Tag Archives: cremation

Crème

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crème: (n) cream

Sometimes I foolishly allow myself to get on a jag of discovering correct grammar, proper sentence structure, and believe it or not, accurate spelling.

In the midst of this pursuit, I occasionally stumble on a word that has an old-time spelling and a new-fangled spelling without any particular consensus on which one is definitively correct.

Idiot that I occasionally am, I adopt the unusual spelling or pronunciation, thinking it makes me a trifle uptown or high-falutin’.

The result is always the same.

All the people who do not share my predilection for a historical study of the English language—etymology—immediately wonder why in the hell I use the word etymology when I wasn’t mentioning insects.

I know they don’t know what they’re talking about.

I am positive I have discovered some nugget of personal treasure which I am offering in order to seem expansive.

But inevitably, I’ll be corrected—rudely.

In one of my novels I wrote that my character requested “coffee and crème.”

First, my spellcheck had a stroke. (You know—when the squiggly line is SO dark and red that you realize it’s coming from a rage from spellcheck’s childhood.)

I resisted spellcheck and had it published, only to hear from grammar Nazis, concerned friends, and those who joined the club (which probably is called, “Cream Should Be Spelled C-R-E-A-M.”) They all asked me to reform. I became defensive, which made them believe that I was not only ignorant, but mentally challenged.

 

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Cremate

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cremate: (v) to reduce a dead body to ashes by fire

I grew up with a “Kellogg’s” approach to death and burial.

This was more or less taking your loved one, sticking him or her in a box, sealing the lid and tucking the flake away.

All the funerals I went to had gorgeous cereal boxes. They all ended up at a gravesite where the container was lowered into the ground, covered over and marked with a stone that insisted in granite that this individual once lived.

So when my thirteen-year-old son passed away from complications due to a hit-and-run accident, I was far from any home we had, traveling on the road. I immediately discovered that those boxes ain’t cheap.

Not only are they expensive, but they demand that you buy a plot of land—which is also extremely costly—and place your loved one in an area where you must to drive to visit.

Well, I realized I was not going to live in the community where my boy died, so I was offered the option of cremation. It was considerably less money. Also, at the end of the process, they handed over a box containing a sealed, plastic bag of dusty and ashy remains.

It was rather shocking. Opening the lid, I took a peek at the contents. It reminded me of when I was a kid and was given the job in late October of cleaning the fireplace out so we would be able to make a nice, cozy flame on cold, winter nights.

… Ashen, clingy powder that wanted to stick to your skin—or if you got it too close to your face and inhaled, could make you cough.

This was not my son. This didn’t represent his brief journey.

I thought to myself, maybe it’s a good thing. Instead of painting up something that’s dead and gone, burn it up, confirming that it will no longer be here.

I picked up the carton, put it in the back of our van, and we traveled with it for years—stuck in the corner near the wheel well.

At times I considered scattering the ashes, but there was no particular place that had more significance than another. Absent finding a resting ground for his soot, I felt more inclined to just keep him nearby.

Matter of fact, he’s still with us.

My younger son has taken him and lifted him up in honor … in a corner of the attic.

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Ash

Ash: (n) the powdery residue left after the burning of a substance.dictionary with letter A

I thought it was going to be an urn, but I guess I was on the budget plan.

When my young son passed away, we decided on cremation. There were two reasons–at that particular time we were traveling around and didn’t exactly have a “home cemetery.” And secondly, it was cheaper.

What they handed me was a black plastic box.

I carried it around for several weeks, a little bit spooked by the fact that my son’s entire life and memories were confined within this container.

Then one day, in a private moment, I opened it up. There was a plastic bag which was sealed, filled with gray dust.

I must have stared at it for a solid hour.

It was more than surreal. It was nearly mentally debilitating.

I had a picture of my son in my right hand, and in my left hand was a bag of his ashes.

I didn’t cry.

Rather, I felt great bewilderment, revelation and hopelessness, all at the same time. How could such a beautiful spirit, smile, giggle and mischief be burned down to a bag of what appeared to be the dumpings from a vacuum cleaner?

“Ashes to ashes…”

Is this really how we begin? Are we made from the dust of Earth?

And how do we reconcile that in our pursuit of creativity and invention?

After about an hour of staring at that bag of gray residue, I stuffed it back into the black container and have never looked at it again.

We are more than ashes and less than gods.

Wherever that revelation may take us is what we must truly discern … to be righteous.

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