A giant undertaking.
These photos have significance to me. Not the middle one, really, but how often does one see a lovely dog amidst the granite markers? The bottom, the current state of my paternal grandmother's house, which looks across the way where many of the Winamac folk are buried: May, Hugh, Tom T., baby twin sister, Lucy, so many of the early-generation siblings, Hoesels, Bakers, Torgersons, Torgersens, Jentzs, the bunch. There's room for 2.5 more of us in the plots, my mother says. Harry, being the oldest funeral director in Indiana, tells me he can get me an urn wholesale, when I ask--why not now, when the price might be better than the many years ahead than I hope would be needed before using it--but that one with a kitty on top would be too small for human uh, dust. Morbid? Perhaps. But vapor to vapor, dust to dust. Where and how to get composted: now that's a gardening question. . .