{"id":12943,"date":"2014-10-24T18:01:12","date_gmt":"2014-10-24T22:01:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=12943"},"modified":"2014-10-31T22:06:01","modified_gmt":"2014-11-01T02:06:01","slug":"the-grave-workers-tale","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=12943","title":{"rendered":"The Grave-Worker’s Tale…"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cAh, Lord!\u201d he muttered, shaking his head sadly,
\nthinly, wearily in the dark. “I have seen them all\u2026
\nI have seen them come and go\u2026.” And for a moment,
\nhe was silent. \u201cIt\u2019s pretty strange when you think
\nof it,\u201d he muttered\u2026.And he was silent, and
\ndarkness, mystery, and night were all about us.<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe
\n_______________<\/p>\n

It was just an ordinary late afternoon, last Saturday. Big Blue and I were cruising around, running some errands. And it was a little early to be stopping by, when I came to Vinola\u2019s. But I pulled in. Rosita had told me. She and a few friends were checking out the place tonight, soon before six. The restaurant part, I mean. I love Vinola’s<\/a>. I think I might have mentioned that before, on this blog. I\u2019m always raving about the place on Facebook. I brag about how great it is, wherever I go. The food is just fantastic. If you\u2019re ever in the area, you really should stop by and check it out. There\u2019s a restaurant, there, for all you people who won\u2019t sit at the bar. If you stop by, tell them Ira sent you. And spend lots of money. I\u2019m figuring to work up a few comp drinks, here. Anyway, I had told Rosita often, at work. You and Ken should check it out sometime. And tonight, she was there, with a few friends. So that\u2019s why I pulled in early, to see them. <\/p>\n

They were sitting at a table right close to the door, when I walked in. I sat with them and chatted for a while. Rosita had ordered an \u201cIra,\u201d a real sweet drink Amy the barmaid named after me a few months back. (Nah, the story of how that all happened would take too much time, so I\u2019ll skip it. I\u2019m pretty proud to have a drink named after me, though.) They were waiting on their food. How\u2019s the drink? I asked. They all beamed. \u201cIt\u2019s really sweet and good,\u201d Rosita said. Well, I said. If you\u2019re not used to alcohol, I\u2019d suggest that the three of you just share that one. It\u2019s got a lot of different stuff in it. We chatted along. Outside, in the parking lot, a pickup with a cattle trailer was backing in under the big old oak tree. I looked. It\u2019s not often you see a rig like that pulling into Vinola\u2019s. The driver got out, walked around to the other side, opened the rear door, and pulled out a wheelchair. The guy in the passenger\u2019s side lifted himself over, and they trundled in. I watched. Right up to the bar, they went. It was a little high for the guy in the wheelchair, but he made it work. <\/p>\n

I walked over to the bar, then. It was pretty full, for it being so early. I took a seat at the far right end, behind the beer taps. Amy smiled in welcome and mixed up my Rob Roy. She brought it over with my usual glass of water. I hear someone ordered an \u201cIra\u201d tonight, I told her. She laughed. \u201cYeah, when she (the server) first asked for it, she said someone wants an \u2018Ora.\u2019 I told her to go back and ask again, and she came back and said \u2018Ira.\u2019 I knew what to mix up, then,\u201d she said. I laughed, too.<\/p>\n

I just relaxed, then, and watched some football. I chatted a bit to the guy next to me. Kind of lean and wiry, he was, with a little blond mustache. He didn\u2019t seem all that talkative, so I didn\u2019t push anything. A few minutes later, I asked him, though. You get here often? I really like this place. I call it my bar. I live only a few miles away, so it\u2019s real handy for me to get to. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here a lot,\u201d he said. \u201cJust earlier in the day. I got a forty-five minute drive, to get home. But I work two minutes from here. So it\u2019s pretty nice for me, when I\u2019m leaving work, to have a drink before that long drive home. But it\u2019s usually around mid-afternoon, when I stop by. So I\u2019m here late, for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

We chatted a bit more. And then I asked what guys ask each other. What do you work? He told me. \u201cI work for (I forget the name), a burial vault company. That\u2019s what I do. I go out and install burial vaults.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at him, extremely interested. A guy who worked in the death industry. I\u2019ve often seen those trucks going down the road, pulling those funny little trailers. I\u2019ve often wondered how it would be, to work for a place like that. Where you\u2019re out at someone\u2019s grave, almost every day. Not that there\u2019s anything wrong with such work. Someone has to do it. Still, it\u2019s the kind of thing I\u2019ve always kind of shrank from. Working in graveyards. I never figured I\u2019d ever experience anything like actually doing such a thing. Now, here was the next best thing. A guy who did. <\/p>\n

Wow, I told him. You mean you go out and install vaults that will hold the coffins? That\u2019s pretty wild. And I asked a lot of questions, rat-a-tat. Do you dig the graves, too? How about covering it, after you put that lid on the vault? What\u2019s a vault made of? How do you deal with being around death, so much? Practically every day like that?<\/p>\n

When you ask people what they do for a living, they can tell if you\u2019re genuinely interested with your questions. They can tell, if you\u2019re being fake or real. And he opened right up, and talked and talked. We sat there, sipping our drinks, just like old friends. <\/p>\n

And he told me a bit about his work. It\u2019s an industry, of itself. People who work in it know each other, are connected, a lot. He used to manage a smaller vault company, west of here. But he got tired of that, and came over to this much larger company in Leola. He liked not having the pressures that come from management. He liked just working in the shop, and going out to the field. \u201cIt\u2019s good pay,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I\u2019ll never run out of work. Whatever happens, I\u2019ll always have work.\u201d Yeah, I said. I can sure see that. <\/p>\n

And he told me a bit about his world. Most vaults are made of concrete, although you can buy cheaper wooden ones. The concrete vaults are warrantied to remain sealed for a hundred years. What kind of sense does that make? I asked. I mean, who\u2019s gonna dig down and check, say, in fifty or sixty years, whether the lid\u2019s still sealed or not? \u201cIt\u2019s just a marketing gimmick,\u201d he said. Well, I said. It\u2019s probably for the living, that warranty. It\u2019s sure not gonna make any difference to the person in the ground. He agreed. \u201cIt\u2019s for the living.\u201d <\/p>\n

I asked how it all comes down, to take a vault out and put it in the ground. And he told me. He goes out to the graveyard an hour or two before the burial. He backs up to the hole, and that pole and winch system on his little trailer goes to work. He sets the vault down, and makes sure it\u2019s right. Then he pulls off to the side a bit, and waits for the coffin to get there. The vault lid is still on his truck. Often, the deceased\u2019s name is inscribed on the lid. And mourners can come around and check it out, if they want to. After the coffin goes down and the crowd leaves, he lowers the lid onto the vault. He\u2019s the last guy to see the coffin before it disappears forever into the earth. <\/p>\n

I kept asking questions. Do you cover up the hole? No, there are companies who contract to dig and cover up. All he does is go put in the vault and lower the coffin and cover it up. Then he leaves. That\u2019s why he\u2019s at Vinola\u2019s earlier, most days. But that day, that Saturday afternoon, he had a late burial, at four o\u2019clock. And that\u2019s why he was there, and that\u2019s why we were talking. <\/p>\n

And I told him a little bit about Mom\u2019s passing, last April. I come from the Amish, up in Canada. They bury their dead by hand, I said. It\u2019s all done by hand, and the coffin is lowered by hand. And it\u2019s covered up by hand, too, with shovels. And I told him how, up there in Aylmer, the pallbearers actually get down into the hole, and stand on the lid. And how the dirt is carefully handed down, and carefully placed. Until the lid is covered. Then they throw the dirt in, I said. <\/p>\n

He was impressed. \u201cThat\u2019s pretty respectful,\u201d he said. \u201cThere\u2019s an old guy over in such-and-such township (I don\u2019t remember which one. I wasn\u2019t taking notes.). He\u2019s dug graves by hand, all his life. He\u2019s seventy-two years old, and his hands are unbelievably thick and strong. He\u2019ll dig a grave and cover it up for four hundred bucks. That\u2019s way cheaper than the other contractors charge, with their machines. I told him he needs to raise his prices a bit. I mean, he\u2019s out there, digging and hacking at rocks, in every kind of weather.\u201d<\/p>\n

That\u2019s pretty amazing, I said. And then I asked him. Are you ever at a burial where no one shows up? He looked at me. \u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cTwo or three a year. But you multiply that by all the workers who are doing what I\u2019m doing, and it adds up.\u201d<\/p>\n

That\u2019s awful, I said. How would that be, if no one shows up at your funeral? Not that it would that much difference after you\u2019re gone, I guess. But still, I feel bad for anyone like that. <\/p>\n

\u201cI buried a millionaire, once,\u201d he told me. \u201cAnd there wasn\u2019t a single person there, except me and the undertaker. A millionaire.\u201d Someone had to have lived a pretty lonely life, I said. He looked at me. \u201cHis family bought the cheapest coffin they could buy. Do you know what the cheapest coffin is made of?”<\/p>\n

Oh, probably some kind of pressed wood, I said. He shook his head. Paused a little dramatically. \u201cIt\u2019s made of cardboard,\u201d he said. \u201cThat millionaire was buried in a cardboard box, and no one came to his funeral.\u201d Ah, man, I said. I feel bad for the guy. \u201cWell,\u201d he said. \u201cThe undertaker told me the guy\u2019s brother came in and said they want the cheapest coffin there was. His brother was always cheap, the guy said. So they wanted to treat him how he\u2019d treated them.\u201d <\/p>\n

Any way you look at it, that\u2019s pretty sad, I said. It\u2019s sad that anyone would have to be buried alone, buried by strangers. And it\u2019s even sadder that anyone would be buried in a cardboard box. And we talked some more. I asked him. Do you ever sense any spiritual stuff going on, in your work? He looked at me, startled. Well, it has to be there, I said. It has to be. <\/p>\n

\u201cNot so much, with what I\u2019m doing, and where I am,\u201d he said. I bet the funeral home people see that stuff, I said. The undertakers. He nodded. \u201cNow there\u2019s one strange bunch of people,\u201d he said. \u201cBut in all the years I\u2019ve done this, I\u2019ve ever seen only one body.\u201d And he told me the story.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s this one undertaker who didn\u2019t like me, when I first came around,\u201d he said. \u201cI don\u2019t know why. But he didn\u2019t. And one afternoon, it was only me and him, out there doing the burying. And he claimed that another person had to witness that there was actually a body in that coffin. So he opened it up, and I looked.\u201d He stopped talking and looked at me, and grappled for words. \u201cThen the guy said, \u2018Oh, the body slipped down. I have to pull it up and straighten it.\u2019 He stood there, and grabbed the body under each arm, and yanked it around. The head was just flopping all around. I tell you, I can see that as clearly, sitting here telling you about it, as I saw it when it happened.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wow, I said. That\u2019s pretty crazy. Yeah, I\u2019m sure the people who embalm bodies see things the rest of us never see. I\u2019m sure they do. He looked at me again, pretty intently. Then he said, \u201cWhen it comes to protection from any kind of spiritual evil, or any kind of protection, really, I trust Him.\u201d He pointed straight up. \u201cHe has protected me, all my life. He has. And I think He will keep right on doing that.\u201d That\u2019s great, I said. Yeah, I hear that. I trust Him, too. <\/p>\n

He had to go, then, soon. It was dark outside, and late, for him. After a trip to the restroom, he walked back to me. He stood there, and extended his hand. I shook it. He spoke his name and I told him mine. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll see you around here again, sometime,\u201d he said. \u201cThanks for hanging out.\u201d I enjoyed it, too, I told him. And yeah, maybe we can do this again sometime.
\n************************************************************<\/p>\n

A few odds and ends. First, Billy the Ghost. I\u2019m always pretty amazed when people come up and talk about something I wrote. And I\u2019ve heard the question more than a few times. How\u2019s Billy doing? Is he still around? They ask wisely. And I always chuckle and shake my head. Nah, he\u2019s been real quiet, lately. The tenant\u2019s not claiming to be hearing anything. Maybe Billy read what I wrote about him, and decided to lay low for a while. I don\u2019t know. But he\u2019s been real quiet. <\/p>\n

And I guess I have a little confession to make. I need to clean up my soul. Confess, and maybe get victory in the future. My book reviews on Amazon, those have been trickling in, off and on, all along. Nothing will show up for weeks and weeks, then all of a sudden, there\u2019s three new ones in two days, or some such thing. And all along, I\u2019ve never, never asked for them, on any public forum. Sure, when I\u2019d give someone a signed copy (and I\u2019ve given away a LOT of copies), I\u2019d suggest that a review would be nice. Some very few people posted one, the vast majority didn\u2019t. And that was OK. I wasn\u2019t going to hound anyone. I gave you a book. Write a review. I wanted it to be a natural thing. <\/p>\n

The numbers crawled along, crawled upward, all this past year or two. Four hundred. Then a painstakingly slow climb to that Holy Grail. Five hundred. I wanted that number so bad I could taste it. And a month or two back, one evening I looked and it was at 486. Four hundred and eighty-six reviews on Amazon. And I thought, what the heck? I\u2019m going to ask for some. I want to reach that plateau. <\/p>\n

And I did something I had never done before. I went on Facebook and asked for reviews. Here\u2019s what I posted. \u201cLatest review on Amazon. And yeah, I sure keep an eye on it. I want to get to 500. The 484th review had a simple message. \u2018It jumps around too much.\u2019 Keep talking, you readers. I don’t care if it’s one star, or five. Just get me to 500.\u201d<\/p>\n

And just like that, reviews started popping up. By the next day, it was in the 490s. And a day or two later, I checked the numbers in the morning. And there it was. 500. Five hundred reviews on Amazon. And yeah, I cheated a little. I asked for those last sixteen. Still, when you look at it, that many reviews on Amazon ain\u2019t too bad, no matter how they got there. Especially not for an ex-Amish redneck who just happened to get a book published. <\/p>\n

OK. My soul feels cleansed, now. One final thing, about the book. An email came in, way last spring. From some person, at Penn State Dubois. A small, small branch of the original place. Penn State. I\u2019ve always despised that football team. But I have to say, I\u2019ve always respected JoPa. The man was and is a legend. They tore him down, at the end, though. He died, a broken old man, because of all that. It was a public lynching. Everyone piled on hysterically, to deflect from their own sins. All of it made me sick. The way they took his wins away, that\u2019s all just BS, too. If you judge Joe Paterno, you\u2019re judging yourself. You\u2019re judging the dark places in your own depraved heart. <\/p>\n

Anyway, I got an email from Penn State DuBois, last spring. It was a \u201cfeeler\u201d email. They give a book to all incoming students, to read, before they come. And this year, someone had suggested mine. If they did that, would I consider coming to speak to the incoming class? I almost figured the email was spam. But I answered. Yes. Of course. I\u2019d be delighted to. <\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t figure out, how my book would ever get slipped in like that. To a freshman class, in a secular University. That puzzled me. There has to be something subversive going on, I thought. And we talked, the person at Penn State DuBoise and me. \u201cWhat\u2019s your speaker\u2019s fee?\u201d She asked. <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t even know what a speaker\u2019s fee is. Or I didn\u2019t, back then. I almost said, five hundred dollars. That would cover my cost of fuel. And give me a little, left over. But I didn\u2019t say it. I hedged. What can you offer? And she didn\u2019t hesitate. \u201cHow about fifteen hundred dollars?\u201d she asked. Yeah, I said. I think that\u2019ll work for me.<\/p>\n

After that happened, I got to thinking. I could have priced myself at twice that, and nobody would have blinked an eye. So now I\u2019m telling the world. If you want me to come speak at any university event, my price is five thousand bucks, plus expenses. Am I worth that? I am, if you\u2019ll pay me. So that\u2019s what I\u2019m charging. I\u2019ll sure consider some pretty hefty discounts, like gas money and food, if you\u2019re contacting me to come speak to your little book club. No discounts for universities, though, unless you fly me to Germany, or some such thing. Then, I\u2019ll take what you give me. Here, in this country, my speaker\u2019s fee is flat. Five grand. Take it or leave it. <\/p>\n

And they scheduled me to come speak to the class earlier this month, a few weeks back. It had been a while since I spoke to such a large group. I headed out the day before, and drove all the way up to northwestern PA. Right off Rt. 80, that\u2019s where DuBois is. I checked in at the motel the college had booked for me. I told the clerk my name. He looked at me. \u201cAre you coming to speak about your book?\u201d he asked. Yep, that\u2019s me, I said. \u201cWell, I\u2019ve heard a lot about it,\u201d he told me. Turned out that he was in the freshman class, but he had enrolled only a few days before classes started. So he hadn\u2019t read the book the other freshmen had read earlier in the summer. <\/p>\n

The next day, I wandered over to the little campus. Dressed in flannel shirt and jeans. An author can get away with just about anything, when it comes to things like that. We\u2019re expected to be a little eccentric. I checked out the place a bit. Nice little school. At 11:30, I walked in to meet Marly Doty, the person who had contacted me. She showed me the little auditorium, where I\u2019d be speaking. There, I met Tharren Thompson, the Director of Diversity. What a weird title, I thought. I didn\u2019t even know there was such a thing. We hit it right off, he and I. Got along real, real well. Turned out he\u2019s the one who had suggested my book. I thanked him profusely for that. <\/p>\n

They had invited the public, too. And the place did not fill up, but a nice little crowd came. Probably sixty-five people, or so. It went about like it always does. I talked for half an hour, then read a passage from the book. The first date scene. And then I opened up for questions. I always enjoy that part. There\u2019s never any shortage of those. And someone always asks. \u201cHow is Sarah doing?\u201d I always hang my head in shame. And I tell them what I know. <\/p>\n

It was over, then, and I stood in the back, by the piano. Signed the books people brought. And sold and signed a few that I had brought. It was all very enjoyable. I could use a few more events like that. Especially at my current speaker\u2019s fee. <\/p>\n

A few words about the Bible Study. The first one had only one person. The second one had three. And we wondered, as the next Tuesday approached. Would anyone new come? Allen Beiler was coming, we knew, and bringing his brother, Andrew. But would anyone else show up?<\/p>\n

We hung out upstairs as 6:30 approached. Glancing out the window nervously. And all of a sudden, through the open window, there came a clatter of steel wheels, and the clopping of a horse. There\u2019s a buggy driving in, I hollered at Reuben. The rig pulled up to the hitching rail, and a young man stepped out. Tied up his horse. And we went and welcomed him. A friend of mine, who I\u2019ve known for years. I hadn\u2019t seen him in a while, though. Allen and Andrew arrived, then, and we all had a real good time. The third Bible Study had five people. Not exactly taking the world by storm, here. But still. Increasing numbers. <\/p>\n

Then, on Tuesday of this week, I got a call from my friend, Amos Smucker. He\u2019s a horse dentist. I\u2019ve never heard of such a thing. There were no such people around where I grew up. And now, a horse dentist wanted to come to where we are gathering. Could he come that night? He wondered. And could he bring a friend? Of course, I told him. Anyone can come. You don\u2019t have to ask permission. You can come once, and never come back again, if that\u2019s what you want. You can come sporadically, when it suits you. It\u2019s not a continuation, the Bible Study, where you have to be there every week, or you\u2019ll miss something. No particular theme. Just listening to individual sermons. Just come when you can. <\/p>\n

And that night, nine people showed up, including the guy driving the horse and buggy. We were kind of a rag-tag group, I guess. But we were all pretty comfortable, I think. The group doesn\u2019t have a name, yet. Maybe we could call ourselves the Rag-Tags. <\/p>\n

And I thought about it, later. The most honest place you\u2019ll ever find is at the bar. That\u2019s where people open up, where people speak from the heart. And that\u2019s how safe and comfortable we\u2019d like our Bible Study to be. As safe and comfortable as the bar.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cAh, Lord!\u201d he muttered, shaking his head sadly, thinly, wearily in the dark. “I have seen them all\u2026 I have seen them come and go\u2026.” And for a moment, he was silent. \u201cIt\u2019s pretty strange when you think of it,\u201d he muttered\u2026.And he was silent, and darkness, mystery, and night were all about us. —Thomas […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12943","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12943","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=12943"}],"version-history":[{"count":24,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12943\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12970,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12943\/revisions\/12970"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=12943"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=12943"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=12943"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}