So…a coupla days ago I picked up my mail from my country mailbox, which has two fine looking horses grazing in a bucolic rural setting on it.
I saw what looked to be a friendly letter – white linen envelope with my name calligraphy-ed on it- with nary a hint that it might be from Ma (bamboozle me) Bell, or Ridiculously (expensive) Rogers or Holy Hijack-my bank account- Hydro- so I took it home, poured myself a piping cuppa black coffee and sat on my porch to enjoy what I hoped was a letter from a cherished friend from far away- or maybe nearby- I was open to any and all possibilities!
Imagine my surprise when I unfolded one half and then t-other and saw it was a letter from the local funeral parlour espousing the virtues of pre-planning my demise. WTF I thought to myself (as one is wont to do when receiving such an invitation), whadda am I supposed to do with such a droll message on such a sunny day?
It’s not that FF and I have never discussed said topic. In fact, FF is quite clear on what he wants to do about the situation when the time comes.
As for me?
Getting plonked in the ground is out of the question as I am unequivocally not a fan of big fat wiggly worms…unless of course they are cherry red/green gummy worms!
As far as planning for my own cremation…it feels too much like a prescient foreboding! Besides, I hate making an ash of myself when people are looking.
The epiphany to my dilemma came as I flew down the highway yesterday- a beauty of a summer day- top down- music up- ring-a-round-the-rosy clouds skipping in the sky.
“When the time comes-knock on my own head- I’m gonna drive me right up to the Pearly Gates in my vintage, souped up, ragtop, shiny blue Mustang.
Photo: Betsy Bertram
And of course, with that in mind, I began to imagine (as I am wont to do) the conversation that would take place upon my arrival.
“St. Michael, it’s true! You are an Arch Angel!” I’d exclaim all valley girl gush! “Love those magnificent wings!”
“What you doing here Miss Thang in your blue Mustang?” a modernized St. Mikey all rapper-like Drake would respond.
“I need a one dance,” I’d say slyly, just to get on Drake-y-Mike’s good side.
“How’d YOU get here with YOUR reputation?” he’d ask, finger shaking, head revolving, bowling-alley thunder scudding through the clouds.
“Wing and a prayer. Wing and a prayer,” I’d reply, humble as pie.
“Well I see here in God’s official ledger, you’ve been one very wild child. Not the sort at all we let through Heaven’s Gate.”
“Is there somewhere else I can go then?” I’d ask, squeezing my best crocodile tears down my repentant cheeks.
“Take your first left, then a right, then roll right down the big hill,” St. Mikey says, with just a thread of compassion.
“What’s the road called?” I’d ask tremulously.
“Highway to Hell,” would be the response, as the gates slam and a necklace full of pearls fall off.
Sheesh, and to think I used to love that song.
I’m beginning to hope that the rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.