Boris's Burial (Non-religious Funerals)

Member Name: duncantorr

Product:	Non-religious Funerals
Date:	01/07/09 (230 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: "I came like the wind...."

Disadvantages: "....Like water I go."

"You can often judge a man by his funeral." (Stephen, my younger son)
_________________________________________________ __________


Up until a couple of months ago, I would have been in no doubt as to what to do if I wanted some ideas about non-religious funerals. I would have consulted my cousin Boris.

Boris was not only a rich source of ideas about everything, but had direct experience in this field. At one stage during his multi-faceted progress through life (with Boris, you couldn't use so conventional a word as career), the devising and organising of 'alternative' ceremonies had been part of his stock in trade. I still remember vividly the offbeat, original and outstandingly enjoyable wedding he arranged for his brother Neville, although that must have been some thirty years ago.

Had he known he was going to die suddenly, I'm sure Boris himself would have scripted and stage-managed his own funeral in advance. Without doubt he would have wanted a ceremony, and to go out with a bang. Boris loved spectacle, and loved being among friends, and loved family gatherings - what better occasion to combine all three? He had, in truth, left instructions on just one small detail - of which more later - but not on the proceedings as a whole.

So it was left to others to arrange the event for him, specifically his widow Maggy and his son George. The responsibility could not have devolved into more capable hands.


* The Venue *

There was only one place Boris was ever going to want to be buried: at his home. Nearly forty years ago he and Maggy found an almost derelict cottage in a remote corner of northern England. Surrounded by a few of its own acres, it was perched on an isolated hilltop, with distant views of Pennine fells. Despite tight finances in the early days, and frequent long absences while they were travelling in pursuit of their theatrical work, they painstakingly restored the cottage over the years and extended it, converting outbuildings for use as studios and workshops. It was, and is, a beautiful place.

Being buried in your own back garden is perfectly legal, though subject to numerous restrictions that make it impractical in many cases. You, or rather, your surviving relatives, have to inform the police and the Environment Agency, and to obtain a Certificate for Burial from the local Registrar. The very isolation of Boris's home probably made his case easier than most - proximity to other dwellings can be an issue - but Maggy and George tied up the red tape very quickly, and the date was set for just a fortnight after the death.

Apart from sentiment, a home funeral also offers practical advantages. You don't need a plot in a churchyard or cemetery. You don't need to book a slot for the occasion at someone else's venue. You can dispense with the services of a funeral director. Finally, you can have the ceremony, if any, and the actual burial, and whatever accompanying social activity you want, all at the same time in the same place.

Arranging your own funeral in this way is not confined to the irreligious, of course, but it tends to suit us better. Believers generally have a preordained procedure laid down for them, to which they feel it proper to adhere, and tend to prefer to be buried in the graveyards consecrated by their faith. We non-believers, among the many benefits we enjoy by dint of disbelief, are free from such constraints.


* The invitation: *

"We have a date now. Sat 25th April at 1 p.m. We'll bring him out of his little 'office' lair, take him round the garden for a last time, and then pause in the paddock for a few words/songs, in the workshop if wet; then take him to the wood and put him in. Bunfight; maybe more words later, and more music.

"There will be a chance to say something, or sing, or whatever. Speak to George. Good old theatre friends Andy & Gill are mentoring.

"If you are able to come, it would be lovely to see you. The house is full, but there is camping space in the nextdoor field and an outdoor loo. And plenty of simple food before and after. Or I have a list of local B&B's. But don't worry if you can't; friends in faraway places are going to light a candle for Boris.

"We'll fetch Boris out on Friday and get him set up in the coffin which I and friends are going to make from green stripey bamboo, which grows abundantly here. George and his mates will have dug the hole. Paeder will play Boris's bagpipes.

"Go carefully; we are not young after all.

"Love
Maggy"


* The ceremony *

The day was overcast and blustery, but Maggy and George decided to chance the weather and stage the ceremony on the lawn. There wouldn't have been room inside for the gathering that had assembled, in any case. Certainly well over a hundred people, maybe two hundred, had found their way to the hilltop retreat. Boris, although never famous in the sense of being a household name, was well known and well respected among those who shared his various vocations, as well as by his family and friends.

The coffin, which had been borne that morning around the progress prescribed for it, waited on trellises in front of rows of benches. Skillfully crafted, it was lined with moss, rosemary and forget-me-nots, and Boris's body, clad in a robe of scarlet and gold, had been encased within.

George acted as compere. After a few remarks of welcome, he read one of Boris's poems. Did he emphasise the line "Friends achieve the constancy of stars" or did I imagine that? He then introduced in turn each of us who wanted to contribute.

Pete, a close friend of Boris and a fellow-musician, gave a brief outline of his life, listing just a few of the many words that could be used to describe him: "a poet, a script-writer, a stone-carver, a cook, an inventor, a tent-maker, driver, gardener, maverick, singer, piper, guitarist, samba-drummer, film editor, book-writer, mentor, teacher, photographer, water-colour-artist, friend to my children, a dandy, a body-boarder, a broken-nosed smiler, a pragmatic builder of things, performer, costume-maker, make-up artist, warm hand-shaking hugger, traveller, researcher, fire-builder and a garden-mower." The final reference was a poignant one; it was while mowing the very lawn on which we were all seated that Boris has suffered his fatal heart attack. Pete then sang a song, 'Out of Sky', inspired by a saying of Boris's about birds running out of sky in which to fly.

Next, I spoke briefly on behalf of the wider family, now being - an alarming thought - the oldest blood relative. Knowing that others would highlight the many talents and skills, I took as my cue Pete's "hand-shaking hugger" and emphasised Boris's warm and generous personality. I tried too to convey something of my admiration for the way Boris had lived life on his own terms, guided always by the lodestar of his own principles and intuition, with humour and tolerance of those with other principles, but without compromise. And with success.

Malcolm, a friend since university, told anecdotes of folk-singing, and of freezing in a wintry Morecambe Bay in pursuit of one of Boris's early exploits in film. Goffee, a clever clown, played a trumpet fanfare and released a balloon, which promptly lodged itself in the topmost branches of a nearby tree. Keith recalled further student memories. Gill, Andy and their daughter Sky sang a far-from-woeful ballad to Boris's "mossy eyebrows", as George had described them when a child. Peter, a neighbour, talked of Boris's vigorous contribution to the local community. Ian, another songsmith, sang a folk song with Boris associations. So many things artistic have Boris associations that it is hard to know where to start, or stop. John, Boris's long term theatrical collaborator, added more memories and a poem, witty, ironic and sad.

Sasha, daughter of Boris's novelist friend Adrian, sang - beautifully - a song entitled 'Children of Blake', making the shrewd observation that Boris's creative philosophy was very much in the tradition of William Blake, something that I had previously been too dense to appreciate. And Margaret Ann, Boris's niece, recited a poem that his death had inspired in her, simple but subtle, and very moving.


* A moment of silence *


* The Piper's Request *

Letter - in Boris's customary calligraphic handwriting - to his friend and fellow-piper Paeder, 2002:

"Dear Paeder,

"I hope you and yours are all well - as am I and mine. And I know it's a bit uncharacteristic of me, but when I heard the Queen Mum's piper playing a lament, I bethought me of my own mortality and thought I might request a favour. I've thought, ever since I played pipes, that Brian O'Duff's is the lament I'd really like to have played at my funeral. It's a quare job - musically - but I love it. So, the question is - will you do it? Incredibly slow and repeated at least 30 times - Black Bush to be dispensed throughout!

"Please say yes.
Love and coffins, B"


* Love and coffins *

And so, to the lament of the pipes, the coffin was borne to the grave, which George and his mates had carved from the earth with neat, geometrical precision. It waited gaping in a glade in the wood, a glade open at one end to afford a sweeping view of the northern landscape, a view that would inaccessible to the deceased, but not to those to might come to visit his resting place.

As we followed the coffin the rain began to fall and, by the time we gathered round the graveside, it was pouring heavily. This was a slight dampener, not only on our spirits, but also on the firecrackers that had been set and primed amid the moss with which the bottom of the grave was lined. Clearly, I was not the only one who thought that Boris would have wanted to go out with a bang. As it was, a muffled crackling had to suffice; at least it wasn't a whimper.

The coffin was lowered in, and each of us took turns to shovel a few spits of earth into the grave. Soon it was entirely filled, with an even mound bulging up proud of the surrounding grass, topped by an arrangement of bluebells, spelling out his name.


* The bunfight *

Black Bush was indeed being dispensed throughout to those who knew where to look for it, as was beer and wine. Many, though, were content to drink tea and devour the buns, scones and sandwiches that were laid out in great profusion in Maggy's workshop, which had been festooned with photos and mementos for the occasion.

The rain cleared, and we spilt out around the house and grounds, coalescing into amorphous clusters to chat and reminisce. As at all the best funerals, one gained new insights and understanding by exchanging and comparing reminiscences. As at all the best funerals, the mood quickly lightened, and people began to enjoy themselves. Beyond the hubbub of conversation, the many musicians present began to form themselves into impromptu bands.

We left towards the end of the afternoon, driving down from the hilltop to begin the long trek south. Many others were also leaving by then, but I know that some remained until late in the night, for eating, drinking, singing and mirth. All as it should be. It is, I sometimes think, no coincidence that the word 'fun' is part of the word 'funeral', macabre though the thought may seem. The last thing Boris would have wanted would have been a solemn, sombre or sober send-off.


* Alternative funerals *

Forgive me. I am conscious that this has been more about Boris and his particular burial than about alternative, non-religious funerals in general. But it seems to me that Boris's example, in death as in life, is somewhat inspirational. What it teaches us, or at least what it taught me, is the inestimable value of being true to one's own individuality and doing things one's own way, however odd, or even bizarre, others may find it.

Boris's funeral was exactly right for him, because it was arranged to be that way by those who loved him. Similarly, the quiet scattering of my mother's ashes by a party of her descendents that took place a few weeks later was exactly right for her; we knew this for certain since she had stipulated it in advance. My own advice, if I have any to offer in this review, is that it is worth setting out your wishes in advance, or at least ensuring that the arrangements will be in the hands of those who know you intimately. If you, or they, are stuck for ideas, there are plenty of sources - for example, assuming you want a non-religious ceremony, have a look at the British Humanist Association website, which also provides advice on the practicalities of funeral arrangement.

Of course, you may not care what becomes of your bodily remains after you're dead, in which case it would be waste of time to stipulate. But if you do care, and don't make your wishes known, well, that's your funeral.


Remembering Boris, musician, showman, artist, cousin and friend, 1941-2009.




© Also published under the name torr on Ciao UK 2009

Summary: An example of a non-religious funeral