Face Book Makes Me Smarter

No, really.

I mean it.

Recently a friend posted a link. It was hilarious.

Go ahead; click it. I'll wait.

I shared the link on my Face Book page since it unleashed unbridled mirth in me and it seemed selfish not to share it.

When I saw my friend a day or two later, she commented to me about it. I was unable to converse knowledgeably with her, other than to offer effusive thanks for the link. This embarrassed me. (Whether or not it should have shall be a topic for another day.)

I am a reasonably intelligent person, and it was obvious (to me, at least) that I knew little about this famous piece of music. I freely admit that knowledge of classical music is a weak spot for me. I could not allow this situation to continue.

Enter Google and Wikipedia.

Now I know that O Fortuna is a medieval poem that complains about fate, not, as the clip above might lead you to believe, a confusing rant about various foodstuffs and an octopus in boots. It is part of a collection of 254 poems and theatrical texts collectively known as the Carmina Burana, 24 of which which were later set to music by Carl Orff, a German composer.

The pieces were primarily written in Medieval Latin, along with some High German and Provencal. They were collected and bound during the 13th century and later rediscovered in 1803 in a Benedictine monastery in Bavaria.  The manuscript is linked to the medieval philosopher Abelard and was likely in his private collection and later passed on to his son, Astrolabe, who lived in the area of the monastery in which it was found. 

Many of the writings are satirical and even bawdy. They are attributed to a group of clergy, the Goliards. The Goliards were mostly students who wrote in a particular lyrical style and lampooned the Church, both in writings and in demonstrations. Kind of like the Saturday Night Live of the middle ages.

Carl Orff, a twentieth century German composer, discovered the Carmina Burana and set 24 of the selections to music in his cantata known by the same name. It was first performed in Germany in 1937. Apparently, the Nazi government was a trifle uncomfortable with the sometimes erotic content of the writings, but Orff's composition was so popular that they ultimately embraced it. 

Carmina Burana has been widely performed and recorded. If you would like to hear it in its entirety, including O Fortuna, click below, but be warned: you will never hear it the same way after seeing the cartoon!

UC Davis Orchestra performing Carmina Burana.

"Salsa cookies! Windmill cookies! They gave you gonorrhea!"

Thanks, Face Book, for making me smarter!

Next up: how videos of puppies can add years to your life.

My Dream Come True

I spent my day with three 7th grade girls. I took them shopping for dresses for their winter formal. My daughter asked me if I would. She was pleased when I said, "Of course; I'd be happy to!"I was a little surprised the other moms didn't mind that I took them. To me it seemed a privilege.

We went to lunch first, then we went to Macy's, then Dillard's and Nordstrom and Delia's. We gathered stacks of dresses. The girls tried them on, passed them back and forth and posed for pictures.

They giggled, enthused and complimented each other. They tried on outrageous things they'd never wear and enjoyed showing off.

Not once were any discouraged by something that didn't fit right or looked silly. They just kept on, clearly enjoying themselves.

They preened and pranced, admiring themselves unabashedly.

They might not have liked some of the frocks, but they loved looking at themselves! They were not embarrassed to be admiring, but nor were they vain.

There was no sense of comparison with one another; none whatsoever. Not once did I hear any girl put herself down.

After they tired, they wanted ice cream. They all ordered and ate large servings, unselfconsciously. We looked at the pictures I had taken and confirmed our favorites. We returned to the places we had "held" the options and made our purchases. The girls were sensible about price and courteous with the sales clerks as they completed their own transactions.

We made a brief stop in the shoe department and then proceeded to hats. For what is a shopping excursion without some hat modeling? Large brims, church-lady styles and newsboy caps. All took a turn and our laughter was so loud I feared we'd be asked to leave. It was nearing six o'clock when we decided to call it a day.

Once back in the minivan and headed for home, they bubbled with plans to practice hair and make-up.

"Can they sleep over, Mom? Can they? Please?"

"Let's check with their parents. If it's okay with them, it's okay with me."

"Yay!!!"

We've had pizza, dress modeling and make-up demos. I've stayed out of the way, admiring the efforts and enjoying, vicariously, the fun.

Long ago, when my precious B was born, I hoped and hoped that our house would be the house where the neighborhood kids gathered. Mine, growing up, was not. I wanted our home to be a place where my kids' friends felt comfortable and welcome. I never intended to be the "cool" mom. I wanted to be the "nice"mom, who genuinely welcomed their friends and whom their friends considered "safe"- to talk to and to hang around. My Mom was many wonderful things, but she didn't much care for my having kids over and made no effort to know my friends. I always felt it was annoying to her for me to have my friends around, so I rarely did. It was one way I wanted to be different from her.

I watched these three young women today with awe of their self-confidence and poise; their sense of their own style and their appreciation of each other. They are so unlike the 13 year old who I was. They seem to possess an unconscious understanding that their own unique beauty is neither lessened nor increased by the beauty of those around them. I hope they never lose that.

Now I sit before the fire with a glass of wine, listening to the chatter coming from upstairs and the soft singing of a popular song by three voices. I hear the clicks of their tools as they curl one girl's hair and straighten another's.  And I think to myself,

"This. This is what I have always wanted and I've got it."

Owning It

It is humbling, no - humiliating, to look at yourself in the mirror at the yoga studio and see that you are the fattest one in class. I do not mean this in a pejorative way; it is fact.

It is discouraging to be unable to do poses, like plow, that even a few years ago I could roll into easily. Today I had to heave my ass into the air so hard I nearly did a backward somersault, just to get my legs over my head. The handsome young instructor rushed over to make sure I hadn't broken my neck. Once I got into position I was fine, but it was embarrassing to have him feel that he had to help support me in such a, well, "vulnerable" position.


I have spent the bulk (hah!) of my life believing both that I was fat and that my fatness made me unlikeable. I strove, at all times, to dress and position myself so as to appear thinner. I did not have an eating disorder, thankfully, just a heaping helping of self-loathing.

Objectively speaking, as supported by recently unearthed photographic evidence, I was nearly always in a healthy weight range, though not thin, as I was growing up. Facts did nothing to reduce or eliminate my disgust with my own body. I know that my weight has not prevented others from liking me. Still, traces of the self-consciousness I have felt since childhood linger.

Ironically, even though I always felt fat, I also knew I was strong. My body never let me down, whether it was moving furniture, dancing all night, biking, swimming or riding horses. I might ache the next day, but I could always push through and do what I wanted to do. I loved the contours of muscle I gained when I worked out regularly. I had an endless well of energy. No longer is any of that that true.


I am angry. I am angry that I let it come to this. I am angry that I made my own health such a low priority; that I took the path of least (none, nada, bupkis) resistance. I am angry that I listened to the voice of self-loathing tell me that I am too fat for the pool or the yoga mat. I am angry that I took for granted my body's strength and resilience until it eroded away. I am angry that I let my own self-consciousness hold me captive.

I have never described anyone, including myself, as "fat" within hearing of my daughters.  They know nothing of my secret. I never, ever want them to feel anything but love and respect for their bodies as the wonderful, beautiful, amazing beings they are. We talk of health: healthy eating, exercise and differing body types. We eat well. I encourage them in sports and other physical activities. But now, because of them, because I must make my actions match my words and set an healthy example, I push outside my comfort zone.

I have gone to 8 yoga classes in two weeks. 8 sweaty, challenging classes. Each time I enter a class, I remind myself that this is my journey. I must try not to compare myself to anyone else. I know, intellectually, that the other students are not judging me; that they are likely not even aware that my bends aren't as deep, nor my planks as taut as theirs. After each class, I try to remind myself that I accomplished something just by going and persevering. Each time I go, it gets a little easier. I tell myself that change will come, in time.

In the meantime, I'll keep repeating to myself the words of Stuart Smalley:

"I'm good enough; I'm smart enough; and doggone it, people like me!"

Something Old, Something New; Something Awkward Just For You

I have loved yoga for about 14 years. I started attending classes when I was pregnant with my eldest daughter.

As I got bigger and bigger, I got more and more limber. 3 days before I delivered, I could bend forward and place both of my palms on the floor in front of my feet - with my legs straight. I felt strong and physically competent. And for the first time in my life, I loved my own body- both in pregnancy and in yoga.

I stuck with it over the years, at a small studio near our old house. The style there was unique: very focused on posture and alignment and breath, always breath. I do not have a body like Twiggy (or Gumby, dammit) yet I felt completely comfortable in that studio and doing those asanas. I may not have made it to class more than once a week, but I still felt like a yogi in some sense because of the way it touched me so deeply. I felt the afterglow of yoga for hours, sometimes days, after a class.

I had stopped attending a few months before we moved, two years ago. I have missed it terribly. I have gone to the odd class here or there, but nothing resonated. I have a couple of videos and have used them here and there, but not much. See, I'm a people person. I like the collective energy that comes from a being a part of a class.

I discovered that a yoga studio near our house was running a special deal for new students: $40 for 30 days of unlimited classes. I jumped.

Yesterday was my first class. "Slow Flow" they called it. It flowed, as did my sweat, but I kept up. There were some unfamiliar postures, but I worked through them.  The clientele at this studio are a more upscale and stylish bunch than the earthy folk at my old space. I felt a little out of place in my Target brand yoga pants and an old t-shirt in a crowd of manicured ladies wearing Lululemon gear. Still, it felt good to be back on the mat.

I thought I'd try "Yoga Basics" this morning. I got everybody out of the house and made a nice green juice of spinach, broccoli stalks, pear and ginger, brewed a little coffee for the road and set out in high spirits. Alas, it was not to be: rounding a curve on the way to the studio, my coffee cup tipped over and spilled near-boiling java all over my lap. I almost drove off the road. I pulled into the studio parking lot and surveyed the damage.

I was saturated from stem to stern and reeked of Fog Lifter. Not only would my dampness be a distraction for me, I suspected my aroma might be annoying to others, so I headed home.

Undeterred, I cleaned up and headed back for another go at "Slow Flow," this time with a different instructor. This class was quite different from the previous day's: more meditative and with significantly more inverted postures. Maybe that's what did it: all those inversions.

I have always heard that yoga can bring on emotional release: that bursting into tears during practice is not uncommon. In all my years, it has never happened to me nor, as far as I know, to anyone in a class I have attended. Until today.

During our closing relaxation in savasana, the instructor made her way around the room and gently anointed each of us with aromatherapy oil. She had been very encouraging of me throughout class, and she gave me a brief, gentle neck rub with the scented oil. As she wafted off to the woman lying next to me, I felt a lump in my throat and tears began to pour from my eyes. I suppressed the sobs, not wanting to disturb the peace. I shook on my mat in the darkness, tears rolling down the sides of my face. Tears that came from somewhere deep inside, tears that I didn't even realize I had. There was pain inside me and I could feel it then, though I hadn't (consciously) before.

The instructor invited us to sit up. She thanked us for coming. She looked at me and smiled as if she knew, although I thought I had wiped away the evidence before arising.

"Namaste," she exhaled toward us.

Namaste, indeed.

13 Years Ago

Thirteen years ago yesterday, I strode the hallways of the Cuyahoga County Courthouse, bursting at the seams of my maternity suit.

I dissolved one brief marriage, argued about post-decree support and custody with a bitter couple and her surly and snide lawyer and filed a few things with the clerk of courts. I passed another very pregnant lawyer in those echoey marble halls and grinned at her. We were like two freighters, motors in the back, prows jutting forward, trying to maintain a professional appearance despite our advanced states.

Finished, finally, I walked the three city blocks back to the office in a bitter wind. I filed loose papers, went over instructions with my assistant, locked my desk and said good-bye to my office mates. I planned to be out for six weeks or so. The baby wasn't due until January 6, but I built a little cushion in, so I could get some things done before delivery day. I hadn't washed a single outfit or bought diapers or figured out how to install a car seat. That's what the next couple of weeks were for: nesting.

Hombre picked me up in front of the Terminal Tower and we headed to a local Spanish restaurant where we met family for dinner. I ordered the Octopus Diablo, which I ate gleefully after having a bowl of deliciously pungent garlic soup. I treated myself to one glass of red wine. It felt good to sit after a busy day. It felt good to be with my Mom and Dad, my brother, sister-in-law and their girls. It felt good to relax and celebrate closing a chapter - my career before baby.

As we drove home, it snowed; big feathery flakes. I have always loved snow. We marveled at the beauty of it, the holiday lights and our excitement about the coming baby. We had hosted my family's annual Christmas party 3 days earlier at our home and talked Mom and Dad into staying for Christmas, rather than heading back to South Carolina as they had originally planned. Mom and I planned to get things ready for the baby the next day. We got home, let the dog out and headed up to bed. It was about 11.

As I brushed my teeth, I felt a strange sensation.

"I think I just peed myself!"

"That's weird! Are you sure?"

"There is something wet running down my leg, so yeah!"

"Maybe your water broke?"

"No way. It's way too early. Nobody in my family has ever had a baby early. If I have this baby by Martin Luther King Day we'll be doing good."

"Maybe we should call the doctor."

"What for?"

"Just to check and see if this is normal."

"Pregnant women pee themselves all the time. Nothing to worry about," I assured him.

And then, "Holy crap! I think I just had a contraction! Look at the clock - what time is it?"

"11:02"

"Okay. I think my water did break; it's still running down my leg. Will you bring me some underwear?"

"Here you go. Are you okay?"

"Shit. I just had another contraction. What time is it?"

"11:04."

"Crap! Call the doctor to see if we should wait this out or head to the hospital."

"Where's the number?"

"In my Palm Pilot; downstairs, in my briefcase."

"Okay; the nurse on call asked how far apart the contractions are, " Hombre asked, phone in hand.

"About two- oooh, there's another one- minutes."

"She said head in. Doctor Klein will meet us there."

"Dammit. I don't have a bag packed."

"Where's the What to Expect book? There is a list in there, right?"

"Yes, but we don't have time to be reading books. Just use common sense. Grab some underwear and some pj's."

"Should I wake your parents?"

"Yes. Tell them we are heading to the hospital while I get some clothes on."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. These contractions kind of take my breath away. I'll be okay. Let's get going."

We left the house at 11:31 by my clock. We drove though silent, snow covered streets with Christmas music on the radio. An enormous full moon lit up the now-clear sky. In between contractions we talked.

"So what are we going to name it if it's a girl?"

"I like Charlotte."

"No. No city names."

"What about Elizabeth? I want something dignified that won't embarrass her when she's older."

"I like Elizabeth. What for a middle name?"

"Grace."

"I like it. What about if it's a boy?"

"I like William a lot."

"Okay, but we can't call him Bill or Billy."

"Good; I like Will. How about David for a middle name, for your Dad?"

"That works."

At the emergency entrance of Rainbow Babies and Children's Hospital, an attendant appeared with a wheelchair.

"I do not need a wheelchair."

"Honey, let them take you up."

"No. I am perfectly capable of walking."

"Have it your way."

The attendant merely shrugged. "Labor and Delivery is on 4."

No sooner had we entered the elevator, than another contraction hit, hard, and I wished I had taken the attendant up on his offer. I was excited but a bit anxious. I didn't feel ready. I am a planner; I like to prepare; to have things organized, details itemized, rehearsals complete. I had done none of that.

We checked in and a pretty, young nurse directed me to a changing area. As I changed into a gown, she told me that this was her first night on her own, after her training. She was very sweet.

She asked me when I last ate. I told her I finished dinner about 9. She asked me what I had to eat. I burst out laughing and told her.

"I wasn't planning on having a baby tonight or I would have had something, well, "milder.""

She made a face and said, "This is gonna be fun!" She walked me to my room and left.

Hombre and I looked at each other in disbelief. It was really happening.

Nurse McSweetie reappeared with a needle.

"Let's get an IV in you, so you'll be ready for anesthesia."

"I'm not planning on anesthesia. I think I can handle this okay. I really don't think we need an IV."

"Let's call your doctor's office to confirm that it's okay with them if you don't have an IV."

"Why is it up to them?"

"It's a matter of courtesy."

She returned a few minutes later.

"The nurse on-call said a hep-lock is okay."

She poked; I winced; she clipped and taped. I was slightly annoyed.

A few minutes later,  a young female resident appeared.

"I'm Doctor So and So. I am going to see how far you are dilated, " she announced.

"8 centimeters. Fully effaced."

She wasn't done yet:

"Oh my god! I think I touched a nose! Nurse! Go get the attending!"

I looked at Hombre.

"What the fuck?"

A young man appeared, in a white coat like all the others. A couple of even younger looking white coats trailed slightly behind him. I began to worry a bit. Why were all these people here? Where was Doctor Klein?

"I am going to check the baby's position," he said.

"Posterior. Face presentation."

"I thought so," said Dr. So and So, smugly. I didn't like her.

"What does that mean?" I asked, very worried.

"It means that instead of the baby's spine being towards your front, it is against your spine, which is not that unusual, but the baby is also face-first. Usually, the baby's chin would be kind of tucked, so the narrowest part of the head comes through the birth canal first. In your case, the head is tipped back, so the baby's face is pressed right against your cervix."

"Is the baby okay?"

"Fetal heartbeat is fine, no signs of distress. We'll just keep an eye on everything. This is your first, right? "

"Yes."

"Then it will probably take a while for things to progress. Don't worry.Your doctor will be here soon."

The crowd dispersed. Nurse McSweetie reappeared with ice chips.

"How are you doing? That resident isn't the nicest, is she?"

I smiled.

"I'm doing great."

She dimmed the lights, checked the baby's heartbeat and my blood pressure.

"You're sure you don't want an epidural? If you wait any longer, it will be too late."

"No. I'm doing fine."

Oddly enough, I was.

I had begun yoga when I was about 4 months pregnant and had gone to my last class just a week before. I had never taken yoga before, but I loved it. I loved the flexibility of my enormous body and the sense of peace I left each class with. We had learned focused yogic breathing: breathing out with contractions; isolating the area of pain and relaxing the remainder of the body. To my amazement, it seemed to be working!

Soon Dr. Klein strolled in, dapper in his navy blazer and tie. It was about 1:00 a.m. He greeted us and said he'd be back shortly, after he changed. He seemed jovial, almost ready for a party.

When he returned and examined me, he was blunt:

"The resident told you about the way the baby is positioned?"

He gestured with his hands, demonstrating the way the baby would have to navigate through my pelvis.

"I know you want to do this naturally, but I am only going to let you push a few times and if we don't see that the baby is progressing right away, we are going to have to do a caesarian. The most important thing is getting that baby out healthy, alright? That is what we are going to do."

Usually he was so solicitous, so mild. I had not seen this side of him before, but it was clear that he was in charge.

He had travelled a long road with me toward this night. Six years of trying to have a baby. Six years of hormone pills, invasive and painful tests, one emergency surgery and many, many disappointments. He was right; the most important thing was not what I wanted, but what was necessary. Tears spilled from my eyes and down my cheeks. He patted my shoulder.

"The baby is doing fine and we are going to make sure it stays that way."

Hombre held my hand. "You are amazing," he said.

"You should see her, Dr. Klein, the contractions come and she goes into this zone and breathes and then when it's over she goes right back to the conversation like nothing happened!"

Dr. Klein grinned at me. "I'm not surprised."

The night wore on; the contractions came closer and closer; they became rougher and stronger.

Finally, the time came to push.

"Give it everything you've got!"

Once.

"How's the baby?"

"Fine. Push again! HARDER!"

Twice.

"You are doing great! One more time - HARD!"

Three times.

"The head is out. One more big push and you're done!"

Four times.

6:42 a.m.

"You've got a baby girl! Come over here and cut the cord, Dad."

I shook and shook. I was cold. I was sweating. I heard tiny cries.

"Where is she? I want to hold her. Where is she?"

"They are cleaning her up. She'll be right here."

Finally, finally, they gave her to me. My tiny baby, 6 pounds 4 ounces. Her face was red, except for a perfect circle of purple from the bridge of her nose to her chin.

"She's a little prize fighter," Dr. Klein said.

I cradled my Elizabeth Grace in my arms and she held her head up and looked straight into my eyes, studying me, memorizing my face. She looked like a little owl to me. So wise and solemn. I felt like I had known her forever.

(I'd post a picture, but we forgot to bring the camera to the hospital.)

Mama Got her Sparkle Back

I have never been a play-it-safe kind of a gal.

When I was young I liked bad boys, loud music and driving fast. I pushed the envelope. I debated with teachers. I orchestrated complex pranks. I was a feminist at 10. I took Billie Jean King's victory over Bobby Riggs as a personal achievement, even though I didn't play tennis.

I wanted to protest, to march, to rebel, but during the '80's at my college, few others were into that. We railed against investments in apartheid South Africa (and won - the university divested) but then asked ourselves, "What next?"

I routinely threw caution to the wind. I drank too much, danced until my legs ached, snuck into the stables at night and rode horses bareback. I was a passionate smoker and a brazen flirt. I went to bars in bad neighborhoods and went home with the new friends I met there.

Right out of college, I went to work for Procter & Gamble as a sales rep. In Oklahoma. Selling Crisco and peanut butter and cake mixes and Pringles. What was I thinking?

My first apartment was a studio just a few blocks from Oral Roberts University in Tulsa. I didn't know about Oral Roberts; had never heard of it. It was September and hot. I strolled out to the pool in my bikini with my Bartles & James and Benson & Hedges, sat down next to group of young women and said hello. En masse, they stood up and walked away. That's how I found out about Oral Roberts University.

"C'est la vie" was my motto; I didn't let it get me down. I found clubs that blared Talking Heads until 2 in the morning, even in Tulsa.

I was a natural at sales, but I chafed at P&G's dress code and form-over-substance policies and in short order headed off to law school.

Nobody really enjoys law school, but I loved it. I loved the heated debates and political discussions. I loved talking about big issues and, well, partying with like-minded new friends. I loved using my brain and being free to speak my mind. I graduated with a load of student loans and no job, but a heart full of possibilities.

We all have to grow up some time and I did, too. I settled down, got married and had kids. I practiced law in firms and on my own. I loved my husband and adored my girls. There were times when the routine, though I loved my life, seemed a little stifling. I couldn't complain; I chose my life and I am so very privileged to have been able to do so. And yet I began to feel like a smaller, rather pastel version of myself. I thought that was just what happens. My inspirational well was drying up. Not much seemed exciting any more. I wondered what to do next.

And then my posse called: "Let's get out of town!" "Let's meet in Chicago!" "I'll drive!"

We road-tripped like the old days. Met in a hotel and gabbed, sipped wine and went out to eat. We walked everywhere. We window-shopped, acted crazy and sang karaoke. We danced and giggled. I remembered who I am inside and felt loved by women who "get" me. I don't have to settle for pastel. I can be my bold, brazen self.  I was positively effervescent.

And so, for my birthday, I did something I have wanted to do for the longest time. I went to a tattoo shop. I was a little nervous. The guys who ran the joint, covered in body art and multiple piercings, were incredibly kind. They didn't make me feel like a middle-aged suburban mom, slightly out of her comfort zone.

I got my nose pierced, but even better than that: I got my sparkle back.

The Things We Do For Love

More than 10 years ago, I was in a hearing in Domestic Relations Court. It had been rescheduled because the magistrate had a death in her family. She thanked us for our flexibility in changing the date and then explained that her mother had passed away.

She is Muslim and she told us that it is their tradition that the close female relatives of a deceased woman (not the undertaker) wash and dress the body for the funeral, which generally occurs within 24 hours of death. She and her aunts and sisters joined together to do that on the day we were to have been in court. Of course I and the other attorney were gracious about the rescheduling. These things happen; we never know what life has in store for us. We went on with our business before the court.

As we left the courthouse, the other attorney turned to me, and said, "I could never do that. How disgusting! Wash a dead body!"

I responded, "I don't know, I have never been asked to do it, but it seems like such a loving thing. A final way to take care of a person you loved and make sure that they are treated with care and dignity, not yanked around by a stranger." I thought it sounded like a beautiful tradition.

"I guess you're right, but I could never do it."

"I don't know, but I think I could."

We went our separate ways, back to the busyness.

On my walk back to the office, I mulled it over. I hadn't known about this Muslim tradition; hadn't known that this magistrate was Muslim; hadn't thought about the prospect of washing and dressing a body before that day. My parents were both in reasonably good health at that point, so the reality of it seemed pretty distant.

I wondered when and why our western culture had become so squeamish about death and dying. It used to be that bodies were "laid out" at home and visitors came there to pay respects and offer condolences. After a couple of days, the body was buried in a wooden coffin in a family plot or churchyard. The family was apparently not spooked by having a body in the house. Maybe they even took comfort in the nearness of the loved one who would soon be buried. Maybe it felt normal because that is what other families did. Maybe there were no other options. But at some point that all changed. Why?

My research indicates that burial customs started changing during the Civil War. Arterial embalming - the injection of a preservative solution into the arteries of the deceased - had been developed around 1830, primarily to preserve cadavers for scientific use. During the Civil War, some northern families had the bodies of slain kin quickly and crudely embalmed so that they could be shipped home from southern battlefields for viewing and burial.

American opinion was very unfavorable about the private use of this process, but that changed significantly with the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the funeral procession of his body around the country. It was the first opportunity for most Americans to see an embalmed body. Interest increased, although the custom of the undertaker coming to the home of the deceased, preparing the body and measuring for the casket still prevailed, perhaps due to the relative scarcity of embalmers. Undertakers up to this time were typically cabinetmakers who built coffins and took care of the dead as a side business, although often midwives also prepared bodies for burial.

At the onset of the twentieth century, germ theory was beginning to be widely accepted and the notion that a dead body may be unsanitary gained favor. Mortuary Science became a course of study that included licensure and certification. Embalming required equipment and a space away from the distraught family in which it could be performed.  As more people died in hospitals they had to be moved immediately after death anyway. Once it became necessary to have the body moved to the funeral home for embalming, there was reluctance to have it brought back to the home following that process. Enter the family funeral home or "parlor".

The early and mid-twentieth century saw the rise of the funeral industry, with the mass production of ever more elaborate metal caskets and the increase in goods and services offered. Unethical practices which involved preying upon grieving families for the sake of profits became widespread and were then exposed in the media. As the public became fearful of being taken advantage of, cremation rates climbed. During the 1970's through the 1990's there was a tremendous consolidation of family funeral homes. Where there had once been funeral homes dedicated to particular ethnic groups, located in their neighborhoods, there became fewer, larger facilities, often retaining the names of the entities they had "swallowed".

Anecdotally, it seems that the increasing use of hospice services may result in more deaths at home once again and more cremations may result in less embalming. It will take time for these trends to play out, but it seems our funeral customs are continually evolving. I wonder if we will, as a culture, take back some of the care of our beloveds that we have relinquished to outsiders?

Even though practices may evolve with technology and social mores, the desire to "do right" by a deceased loved one will never change. We still want to respect their wishes. We still want them treated with dignity and even love, whether by us or by someone else.

My family was lucky because we did not have to guess at our parents' wishes. They were courageous enough to accept the inevitable and to provide their children with guidance - possibly their final acts of parenting us. We were brave enough to listen, accept and remember.

They wanted to be cremated and then interred at the church they helped found in South Carolina and they wanted a party - a "celebration of life"- to include family and their dear friends.

At the time of their funerals, immediately after each of them died, the funeral director offered us the use of a "loaner" receptacle for their remains during the calling hours and Masses, until we could decide what we would use long-term.  My brothers, both skilled woodworkers (learned at Dad's side), examined the box.

"I could make that," James said.

"I think I will. I'd like to make one for them, for their ashes, if that's okay with everybody."

"Okay"? It wasn't okay, it was perfect.

No member of my family is particularly emotional; it's just not our style, but my brother James is the most laid-back of all of us. And yet I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, cutting the wood, piecing it together, sanding it, finishing it, and then placing Mom's and Dad's ashes inside.

He carried it into the church for the memorial service, then outside afterward and out to the "peace garden" where the columbarium sits. As Hurricane Sandy blew and spit rain, he gently slid it into their niche.

He did all these things in his typical, non-dramatic, matter-of-fact way. I suspect it was rewarding to him to have done it and probably therapeutic, too, but it cannot have been easy.

Such a generous, heartfelt gift to them and to all of us: that they should rest, together, in a beautiful casket made for them with love. I will always be grateful to him for his willingness to take it on and to do it so beautifully and with such grace.