Last year three members of my extended family died: my husband’s two grandmothers and my grandparents’ dog. All three bodies were buried, but only one had a burial I’d wish for. Grandma Etter and Grandma Joyce can have their cemetery plots; I’d rather be buried next to Scruffy, in the backyard.
Technically, Scruffy’s not buried in the backyard. He’s buried next to the path that leads to my grandparents’ summer cottage, which faces east onto Coffee Pond, Maine. Scruffy’s body lies amidst the roots of hemlock bushes and beech trees. My grandfather chiseled Scruffy’s name into the stone that marks his grave.
Grandma Etter and Grandma Joyce are buried in separate cemeteries in Ohio. They chose their gravesites before they died, and I respect their foresight, but I would not willingly choose a similar fate. Who wants to lie amidst all those dead people? And I must confess, even if it means sounding disrespectful to kind elderly women, this is more than a matter of taste. I have outright hostility for people who choose to be buried in a cemetery. No one is so important that they deserve to hog a plot of land for eternity. Once someone has had their shot at life, they should step aside and let the rest of us dance where we see fit.
I want to rest beneath those dancing feet. I’d prefer to have dogs playing fetch above my unmarked grave than to be separated from the things that I love. And this is why Scruffy is lucky to be buried at the lake: his body rests in a place that is calm yet full of life. Coffee Pond is so small that a confident swimmer can swim across it and back—too small for large, disruptive motorboats. Because the lake is spring-fed, the water is cold and clear. But it’s not just the physical landscape that connects me and my family to the lake, it’s the memories we made there: the diving lessons, canoe rides, and cookouts.
Recently I told my husband that when I die, he should wrap my body in a sheet and bury me in the backyard, next to where our cats will someday be buried. We don’t actually own a backyard since we live in an apartment in Durham, but I expect we’ll have one someday. And I expect that someday at least one of our three cats will be buried there. I’d like to lie next to them, with only a small gravestone marking the site, one that moss and grass can easily overgrow. After hearing my request, first my husband told me I was being “gross.” Then he speculated that the sight of him burying a body in the backyard would look pretty suspicious to the neighbors. Finally he declared that there had to be some law prohibiting such burials.
Meanwhile, I contacted the North Carolina Board of Mortuary Science. It turns out that in North Carolina the laws regarding burial on private property vary among individual cities or counties. Regional information is found at local health departments. In Durham, Orange, and parts of Wake counties, the government does permit burial on private property. Before burial, the Environmental Protection Agency must approve the site to make certain the body will not interfere with a water source or septic tank. North Carolina law does not require the body be embalmed, and the site does not have to be marked, although the death certificate should list where the body was buried. The body must be covered by 18 inches of earth, and a casket is not required.
Of course, burial in the backyard is not the only way to avoid cemeteries; cremation is also an option. If I can’t be buried on my property, then I will be cremated. But the older I get, the more violent cremation sounds—all the heat and pressure brings to mind intense suffering. And I don’t want to interrupt nature’s course by leaving the energy that’s left in my body to be consumed by fire. We live by consuming the energy contained within other organisms. Then we die and become food for those who are still alive. If I’m cremated, I cannot bequeath my hydrocarbons to worms and fungus, or my nitrates to Japanese cherry trees.
There are practical matters to consider in deciding how to bury a body. For example, is wrapping a body in a sheet a good idea? Bodies that do not die in a hospital must be examined by a coroner. If I were to die at home, someone would have to transport my body to the coroner’s office and back. Dead bodies start to soften from decomposition within hours of death. No one in my family would want to just wrap a decaying body in a sheet and shuttle it around town.
Another practical matter to consider is how deep the body should be buried. At a mere 18 inches underground, the legal limit, a body wrapped in a sheet is at risk of being dug up by bears, wolves, and dogs. If the mammals don’t consume the body, insects will. I don’t mind insects, but I’ve seen what dogs do to bones.
So, I’ve decided that 4 feet underground in a wooden coffin is a good way to go. With this kind of burial, anaerobic bacteria would inherit my hydrocarbons and liquefy my flesh in 1–2 months. My bones would remain indefinitely.
The thought of being liquefied by bacteria does make me a little squeamish, but the idea of being buried in the yard still feels right to me. Everyone else can have their cemetery plots and cremation ovens; the cats and I will be in the backyard.