It wasn’t incredibly busy last Friday—just your routine customers walking in, phone ringing off the wall sort of day.  I happened to be in the business office that morning (as opposed to my semi-personal office) when the phone began demanding attention.  The sole secretary was otherwise occupied, so I did what any self-respecting, responsible employee would do.  I answered it.  The conversation that followed went something like this:

Me:      Shackelford’s, Lisa Thomas.

Her:     (It sounded like an older woman on the phone, somewhat feeble but very certain of her mission.) I need to talk to somebody about moving my husband from that cemetery they put him in to my place.

Me:      (In my head . . .“That cemetery they put him in?”  That’s an odd way to phrase it.  And who is “they”?  If she’s the wife then she should have been “they”.  Maybe answers will be forthcoming . . . ?) All right.  I can help you with that.  What cemetery are we discussing?

Her:     (She gives me a description of the cemetery location [because she can’t remember the name] which shall be withheld in order to protect her identity.  You’ll understand why shortly.)

Me:      Yes.  I’m familiar with that cemetery.  And you say you want to move him to your property?

Her:     I do.  What do I have to do to get that done?

Me:      (I ask about any children [according to her there are none] and then give her my “You won’t always own that land and then what happens to him?” speech before answering her question.) If you decide to do this, you’ll need a permit from the health department.  Whenever you move someone from one cemetery to another or, in your case, to your property, you have to have a permit from the health department, and you’ll need someone to do the work.  (I try never to assume it’s going to be us or to just randomly insert us into someone else’s process without an invitation.)

Her:     Can’t I just do it?

Me:      (Long pause on my part, then . . .) Well, I don’t know how stout you are or how big your shovel is, but even if you get all the dirt out, I’m not sure you can get him up.

Her:     (Laughing) Probably not.  I’m not very big.  How much is that gonna cost me?

Me:      It will basically be the charge for opening and closing two graves, one at the cemetery and one on your property . . . (At this point she interrupts.)

Her:     But what if I don’t want him buried?

Me:      (Longer pause on my part, then . . .) Do you have any neighbors?

Her:     Yeah.  There’s a house across the street.

Me:      Well, I don’t think they’ll be real excited about having him just sittin’ out in the front yard.  (At this point, all eyes in the office turn and look at me.)

Her:     Oh, I’m not gonna leave him out in the cold.  I’m gonna bring him inside . . .

It turns out she was never married to the gentleman in question—which  explained why she didn’t get to decide where he would rest in peace.  They were gonna get married . . . and he bought her a trailer . . . but he passed on before they could.  She’d already called once, speaking with another of our directors, telling him that a nurse told her all she’d have to do is hook him up to an I.V. for a few hours and he’d be fine . . .

Now, after you pick your jaw up off the floor, I’d like to make a few points regarding this little lady and our conversation.

Grief doesn’t care if you’re a genius or have the I.Q. of a stump.  It doesn’t care if you comprehend all facets of life and death or if you are clueless.  It is the nature of mankind to form bonds with other living beings, and when those bonds are broken by Death or some other form of separation, the pain and suffering of grief will follow.  In that regard, Death is the great equalizer, not so much for those he takes, but for those he leaves behind.

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