‘One night, lying on my lounge…’ he began, then stopped. ‘Excuse me Mrs. Lax, I am happy to avoid the poses – despite my litheness they are tough on my limbs – but would you mind if I did it in italics?’
‘Not at all, please do.’
One night, lying on my lounge, when very tired, my children all around me in full romp, and hilarity and laughter – on the loung, half awake and half asleep, I dreamed this dream:
I was in a far country. It was not Persia, although more than Oriental luxuriance crowned the cities. It was not the tropics, although more than tropical fruitfulness filled the gardens. It was not Italy, although more than Italian softness filled the air. And I wandered around looking for thorns and nettles…
[‘As you do,’ I thought, cynically.]
… but I found that none of them grew there, and I saw the sun rise, and I watched to see it set, but it sank not. And I saw the people in holiday attire, and I said: ‘When will they put off this and put on workmen’s garb, and again delve in the mine or swelter at the forge?’ But they never put off the holiday attire.
And I wandered in the suburbs of the city to find the place where the dead sleep...
[‘Well really,’ I thought to myself, ‘I know I have my parents buried in the backyard but the Reverend might be a little morbid if the first thing he does when he comes to a new town is look for the cemetery.’ ‘Twas as though he heard my thoughts, which had admittedly been spoken quite loudly, and he responded, Be quiet Mrs. Lax, I’m talking, and you’re out of grapes.]
… and I looked all along the line of the beautiful hills, the place where the dead might most blissfully sleep, and I saw towers and castles, but not a mausoleum or a monument or a white slab could I see.
[‘Cannibals?’ I queried. But he ignored me.]
and I went into the chapel of the great town, and I said: ‘Where do the poor worship, and where are the hard benches on which they sit?’ and the answer was made me:
‘We have no poor in this country. And then I wandered out to find the hovels of the destitute, and I found mansions of amber and ivory and gold; but not a tear could I see, not a sigh could I hear, and I was bewildered, and I sat down under the branches of a great tree, and I said: ‘Where am I? And whence comes all this scene?’
And then from among the leaves, and up the flowery paths, and across the bright streams there came a beautiful group, thronging all about me, and as I saw them come I thought I knew their step; and as they shouted I thought I knew their voices; but then they were so gloriously arrayed in apparel such as I had never before witnessed that I bowed as stranger to stranger. But when again they clapped their hands and shouted ‘Welcome, welcome’ the mystery all vanished, and I found that time had gone and eternity had come, and we were all together again in our new home in heaven. And I looked around and said, ‘Are we all here?’
[Note to reader: I had stopped paying attention by this time, and was doling out 'farvins' for the servants’ monthly pay. I’m glad you’re here to keep up appearances however.]
…and the voices of many generations responded: ‘All here.’ And while tears of gladness were raining down our cheeks, and the branches of the Lebanon cedars were clapping their hands…
[‘Nice touch,’ I thought. I’d caught that bit.]
and the towers of the great city were chiming their welcome, we all together began to leap and shout and sing, ‘Home home home home!’
‘No poor in Heaven?’ I flustered. ‘No poor? What on earth makes life worth living without those wonderful, salty, dumpy poor? I fear, my good sir, that if I did not see someone else sitting on a hard bench in church, I may find my own luxuriously soft bench particularly less comfortable – why, it would make me a worse Christian, if that be possible. I mean, if there could ever be anything to challenge my faith.’
‘There you are, Mrs. Lax,’ sayeth the wise Reverend De Witt Talmadge. ‘That’s the way it goeth. All will be equal in Heaven, and jumping up and down singing one-word songs wearing amazing clothes. I wonder if you have ever seen a show called Video Hits on television?’
‘I may have caught it, while looking for something to complain about. And I found plenty, might I add.’
‘Well, Heaven is a little like that television program, only the trees clap their hands.’
After I bade the Reverend farewell, I fell to thinking. Not about his absurd notions of equality; why, you might as well put a hat on a turnip and call it Winston Churchill; but about the importance of correctly dying.
You have lived a grand, obsequious life, of little consequence except that it caused no ruction, no tremor, no trial. You upset no apple cart, and went about your life piously, correctly and with as much pearlash, emprote and alabaster as was right. You applied yourself to the right stages, and in the correct order: birth, school, work, and now, death.
Keep a sound head about you when dying, is my advice: don’t thrash about or cause a scene. It’s hard enough for your children and your children’s children to see your demise, without being reminded of late 90s Metallica videos. Don’t groan, merely smile; if you must express some unusual OTT behaviour, a few words about clapping cedars will suffice. Present an example. A few more tips:
Die with your hands on your hips and your legs together to fit snugly in your coffin.
Die with your eyes open; officials and religious folk love to do that eye-closing-with-one-hand trick.
Before dying, make sure to dispose of all ‘spending my children’s inheritance’ bumper stickers and other paraphernalia.
If dying at sea, make sure to do so in a calico sack which can then be stitched up with a few quick movements before you are thrown overboard.
If you have further queries about death, consult with a specialist e.g. a dietician. He will answer all your questions and concerns.
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