Not Written in Stone

In January years ago I stood in the Halcourt cemetery watching my grandmother's casket being lowered into her grave. In the snow, surrounded by farm fields, with distant mountain views,  surrounded by the Canadian red granite tombstones of my maternal ancestors. There was something comforting about knowing my grandmother's remains would rest near those of her family. I knew her soul had left her body and those were just old bones that we were burying, but still, it seemed right that she was interred near all those she had loved in a place she felt she belonged.

Eventually, I thought, my parents would be buried there. And so would I. Generations of a family all in one place.

Years passed. 

And my dad said he didn't want a funeral, a grave or a tombstone. And really, what would connect him to the Halcourt cemetery? Those weren't his ancestors. That wasn't a place he had ever lived. It wasn't a place where he belonged.

"Just throw my body into the ocean," he said, ignoring the law and the fact that he lived hundreds of miles from the sea. As he got closer to the end of his life, he made arrangements with the local funeral home for cremation. When we talked about his passing, he repeated that he did not want a funeral. I told him his funeral wasn't for him. He would not be there to witness it. It was for us and he couldn't tell us how to grieve. "Just let us say goodbye the way we want," I said. He conceded. "I just don't want a fuss. I don't want any crying," he said. We had a funeral. And a memorial service. And there was plenty of crying. Later, my brother and his partner put Dad's ashes into the ocean. That's as close to honouring his request as we got, as close as we got to returning his remains to the sea. 

My mom refused to discuss any details about her funeral. To her dying day she rejected the very idea she would ever pass away. When she died, we scattered her ashes in the Murray River. "The Murray runs into the Pacific, doesn't it?" my other brother said. He didn't say it but we all understood. Eventually mom and dad's remains would be united.

When my father-in-law died, my mother-in-law did not want a funeral. She wanted a notice in the newspaper and that was all. The family gathered for a dinner. She never asked what we did with the ashes. When she dies, she wants the same for herself. No ceremony. No grave. Eventually her ashes will be united with his. She doesn't know that and she doesn't need to.

There are no tombstones to mark the lives of my parents or my father-in-law. There won't be one for my mother-in-law. There probably won't be one for me. Or my husband, when our time comes. No words etched on a rock sitting in a field of other rocks to remind others of our lives.  My mom and dad live in my heart and memory and in the lives of all they touched-as all people do. As I imagine I will do. I don't need words on stone for that.

I talked to some of my friends about their plans. Some have cemetary plots or columbaria already purchased. Others have nothing. One friend said she did not know what she and her husband would do, but "there should be...something?" It is part of our culture to leave something tangible behind.

As a young person I took comfort in thinking my remains would be surrounded by my ancestors in the place they once lived. But it is not a place where I have ever lived, nor is it a place where my kids will live. Part of me feels I belong there, but that feeling is fading with time. Now, I am connected to another family. We have lived in many places. Where I once felt connected to a particular piece of land, now I feel more of a connection with "the land" . My perception has shifted. I wonder about the point of buying a chunk of granite to sit in a graveyard. Wouldn't it be better to use that land to sustain the living instead of celebrating the dead?

I wonder why the fuss about statues erected to the memories of the "famous" people of history. What is the point? To remind us of their greatness? Of our history?  If I don't need a tombstone to remind me that my dad lived, why do I need one for Sir John A MacDonald? Will I forget he was Canada's first Prime Minister if there is no statue in his name? Will I forget there was a world war without a cenotaph of inscribed names?

History is not written in stone. History is alive and around us and influences us every day. My parents shaped who I am just as those who went before shaped Canada. Those influences, for good or ill, will continue to shape our identity as time marches on.

But history is not just about our stories. It's also about place. 

I think about the indigenous children who were buried in unmarked graves at residential schools across Canada. Not only the tragedy of their unnecessary deaths, but that their families had nowhere to go to mourn their passing. Where was their place? Like their lives, erased as if they had never been. Shouldn't there be ...something?

My grandfather was sent to Canada as an orphan. He came here for a better life and stayed for love. He lies buried in the Halcourt cemetery next to my grandmother. But what about his ancestors? They are buried in a tiny cemetery in the UK. 

My daughter said she would go look for the tombstones as the town is not far from where she lives. Maybe if she finds them, she will find a link to her own heritage. A Canadian who left her home country to pursue an education, like her great grandfather, she stayed for love. Maybe those old tombstones will give her a sense of belonging to the land of her ancestors.

And in the end I wonder if that's the real point of a tombstone. Like a funeral, a tombstone is not for the dead but for the living. It's not to memorialize the past but to provide a connection for those who remain. It's a link to our heritage and to the people who left us their legacies-good and bad- and the land that shapes us. 

Halcourt Cemetery