The Everlasting Condo

“You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave.”—The Eagles

The family burial plot—or as I think of it, the condo—has been on my mind of late.

My maternal grandmother, Anna Sulzer, died in February 1963. With her passing, the Sulzer clan needed a burial plot pronto. Uncle Irv, ever planning ahead, suggested that the entire family purchase burial plots side by side in Mount Ararat Cemetery on Long Island. That way, the banter, bickering and general family mishagoss could go on forever. And I do mean forever. The four Sulzer siblings bought a stretch of adjoining burial plots that looked more like a land development deal than a final resting place. With the exception of a tiny patch of plots that had already been bought up by some other family’s forward thinker (and who refused to sell to our clan) and that stood in the midst of the Sulzer real estate, the field seemed to roll on uninterrupted and forever. My own parents bought eight plots. Either this stuff was going at rock bottom prices, or my parents were planning on inviting the neighbors to pitch tents of their own. Anyway, I guess this is what’s meant by buying the farm.

As it turned out, the Sulzer condo had only one rule for admission: you had to be a member of the family through blood or marriage. But if the Sulzer condo had its ground rules, so did Mount Ararat, which allowed only for family headstones. Individual graves were marked by brass plaques that were flush with the ground. It was dignified and serene, if somewhat sterile. In contrast to Mount Ararat’s absolute stillness was Mount Hebron Cemetery, where my father’s parents, Charles and Sadie Doloff, were buried. This was an old fashioned cemetery with a headstone sprouting from every grave. Each headstone had personality, art work, exotic carvings, even tiny enameled photo portraits. There were infants lost to at birth, teenagers forever in our hearts, octogenarians finally at peace after tumultuous lives. It was as if every grave’s soul were talking aloud, anxious to be heard. The place was crowded, undignified and busy. And within this bustling village, Charles and Sadie were buried in the Lomzer Young Men’s Benevolent Association. To access the graves you walked through a dramatic entrance gate of tall marble pillars topped with a beautiful wrought iron arch that announced the name of the burial society. The marble pillars were engraved with the names of the association’s first members. If not exactly lively, it still fairly bristled with life.

But back to Mount Ararat… In 1963 there was just the one grave—my grandmother’s. But over the years, the plots were filled by the very people who had thought ahead. My grandfather, Joe Sulzer, died in 1965. The eldest of the Sulzer siblings—Sylvia Sulzer Bram—died suddenly in 1978. Esther Sulzer Danton, my favorite aunt, died in 1991 and was buried in one of the eight plots my parents owned. As each family experienced a death, a family headstone was erected. The plots were slowly filled, the vibrant voices stilled, the aged hands were folded in final repose and the great empty space has filled with foot stones. My mother died in 2003, and my father died in 2007. They lie there now, and my heart is with them.

But cemeteries don’t exist and burials don’t happen without the living. And my family is no exception. My own parents, thoughtful to a fault, had their own family headstone erected in 1997. As my mother put it, This way, you don’t have to worry about it. It’s all taken care of! A little ghoulish, I thought at the time, but eminently sensible. She and Dad cheerfully forked over $8,000 for a headstone the size of a Volkswagen, with DOLOFF engraved on it in huge letters.  I have never felt so taken care of in my entire life. It was about that time that I developed an aversion to the condo, as I had come to call the family burial village. Even with both parents alive and accepting compliments on their brand new headstone, I had difficulty visiting it. That headstone chilled me.

Peter and I have, of course, discussed our own final arrangements. There’s never been any doubt that I would be buried in the condo. Peter’s own family does cremation in a big way. I don’t think any of his family has actually been interred—in the conventional sense—since they came to these shores in the 1800’s. There must be many jars of ashes that have passed from one generation’s mantles to the next—or wherever it is that jars of ashes go. I haven’t seen them, and I fervently hope I never do. And although Peter’s family may not do a bang up job of parking the departed in clearly designated final resting places, they do memorial services with a nice flourish and refreshments about a month after the dear one departs. But I am losing my train of thought…

Peter plans to die before I do. And like the rest of his clan he wants to be cremated. His exact words on the subject are: I don’t care what you do with me after I’m dead. You can hang me upside down outside the front door and paint my balls blue, for all I care. Now there’s an image I don’t care to contemplate closely. What’s more, Peter really wanted our first dog, Chester to be freeze dried, stuffed and kept on our mantle until the whole plan could come together: when I am buried, Peter’s urn of ashes should be tucked under my arm and the little freeze dried dog laid at my feet. He reasoned that any casket in which I was laid would have plenty of foot room for luggage. So far, we have done a slipshod job of executing the plan: Chester was not freeze dried when he died. So it looks like it’ll be just Peter’s ashes and me in my allotted plot at the condo.