It wasn’t just the fact that one got a contact high the minute one walked into the purple haze that was my apartment building, but the Frat Bros were loud! For a couple of stoners who spent an inordinate portion of their lives chilling, they made SO. MUCH. NOISE. I know I sound like Mr. Heckles complaining about the “noisy girls". And if you ask, I’ll adamantly deny using a Swiffer in a misguided attempt to show my displeasure by banging on the ceiling, but instead spasmodically swinging the mop around with an utter lack of the motor skills necessary to effectively pound on a ceiling with a swivel-head mop.
My daughter and I liked to guess what the Frat Bros could possibly have been doing up there to create such a cacophony. Our top contenders were Irish clog dancing with a few of their closest friends, playing leap frog, auditioning for Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, throwing a shot put, and reenacting Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball while using Hippity Hops.
Suffice to say, I’ve learned that location is important. Living in cheap apartments that butt up to a college campus is not the best idea. But just how important is location? Ask my mom.
When my dad passed away, I helped my mom pick out an urn for his ashes. A couple weeks later, she decided she didn’t want the ashes in her home. Having them nearby wasn’t a comfort to her; instead she found their proximity disturbing. She called me up one day to inform me of her decision.
“I don’t want your father’s ashes in the house. I want to have them buried and when I die, you can put me with him.”
“Okay, I can understand that,” I assured her.
“But is that okay with you? If I don’t have your dad in the house?”
“Mom, whatever you want is fine with me.”
“I wish I hadn’t gotten this fancy urn. I wonder if I can return it,” my mom mused.
“Um, I don’t think you can return a used urn.”
“I could clean it out first.”
“Mom, just bury the urn.”
“Well I went to the cemetery yesterday. We could be buried in the ground, but I don’t want that. I think the ground would be cold and I’m always so cold to begin with.”
“You understand we’re not going to bury you while you’re alive, right? Because I really don’t think feeling cold will be a factor when you’re, you know, dead.”
“Well, I don’t want to be in the ground.”
“Okay,” I said, humoring my mom.
“They have a columbarium there. It’s a tall cylindrical structure with all these compartments for cremains.”
“So a condo for dead people.”
My mom didn’t respond to that, but I could see her exasperated look through the phone.
“But they only have 2 boxes left and they’re on the bottom level,” she continued.
“And you think your upstairs neighbors will be too noisy?” I asked in the way you might slowly ask a suspected crazy person ‘and do you hear those voices now?’
“You never know,” came her matter-of-fact answer. “I sat on the bench to see if I could read the names on the bottom row. I can see them pretty well.” Before I could interject that she would be the one in the box and therefore have no need to read the name on the box, she continued, “The man at the cemetery said that they were building a new columbarium next year, but there is a waitlist for that one. I just don’t know whether to take one of the boxes in the bottom row or to put my name on the waitlist for the new one.”
“I don’t understand. The reason you were even looking at the cemetery was because you don’t want dad’s ashes in the house. And there’s a spot open so you can move them there now. But because it’s on the bottom row, you’re thinking of putting your name on a waitlist and seeing if you might be able to get the penthouse in the new structure next year?”
“Yes.”
“Okaaay,” I said even though I didn’t understand any of this.
“Also, I asked the man at the cemetery if they shoveled snow on the walkways around the columbarium and he said that sometimes they do; if they have time.”
“Mom, I have to reiterate, you’re dead. What do you care if the sidewalk has been shoveled?”
“Well, I might want to visit your dad before I’m dead, Dawn.”
“You, the woman who doesn’t drive, and doesn’t like to leave your house even in nice weather, might want to visit dad’s ashes in a blizzard, and the lack of snow removal would be a hindrance?”
“Also, I noticed where they’re building the new columbarium, the ground dips down a little next to it. It’s like a little ditch. By the old one, there are trees. But I did notice one of the branches was broken on that tree . . .” She went on, comparing the two options. She ended her musings with a question. “Will you drive me to the cemetery next weekend so I can show you and get your opinion?” my mom asked.
“Oh, I can give you my opinion now, Mom. No visit necessary. But I’ll take you there next weekend so you can have another look.”
So I went to the cemetery with my mom and youngest daughter, Brooklyn. We pulled in and saw a crowd of somber-looking people surrounding the columbarium, so we parked and waited for the mourners to disperse. As they made their way to their cars, the three of us approached the columbarium and saw the door to one of the boxes on the bottom row was open. A man was putting a container into the niche.
“That was the box I was considering for your dad and me!” My mom was absolutely distraught. “He told me that box was available!”
Brooklyn and I exchanged glances. “Well Mom, that box probably was available last week, but people die and suddenly their families need to make arrangements. It’s not always planned out in advance. But I thought you said there were two boxes available in this columbarium?” I asked.
“Yes, but the other box is on the side that faces the street.”
An unspoken “And???” hung in the air between my daughter and I.
My mom walked over and sat on the bench, facing the last available compartment. She tilted her head and looked at the box. She looked up and around, taking in the whole scene. Then she got up, turned around, and sat back down on the bench facing away from the columbarium.
“Whatcha doing there, Mom?” I asked, legitimately curious.
“I’m trying to see what the view would be like if I was inurned there.”
“Should we tell her she’ll be dead and won’t have to worry about the view?” Brooklyn whispered to me.
“Yeah, I’ve had that conversation a number of times. Just go with it, “I said, giving up trying to convince my mom of anything logical.
She returned to where my daughter and I were standing and declared, “Well, that makes my decision easier. I’m not going to be put in a niche facing the street for all eternity. I’ll call them on Monday and put my name on the waitlist for the new one.”
“That’s great. I’m glad you made a decision and you’re happy about it.”
“Although . . “ Brooklyn and I, eyebrows raised, looked at each other. “...there aren’t any trees over where they’re building the new one. I hope they plant some trees for shade otherwise it could get pretty hot.”
Before my mom could get tangled up in a whole landscaping debate, my daughter and I propelled her to the car.
So there you have it. In life, and apparently well beyond, location is important.
