And now a word about resting places.

I have a condition known as “fatigue even at rest”.  Because of that, sleep does not refresh me.  This lack of quality sleep tends to make me crabby at times, enhancing what I’m told is a tendency to damage people.  I combat that as much as I can.

I haven’t given much thought to the rest associated with eternal sleep but I imagine all those pesky ailments that interfere with nighttime rejuvenation don’t apply to that state of existence.  Though I’m not sure:  Perhaps the Roman Catholics are right about purgatory and for the first couple of centuries, you have to toil to earn your way to paradise.

I have no plans for burial and don’t expect to have any.  I’ve told my son that if I look puny, to drive me across the Arkansas border where you’re allowed to bury people anywhere you like (or so it used to be).  I’ve said he should dig a hole, give me a bottle of the most  expensive single-malt he can afford, and gently lay me in the ground.  He need not cover me.  Just tell me goodbye and let nature take its course.

But if I were laid to rest in a more stylized way, I’d want to be buried somewhere lovely like my mother-in-law.  I’d rather she had not died and I surely don’t want my father-in-law to join her sooner than absolutely necessary.  But if one has to lie beneath the ground, the place where Joanna’s mortal remains rest would be a superb location.  And if I were in such a lovely spot, I’d haunt the place, strolling amongst the flowers, standing by the lakeside, and sitting under the trees, with my legs spread out and a long flowing dress surrounding me.

Now that, my pretties, would be a restful way for Mama Corinna to spend eternity.

The view from Joanna’s resting place at Mount Moriah.