St John and the jolly gloves

This week we had my Mother in Law's interment.

She actually died last February, and was cremated then, but the ashes have sat with the Funeral Directors (not literally, I hope) until now.  Mark and his sister decided upon having them interred with their Grandparents grave at a teeny church in the middle of nowhere named, appropriately, St John's in The Wilderness.  How cool.

It is under ten miles from our front door.  I have lived here all my life and I have never heard of it, much less been there.  It was lovely, as you can see.

Arriving uncharacteristically early, the six of us in attendance took a stroll out around the graveyard (as you do).  I was all for sitting in the car with the heater on full blast, but hey ho.  On approaching the graveside, it became apparent that the hole being excavated by the gravedigger was - how shall I put it - in the wrong place.  Bloody Norah.  He was very matter of fact about it, filling in the incorrect cavity and quickly knocking out another in a few graves further on. 

This little drama aside, I have to say I thought this was a very comforting way to end things.  In my opinion a burial is too harrowing and a cremation too clinical.  This felt 'nice' and more healing than either of the two other methods.  Although obviously the cremation had to take place first in this case.  Maybe it had a lot to do with the time lapse between the cremation and interment.  In any case, I 'liked' it for it's simplicity, intimacy and ceremony. 

I have told Mark and Oliver that I couldn't give a shit what they do with my body after I die, just to do whatever takes their fancy at the time.  Death, I feel, is all about the living. 

There was some debate as to what to wear.  I went for warmth over occasion in the end with 'sober' colours, but things I would normally wear for the winter.  As we were preparing to leave, Oliver came to me with his gloves, asking if there was another pair as he thought his were 'too jolly for today'.

Oh his choice of words makes me chortle.  I always picture chubby blokes with red cheeks whenever I hear the word 'jolly'. 

Never a chubby bloke with red cheeks around when you need one.