Twenty years ago my mother and I went back to Shubert,
Nebraska to visit my Grandmother Ruby.
It was Memorial Day weekend and, after Sunday service, Ruby had to go
and clean up the Welsh Cemetery, as she was superintendent. So we raked the leaves, and swept the
paths, and put up little flags on the grave of every veteran. When, at last, we were done, Ruby took
the opportunity to show us a few graves, like that of her great-grandfather,
Henry Clay Christie, who had fought at Fort Donnellson, Pittsburg Landing, and
the Siege of Vicksburg.
At some point, my mother commented
to me, “When I die, I’ve donated my body to science but, after that, you could
have a memorial service or something.”
“Mom, we’ve already made
plans!” I answered enthusiastically, “When the doctors are though cutting you
up, we’re going to have the scraps ground into sausage!”
My mother, being godless and
essentially frightened of death, was appalled, but Ruby just asked, “What kind
of spices are you going to use?”
“Why — dill, I suppose. That’s Nell’s favorite spice.”
“Oh, use something stronger!” Ruby insisted, “Nell always needed more
spice!”
