection to the ocean, and mine also. But it can be any song really. Any song, Wendy, from “Nick Nack Paddy Whack” . . . to “California Dreaming”! It doesn’t have to be a Native song. Any song that’s special to you, or whatever pops into your head. There is no wrong way to do this . . . if you do it in a good way, that is with an open heart . . . no hatred. I know you’re not into prayer . . . so you can direct energy, good thoughts, or perhaps something you need to get rid of . . . bad feelings, old stuff, whatever. Behind my closed eyes, I saw him as I remember. Past that . . . it is what it is.

I think those thoughts have less to do with customs of burial than with relationships between people. Jana had had a long, deep friendship with Richard and communed with those feelings, in her way, in the privacy of the backyard. I don’t think there are any rules that make one way more valid than any other to express love for someone who has seen his or her last sunrise.

Other friends visit to talk about Richard, maybe because of the ashes buried there or because they want to talk about their friend whose life was shorter. During one of these visits, on a little tour around the backyard where the ashes of a few humans (other old friends) and an assortment of pets are interred, our friend James—on vacation from the American South—reminded us of the burial of his brother. James had once been a landscaper at a famous racetrack. His brother had loved horse races. When his brother died, James spread the ashes among the new perennials being planted near the Winners’ Circle at the track. Another employee turned him in because he thought it was somehow immoral. James was summoned to the human-relations department. The supervisor told him, “Your brother can stay, but you’re outta here.”

Five years after his death, Richard’s ex-wife returned the portion of ashes we’d shipped to her, explaining that she thought they should be joined with his other remains instead of being in an urn on her mantle. On the fifth anniversary of his death, the new ashes were poured into the soil.

It is fitting that Richard’s remains are buried in his friend’s backyard instead of lying alone, among strangers. Maybe it’s also more fitting for his friends that his remains are out in the backyard instead of far away in the cemetery. This nontraditional end of life is consistent for one for whom tradition had had little meaning. Richard’s goal was not the American Dream of success, fame, and wealth through thrift and hard work. He had no wife, children, mortgage, or retirement fund. He focused on the positive aspects of his daily existence: friendships, having fun, enjoying the wind and sunshine at the beach in summer, skiing daytrips at local snow resorts in winter, the coziness of his small apartment. Observing his orientation reprogrammed me a little—it was absolutely possible to have bad habits, no money, a completely dysfunctional family, and few prospects for traditional success, and still look forward to the weekends.

I think of Richard often. One evening, I asked Brad if he talks to Richard when he’s sitting on the patio at dusk. He said no; he misses Richard every day, but no, he’s not talking to him.

A plant marks the spot where ashes have been buried.

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