Even if you could take it with you, why would you want to?
The first round of baby boomers is coming of age -- old age that is. This massive generation spawned by the greatest generation and raised to view life on earth as its oyster will now start to die off in increasingly large numbers. As it turns out, all the years spent sweating off the fat in the gym and pretending to prefer fish broiled dry to a big juicy steak in restaurants and twisting ourselves into pretzel like poses just to connect with our deep spiritual selves do not make us immortal. But, as has been our policy from the beginning, we insist on having a say, on shaping the terms of our departure.
It comes as no surprise, then, that folks in the business of making a buck off of death have begun to cater to the over the top desires of boomers headed six feet under. Urns shaped like motorcycle gas tanks, caskets shaped like vintage cars, lots of tie dye. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the babies of the post war generation will descend to a final resting place that is as restless and rebellious as the unseen interiors of the deceptively neat houses of the Levittowns in which they were raised. And the McMansions they ended up in after they cut their hair and put away their bongs and traded free love for safe sex and lives that seemed eerily similar to the ones they fought so hard to reject all those years ago.
Full circle.
I've spent the better part of the past week cleaning the house my kids grew up in, getting it ready for sale. I am a late boomer, too young to have participated in the heady revolutions of the sixties but old enough to have reaped the dubious benefits of hippie discontent. They burned the rule books, we inherited the anarchy of not knowing what we were supposed to do, how we were supposed to live. The Vietnam War had ended, civil rights were firmly established (at least in this part of the world) and we came of age in an era marked more by apathy than noble causes. Bra burning is great, in theory, until you end up with a bunch of kids and realize that nothing else really matters, and it's a lot easier to get things done without worrying about scooping your post pregnancy boobs off the floor.
Like many of my generation, I raised my children in late twentieth century Levittown style. Our closets and our basement is filled with untouched toys and unread books and piles of pictures of the American dream life -- vacations, weekend sports events, family celebrations. Our neat houses were bigger, the cars more streamlined, but the restlessness and rebelliousness were still very much there -- just hidden behind cheerful two story entrance halls. Like the idealized families of the sixties, we were as shaky and imperfect as our dryvit exteriors. Our children are savvy and cynical, and, for the most part, their biggest battle is an economic one; they know they are the first generation to come along that promises to be less successful than their parents. That is, of course, if you measure success by the size of your house in suburbia and the health of your bank account.
As I go through our lifetime's worth of stuff, I agonize over what to keep and what to toss. So many pictures that I haven't looked at in years, pictures I would never have missed had I not been forced to clean up. So many books I never would have regretted not reading had I not had to empty the shelves. I couldn't let go of some of them, even though I will never crack their spines (nor would I have access to my daughter's old Kindle) It would be so much easier if the things would just leave automatically, just as the kids do when a certain number of years have passed. I can't take them with me, and I accept that. Why is it so hard for me to let go of all the stuff?
Time goes in circles, and it goes so quickly. My first boyfriend was actually from Levittown. We were voted cutest couple, Camp Berkshire, 1969. I decided to search for him on line, and I am pretty certain I found him. My age, has a sister with the same name as the one who set us up that summer long ago. He lives in California, but, as far as I could tell from the aerial photograph, it could be anywhere. Levittown 2013. I resisted the temptation to contact him. Lord knows I don't need any more people thinking I'm nuts. Our relationship was short, relatively devoid of conversation unless his older sister was present. I have no pictures of us together, none even of him. Yet I've never let go of his name, and, no matter how many things I throw away, that is something I will take with me to the next house. Weird.
Fifteen years from now, my half of the baby boomer generation will be the target market for the folks in the death business. I am guessing tie dye coffins and urns shaped like motorcycle gas tanks will be passe, and plain old pine boxes will be back in vogue. I wonder less about the box I will end up in and more about my epitaph. Though I came of age in the relatively apathetic seventies, I hope it will be something more inspiring than a shrug. Maybe it will be my blog.
I suppose I can take a few things with me. Some photographs maybe, or a favorite book. Or maybe just the memories, the things that are always there even though nobody else can see them.
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