Burial

Maxwell's burial was an iconic event. Someone researched the regulations, and because certain Nordic practices were grand-fathered, we could cremate the body, IF the pyre was a boat on a private body of water. Took some scrambling, but we found a farmer with a stock pond and a dingy on its last legs. Picture the scene. The entire student body and most of the faculty, in their cups, tossing back beakers of schnapps, a fog machine, fireworks, and for that personal authentic remembrance, we all ate pickled quail eggs and bean soup. The miasmic cloud was palpable. Never has anything smelled so bad. At the end, when the final embers had sizzled, we threw our clothes in a bonfire and danced naked until dawn. No one that was there will ever forget. Which is strange, when you think about it, because we didn't even like the guy. Any excuse for a party. First time in years I've deleted names from my list, but as Sandburg (I think) said, the past is a bucket of ashes. I'd build another house, but I'm happy in this one, until you float my boat. I meant to leave work early today, to drink and think about things, but one thing led to another and I ended up closing up shop. I like my job. I was mopping, this afternoon, creating damp chevrons pointing nowhere, and a young couple that had never been in the museum were questioning what something meant. In good janitor form, I leaned on my mop, and pointed out that some things merely were. Their baby was crying. I asked if I could hold him. They agreed. He needed a burp, I quieted the baby and walked them through the Wrack Show. They'd never been in a museum before, had come just for the music, were amazed people could do this. Yes, I said, as a matter of course. Liza said that the film crew had no dietary restrictions but they preferred vegetables. I'll need to run to town. Butter beans, I think, and scalloped potatoes, slaw, the left-over ribs, who couldn't be pleased with that? A nice sour-dough and booze. Life goes on. Light some candles. Laugh.