When I go, feed me to the trees

BY BOB IRVINE

The deceased bore a look of serenity that was at odds with his loud Hawaiian shirt.

This was a ruggedly handsome face at peace after a life well-lived.

Mourners admired the recycled rimu coffin fashioned by his own hand. Sniffles arose from the crowded auditorium as Aretha sang Say A Little Prayer over the PA.

A ripple of energy pulsed through the throng before most could see what was happening. Three stunning women, in skimpy black dresses that were more lack-cloth than sackcloth, lunged forward and threw themselves across the casket.

"No," they wailed. "Don't leave me, Bob. You were the best."

The mourners were stunned. A few, though, nodded their heads, detecting the hand of their late friend in this mischievous piece of theatre – some would later swear they saw a smile crease his face. As the rest cottoned on, laughter rolled through the hall. Or it will if I do it right. I'm leaving money in my will to hire the ladies.

Why shouldn't I direct the last drama of my life? I recently sat in a roomful of people who intend to do just that. Staring death in the face, they were. Not quite laughing, thankfully, because I always think those who laugh in the face of death are ill-mannered boors – the Grim Reaper has feelings too. These were eminently sensible folk with the courage to plan for the inevitable. And the Reaper will call on you and me, with the certainty of a telephone survey in the middle of dinner.

We numbered about 20 at a seminar by natural burial advocate Lynda Hannah. She has just won a decade-long battle to have land set aside in Tasman district for those who wish their bodies to decompose with as little damage to the environment as possible. Strange to think this is viewed as unnatural by the funeral industry.

Lynda is also a "guide" for families going through the death process, so she knows the ropes. Tell your own relatives what you want, she implored us. Write it down – not in your will, which might be read too late. Circulate your wishes to those who will bear you through the final journey.

The process can even be DIY, Lynda adds. A few forms to fill out, some health conditions to adhere to, and you can be interred or cremated for a fraction of the bill from an undertaker.

As you probably know, natural burials are only a metre deep, with an untreated timber coffin (or just a shroud so long as it sits on a firm base), a formaldehyde-free body, no headstones, and native plantings near the grave. Cremation, she says, "wastes all the marvellous nutrients in your juicy body that could feed a tree". (Lynda knows this is a grounded audience who will wear such risky humour.)

The serious message is that 12 per cent of the toxins in the atmosphere in Europe are estimated to come from crematoriums. I still fancy it, though – becoming worm fodder holds no appeal.

Lynda points out that incineration is also wasteful of energy. All true. I remain unswayed. I'll leave some cash for the gas bill – once the ladies have been paid and a knees-up arranged for the rest of the gang. My nearest and dearest can pop me in the back of the hatchback for the trip to the crematorium.

Apparently quick burials or cremations are the trend anyway, with a memorial service weeks or months later when far-flung relatives have had time to converge. Bring a trowel, because in my case that service will be a concreting job. My ashes are to be mixed with a slurry and used to bed in a seat for walkers beside the Maitai. I habitually sit on one near Riverside pool after a Sunday morning swim, share a thermos of tea with a friend, watch the river burble past, listen to the hypnotic peal of church bells, and think: "This'll do." Family will be informed shortly.

My fellow seminar-goers are way ahead of me. One tells me she has already filled out the burial paperwork. Now that's grounded.

After my last column, transplanted Irishman Patrick McGrath forwarded some of his favourite lingo from the Emerald Isle to add to my collection of "Norn Iron", the idiom of Belfast: "Jasus, Mary and Joseph, you put the heart crossways in me," someone might gasp when frightened.

A farmer in the wilds of Connemara complained to Patrick that his thatched cottage was "damp enough to give the rheumatism to a wet duck".

When a cafe customer asked if the cream was fresh, the waitress replied, "If it was any fresher it would be grass".

Rough lads from out of town are known as "culchies".

"He lost the run of himself" (very confused).

"Will ye look at him with his daggins on" (overdressed).

"Totally lobstered" (badly sunburned).

"She would talk the cross off a donkey's back."

And "he's so mean he would peel a potato in his pocket rather than share it."

Northern Irish migrant Gilly English added a trio of greetings: "How's yer belly off fer spots?", "How's about yee?" (reply: "Stickin out" or "Stickin outa mile").

Finally, "If I don't see ye through the week, I'll see ye through the windy [window]."

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