I read a fabulous piece in the LA Times (link is here) about professional pallbearers. More common in the American South, it’s a relatively new sight here in the California South.
The article delves into the lives of some of the men who’ve taken on this task, and it definitely tugs at the heart strings. But what I loved about it was the mental image of these dapper dudes, and the dignity they must surely bring to a body’s final stretch of the journey often referred to as “homecoming.” Reading this piece put me in mind of New Orleans and that city’s celebration of life.
I’m not a religious gal, so I don’t necessarily view life and death in the same regard as true believers. Still, I flippin’ love this world. And I adore the idea of celebrating the lives of our nearest and dearest, upon their passing. I don’t deny the mourning. I just think room can be made for a little revelry. Joyful, heartbreaking, tearful revelry.
After reading this article, I mentioned to Mister that I hope upon my passing there will be a big party to celebrate the fact that I did my best to live. He responded, “Oh my god! When you die, we’ll have your art all around and there will be music and dancing, and plenty of your favorite foods!” I looked at him and pointed out how he had inferred he’d be part of that celebration. He laughed at himself, and said, “Yeah, as if you’d be gone and I’d still be around.”
For what it’s worth, my wish is that we’ll be around for a long, long time. But when I do go, those professional pallbearers would be a nice touch.