Home & Garden

Death, like taxes and reruns of Who's the Boss, is simply unavoidable.

I think about death a lot. But in a fun way.

Sometimes I plan my funeral, imagining who'll show up and the music that would be played — maybe an organist's version of "Come Sail Away," the acoustic version of "Freebird" or pretty much anything by Night Ranger. Whatever makes people stand, sway and raise their lighters in true power ballad reverence.

But what really tickles my fancy is planning what to do after the funeral. I have two scenarios, both involve cremation.

Scenario #1: Mail them to a faraway stranger with a cryptic note, "You know what to do, B -."

Just imagine some dude opening his front door one Saturday morning to greet the UPS man who hands him an urn filled with random ashes. He'll stand there in a bathrobe, racking his brain trying to think of all the people he's ever known with a "B" in their name. His wife will be no help and together — over shared looks of suspicion — they'll try and solve a riddle.

For weeks, or months or even years my dusty remains will sit on their coffee table as conversation and controversy swirls around me.

That's assuming they're kind hearted. Otherwise I'll be in the trash, mingling with the coffee grounds and Domino's pizza boxes.

Scenario #2 is a little less dramatic — plant a tree, using me as fertilizer. What better way to memorialize a garden geek than by making him an actual part of the garden.

'Course the hard part is choosing the right plant. Like I was in life, so shall I be in death. Which is to say — high maintenance. I want a plant that's needy, one that'll wilt like a sleepy child in a boring Sunday sermon if it's not paid enough attention.

I want something exotic, something creepy-cool, something expensive. I want a Twisted Hazel, a Contorted Filbert. No, these aren't headliners at the state fair freak show. These are the names of an actual shrub best known as a Henry Lauder's Walking Stick.

Granted, I've only seen one in real life. What I like most is the idea of the Henry Lauder.

During most of the year it's fairly nondescript. But in the fall, when its shroud of leaves is stripped away, what's lurking underneath is a tangled, beautiful mess of gnarled and knotted branches that look like a medieval torture device.

Now that's a plant with enough dark personality and flare to serve as a suitable metaphor for the emotional distress my loved ones will undoubtedly endure when facing life without me.

That or it'll give 'em all a good excuse to cuss me when they're lugging pails of water up some godforsaken hill to water my memorial.

Either way, it's the closest to immortality one can get without being bitten on the neck by a pale English guy with sharp teeth and an unhealthy aversion to crosses.

Works for me.