Alkaline Hydrolysis is in the news. It’s a body disposal process heretofore used mostly on animal carcasses and with some cadaver matters, but could–soon enough for some of us–be available for any body and as affordable as cremation.I ain’t no scientist, but as I understand it:Body + Lye x Intense heat and Pressure = Liquid.Lye is added to the body in a big stainless steel “cooker.” The liquid is the consistency of motor oil and can be flushed. What doesn’t swirl down the drain ends up as a dry, bone-like residue and can be returned to survivors in a special container or an urn, if you know what I mean.Alkaline Hydrolysis is also known as “water-based biocremation” or “resomation.” Whatever you call it, critics have dubbed it undignified, too weird: or, as my neighbor Greg puts it, “Yucky!” Those in favor, site an absence of emissions and say it’s “environmentally responsible.”And so, the list of considerations for a body at expiration date grows: burial, green burial, cremation, promession (freeze-dried), cryogenic treatment (freezing for later thaw and revival), the aforementioned Alkaline Hydrolysis . . .I hear mummification is making a comeback.

My husband loves comic book action movies and I love Robert Downey, Jr., so we saw Iron Man on the day it came out. (The only other instance where I saw a movie on the release date was on a dare to brave first-day crowds for Jackass; and the film was actually more funny than gross.)

Great movie–Iron Man–with a terrific cast, amazing special effects, blah-blah-all-that; but what resonated with me were the threaded themes of knowing who to trust in the face of death and thinking about what kind of legacy you want to leave.

Perhaps as an intentional and haunting reminder of how art imitates life, Downey’s character was told in the movie, “Don’t waste your life.”

Before Iron Man, a preview for the new Batman movie was shown with hardly any footage of Christian Bale as “The Dark Knight.” Instead, the spotlight was on the late Heath Ledger as “The Joker.” (Don’t waste your life, indeed!)

An afternoon at the cinema drove home–at least, for me– the importance of making the most of the here and now, while keeping in mind: the hereafter.

Jo, Your performance is really fantastic; I sincerely hope you will decide to play more gigs in the coming months! Your mama’s boys love to play that music with you. Looking around the room and seeing all the cute ladies and men singing along was so sweet, and I loved the looks of shock—and delight—at the certain lyrics or gags they would never have expected, unless they knew you! Way to make history at the Heather Gardens for Betty, Jo! Let me know if I can ever help out with any of your various schemes to make people happy. Love, Adrienne

Jo Myers and the Mama’s Boys played Betty’s 80th birthday party, proving we can do the songs “straight” even though we are “loose” in about every sense of the word. Woo! What an afternoon! Betty has a big family and many friends, most of whom sang along with the songs from the 1930s and ’40s. Some sang while they danced, which happened every time I announced on the bullhorn, “Ladies choice, ladies choice.” (Oops, we never checked to see if the facility had a cabaret license. Hope we didn’t break any laws.)The food was delicious–sushi, sandwich wraps and birthday cake– and we made new friends. One lovely gentleman, originally from Italy, told us that he played these songs on trumpet in a band just after World War II. We asked him to join our band, but he declined.At the end of the day Betty thanked us and I gave her a birthday gift, a copy of my book Good to Go. She seemed pleased. I think she said, “Thank you, I think.”

This is us: Jo Myers and The Mama’s Boys! As usual, Drummer Dave has to be the center of attention. But it’s okay because he’s awesome!

Jo and Andy (aka, Mashed Potato) during the “piano bar” segment of our show. The song: Two Sleepy People (”Here we are, out of cigarettes/Holding hands and yawning/Look how late it gets . . .”)

Album cover shot of bass player, All-Night Steve. We call him that because he does the overnight show on 99.5 The Mountain. (What were you thinking?)

A drive to the cemetery where my parents are buried would take me about three days. My sister can get there within four hours. She and her husband “visited the folks” recently on their way to Nashville and noticed the flowers looked ratty, so they replaced them on their way back home. She called to tell me this, and to pass along more information.

“The grass on Dad’s grave hasn’t grown in yet,” Sis informed.

“Gosh, it’s been five years! Why hasn’t the grass grown over by now?” I wondered aloud.

My brother-in-law joked it was because Dad was too mean. (The grass on his grandmother’s grave didn’t grow for eleven years and his family always said it was because she was mean.)

BLOG ADDENDUM (Email from sister)

I called the cemetery.  She said, and I quote: “Whey-ul, wee jayust need to resod, and all jist put in ay work order, and hopevully the nayext time yall’re he-er, maybe ya’ll be happy.”

So, I guess that did the trick.  Plus, Dad wasn’t mean.

The people in this picture are the parents of my friend, Neysa. When she discovered that her folks had purchased plots at the cemetery in the home town three hours away, Neysa insisted they visit the final resting place together and asked Mom and Dad to pose for a picture by their headstone. One parent obliged, the other refused to assume the position (other than kneeling). After this picture was taken, Neysa then asked her parents to lie down on the ground side-by-side below their headstone. Millie was game. Ellis was not.

I want to party with Neysa’s mom!

The Third Wednesday in March

Most mornings start early for me—before dawn. At first I did not notice the large Orwellian object in the cemetery; but, turning away from the coffeemaker, I saw the spectacle: a yellow John Deere backhoe in the spotlight of truck headlights. It resembled a spaceship anchored by 4-pronged landing gear, or some super-sized metal “bug” from War of the Worlds that had somehow positioned itself overnight on the other side of my deck fence.

By the time darkness faded to gray-light and blue sky, a grave had been carved in the ground.

The funeral was held in the middle of the day. It was a big one. However, I was not aware of the event until I heard a bagpiper play Danny Boy. He segued into The Marine Hymn. I watched from an upstairs window as six young marines in uniform carried the casket across the lawn. A priest delivered a brief graveside eulogy. The bagpiper closed with Amazing Grace.

In the late afternoon, the sun was sinking in the sky as I looked outside and saw people near the grave. Moved by the sight, I took a picture:

4:30PM on March 19, 2008.

That night, I realized the date marked the 5^th Anniversary of Iraq War)

There was a night of sharing on March 18, 2008 at HeartLight Center in Aurora, Colorado.

In attendance were widows, widowers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, parents, hospice volunteers, college students, victim advocates, policemen, members of clergy, a grief counselor, and a funeral director.

Fifteen people rsvp’d, forty showed up. All but a handful had something to say. Four people were silent during the sharing.

As a group we examined the classic clichés of comfort; new ones were added. We talked about what was good to say to someone in grief (which consisted of mostly nothing!) and what was helpful to do. It was an amazing, ear-opening night.

The comments were emotional, direct, sad, funny, shocking, raw, thoughtful, respectful, resentful, angry, hilarious and, most of all, helpful.

If it could be reduced to one sentence: Most people do not know what to say or how to behave around a person in grief.

If you are someone who knows what to say or do, please add to the sharing via email: info@goodtogothebook.com.

On a recent trip to the San Antonio area, my sisters-in-law and I passed the historic cemetery in Boerne, Texas. We were on our way to the local shopping district, but I asked from the back seat, “Can we go back to that cemetery?”

Pattie, my husband’s brother’s wife, was driving and said, “It’s okay with me.”

My husband’s sister Carey said, “I don’t mind.”

I pulled out my camera while Pattie turned around and drove us back to the graveyard. She and Carey chatted with each other in the front seat as the car crept along beside me. I was hopping around the grounds, snapping pictures.

They were patient; several minutes went by before one of them called out to me from the car, “Jo, how long do you think you’ll be? Should we go shopping and come back to get you?”

Not wanting to be abandoned in a cemetery, even though it was broad daylight; and not wanting to admit I did not want to be left there alone, I picked up the pace, answering, “Not much longer.” (I enjoy taking pictures of statuary and interesting headstones–the older, the better.)

After adding twenty-five to thirty pictures onto my digital camera, I came across the tombstone of a man who died in 1891–a mason “Aged 73 Years”. Engraved in cursive under his name was this poem: “Slowly faiding (sic), lingering, dying/Like the leaf, he passed away/Heeding not our tears of anguish/Heaven has claimed its own today”

One last click of my camera and I was good to go, returned to the car and shut the door.

“I’m done,” I told the ladies. “Let’s go shopping!”

A few days ago my son Jack–known as That Jack in my book Good to Go–completed a three-month internship teaching English at an elementary school in Costa Rica. Last year, when he made his airline reservations for this experience, he allowed for extra time at the end of his trip to tour the country. He did not know if he would be traveling alone or meet someone during his internship who would be able to accompany him on this adventure. Jack was only a few weeks into his school commitment before he and a young lady from Australia–another intern–made plans to travel together. (They are at this time roaming around somewhere in Central America doing God-only-knows-what. Oh, I’m sure they are fine.)

My older son Beau–known as Darling Beau in my book–has expressed interest in someday working in Antarctica and then, touring New Zealand. He says he will surely meet someone on “The Ice” who wants to join him and he will make plans to travel near the end of his journey back to the U.S.

Hmmm. Making plans for the end of a journey . . .
Taking a cue from our adult children: Life is a journey. Who is good to go?

While reading the obituaries (aka, The Women’s Sports Pages), I discovered that an attorney I had hired fifteen years ago recently passed away. A feature article about his life related how he eventually left the law profession to pursue a different career. I was not surprised to learn that he became a high school teacher and his students were putting together a scrapbook in his memory.

I clipped the article out of the newspaper. It ended up on top of a stack of papers on my desk. I walked by it, saw it every day for two weeks before I sat down and wrote a letter to his wife, whom I never met.

The letter to my lawyer’s widow detailed how he had touched the lives of others–mine included–with his professionalism and kindness; certainly, something that she already had known about him.

Even if I had delayed two months or two years in writing the letter the timing would be right, for I imagined she would always be comforted to know that her husband’s life made a difference for so many.