Conor McNamara
Associate Editor
HALLOWEEN HAS, in the past, been a holiday that I traditionally loathe because it draws one into nearer association with the dead than I prefer. Now, all that has changed; I find myself actively seeking out the companionship of dead people at every opportunity.
You see, prior to last summer fate had granted unto me what I thought was the tremendous good fortune of remaining largely segregated from those who permanently reside six feet underfoot. Little did I know that I was missing out on the best gig in town. Thankfully, this past summer life took me on a magic carpet ride, opening my eyes to the non-stop party that is the grave-digging profession.
Now some have asked me, “Why the heck were you, a Notre Dame student, working in a graveyard? Are you stupid or something?” I can only smirk at the naiveté of the query. Clearly, those who question me have never experienced the adrenaline rush of trying to lower the coffin of an obese man into the ground without falling in after it. Clearly, they have never experienced the mafia-like thrill of accepting illicit doughnut payoffs from individuals looking to get their family’s headstone a little extra TLC. Clearly, they have never enjoyed the zesty flavoring of a baked potato grown from the graveyard’s vegetable garden. These three experiences alone are enough for me to justify spending the summer in such an unglamorous manner, but it gets even better.
You see, being a gravedigger is easy! I didn’t have to stress about issues that other young professionals deal with because, well, my clients were dead. You can’t imagine how liberating it is to know that no matter how lousy of a job you do, no one will give you grief about it. I left the graveyard every day feeling like I had just listened to eight straight hours of Enya in a hot tub. It was so therapeutic for me, in fact, that I am in the process of writing a self-help book about the experience entitled, Quiet Office, Happy Life: How Killing Your Clients May Dramatically Reduce Stress and Improve Your Quality of Life.
Some say true freedom can only be found in a democracy, I say true freedom can only be found as a graveyard employee. Some days I would be so intoxicated by my liberty that I would stroll amongst the headstones and intentionally knock over flower pots just so I could enjoy the void of silence that would follow – a void which in any other profession would be filled with impassioned client objections.
Imitating truckers who have those “How’s my driving?” stickers on the back of their big rigs, I taped a sign to my back that read “How’s my grave digging?” followed by my phone number. And you know what? No one called to complain. I know better than to presume that this was because my digging was flawless; no, it was because the dead people couldn’t read the sign. Even if they could have, there aren’t any telephones six feet under ground with which they could call me.
Often times I would hold one-sided conversations with the headstones around which I was supposed to be landscaping, saying things like, “Beautiful day, isn’t it Mrs. Jones? I bet you saw many like this during your 74 years and 127 days on earth, during which you were a loving mother and devoted wife . . . Looks like that overhanging shrub is getting a little out of control, I should probably trim it so you can catch some sunshine . . . but you know what? I don’t really feel like it. And there really isn’t anything you can do about it now is there? Now don’t you cop an attitude or I won’t mow the grass around you either.”
I’ll tell you another thing, graveyard employees know how great their gig is. Through some mysterious skullduggery the brotherhood of gravediggers was able to convince the general public that it was an uncouth business and thus something that should be avoided. They have encouraged this perception in order to strengthen their monopoly.
This relaxing atmosphere in which gravediggers work, moreover, instills in them a strong inclination to reflect upon life in all its aspects. I cannot count how many hot summer afternoons I spent with my cohorts speaking of extraterrestrials, Vietnamese bordellos, the unique aroma found in strip clubs, the virtue of conscientiously exercising one’s buttocks, parrots, and the best ways to kill a man. I gained more of an education in those few months than I have in all my days at University.
After learning of my experience, many people want to know whether I have come to grips with mortality, whether I am now at peace with funerals and death. I do feel that my time at the graveyard has accelerated my maturation process. For instance: In the duller moments of my youth, I would often pass the time by imagining what my funeral procession would look like:
There would be a multitude of beautiful, scantily clad women weeping at my premature departure (for I would have tragically expired after pulling the last of 100 little orphan children from a burning building). These women would spend the next several weeks rending their garments, tearing at their hair, and issuing forth doleful cries of lamentation. The men in my funeral train would be engulfed in a black chasm of depression as they mentally weighed their comparatively insignificant lives against the crushing weight of my radiant magnificence. And there would be one woman beyond all compare, standing a little apart from the rest, ruefully chastising herself for refusing my amorous advances and struggling for breath as the invisible bonds of disconsolate sorrow wrung her heart. Naturally, she would be off to the nunnery immediately after I was laid to rest.
But these immature musings were the product of foolish youth. Now, after working as a grave digger, I of course recognize that there is a chance that one or two ugly women could potentially be at my funeral along with all the beautiful ones. The beautiful women probably will not be scantily clad, especially if it is winter. The men will simply admit that I was the better man without sinking into depression. Most importantly, my true love - the woman beyond all compare - will have accepted my advances early on in our courtship because I am, frankly, irresistible.
This new outlook unequivocally indicates that my grave digging experience wrenched me out of the mire of adolescence, placing me firmly on the grounds of mature adulthood.
Sadly, as all good things must do, my grave digging days eventually came to an end. It wasn’t that I lost my enthusiasm for burying people and doing shoddy work, it was simply a matter of career advancement; upward mobility just isn’t part of mortuary science’s business strategy. Such a concept is, in fact, foreign to the very nature of the employment, as those in the industry garner more accolades for the speed at which they descend. Thus I departed with a heavy heart, but not before learning a few life lessons and earning several diocesan-endorsed merit badges for various feats of strength and digging prowess.
Someday I hope to return to the graveyard, perhaps to feel the warm breeze blow across my face and to look with satisfaction upon all the headstones of the people I helped bury. Maybe that won’t ever happen, though; maybe my tragic demise is nearer than I think. In that case, I hope my death will provide some young whippersnapper with the joyous sense of freedom that so many others gave to me this summer past.
Contact Conor at cmcnama1@nd.edu.
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