Stanley and the Undertaker

The undertaker flipped a switch on the casket-lowering device and the pine coffin descended into the dirt. No adornments, no family, no friends, no pallbearers. A simple pine coffin with the remains of a simple man. Cloaked in a blinding sunshine, the undertaker prepared to fill the grave plot with soil. As he pushed the first weighty pile of dirt onto the coffin, a voice sang out. “Wait!” 

The undertaker jerked back and turned around to see who had screamed. There’s little screaming at a cemetery for an undertaker to get accustomed to. He was alone, he was sure of it. “Wait!” The voice sang out again, dusty and airy, its meek bass notes unable to penetrate the pine. 

Undertakers almost always feel a little crazy, how could you not? Also serene. Every day so tightly connected to death is numbing. The voice, again, this time weaker, “Wait!” The call enunciated with a tenuous sharpness, produced by a pair of failing lungs that held enough strength for one last push. It came from inside the coffin. 

What’s an undertaker to do in this situation? With tight time restraints- still 3 funerals left in the day. Many tasks- preparing corpses for viewing, lowering more coffins, etc. 

“Please” 

The explosive P gave way to a whisp of still breath. 

The undertaker took his shovel and tapped lightly on the coffin, to not scuff it, though it hardly mattered. 

“Yes,” the voice responded, gaining strength, “here. Inside.” 

The undertaker fell backward onto the ground. He had dressed this body himself. An elderly man, Stanley, no living descendants. His will specified clearly- a simple pine coffin. The undertaker went through the typical process- body washed, blood drained, organs removed and replaced with embalming fluid. You can’t do that to a living person. 

He lifted the coffin, marveling at his willingness to believe the incredible, and pushed the lid to the side.

Stanley smiled, the sunlight hitting his skin once again, “I was worried you didn’t hear me for a minute!” 

The undertaker’s face slumped, his eyes glazed over, eyelids slightly trembling, mouth agape. Arguably, he looked more dead than Stanley. 

“I’m so sorry… I thought you were dead.” The undertaker grabbed Stanley’s shoulder, to help him out of the coffin. Though as soon as he made contact, he knew with absolute certainty that Stanley was, in fact, dead- there was no warmth. 

“Oh I am, don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” The corpse chuckled. “You are a fine undertaker. Very strong hands and extremely careful. Excellent service so far.”

Stanley continued, “I know you’re a very busy man, probably not used to stuff like this. I just have one request.” 

The undertaker nodded.

“Could you- Well, let me not get ahead of myself. I never even asked your name. How rude of me, the man who embalmed me and I didn’t even get your name.”

“Woody.” 

“Nice to meet you, Woody. Could you come by tomorrow and leave a radio nearby? I can’t imagine not being able to listen to the radio. Dying is one thing but I can’t stand the silence.” 

Woody nodded again. “Is there a station you prefer?” 

“Whatever’s interesting. And Woody. I know you need to bury me again- we all have a job to do- can you make sure to not compact the dirt so much so I can hear the radio alright? As you can imagine, my hearing is terrible.” 

“Sure thing.” 

With that, Woody pushed the coffin lid back into place and lowered the coffin again. He filled the grave plot with soil, making sure to leave the dirt loose. 

The next day, when he arrived with a small battery-powered radio he’d picked up from the store the previous night, he skipped his usual morning tasks and went straight to Stanley’s plot. 

Never had he felt as sick as he did there, standing over a grave plot preparing to call out, and expecting a response. 

“Hey. uh. Stanley?” 

An immediate answer pierced the airy dirt. “Yes. Mr. Woody?” 

“I have the radio” 

“Well, let’s hear it then!” 

The undertaker clicked the two AA batteries into place, snapped in the plastic battery cover, and twisted the radio’s on/off knob. A newscaster was speaking- some kind of car accident or pile up or something on the highway. Woody went up a channel, this time a pop station. Woody looked at the graveplot, knowing Stanley was down there. 

He went up another station and the radio started pushing out a smooth jazz melody. The dirt resting on top of Stanley’s coffin shuffled. 

“Everything ok, Stanley?” 

“Oh yes sir! I’m just dancing a little bit. I quite like jazz.” 

Woody sat on the ground next to Stanley’s plot and appreciated the music. He danced a little too, wondering if Stanley could feel the dirt shaking back. 

After a few songs, Woody had to return to work. He placed the radio face down and turned the volume up.

Another day embalming. Now a young man who died from a heart attack. His funeral later in the day- large crowd expected. As Woody drained the man’s blood, removed his organs, pumped in the preserving fluids, massaged his muscles to get rid of the tension that develops during rigor mortis, closed his eyes, combed his hair, and dressed him for the funeral, he couldn’t stop thinking about Stanley. 

He hoped Stanley was enjoying the day. It was a very pleasant one, lots of sun, summer air moving quickly in a good way, all made more pleasant by the music. In all honesty, that was the first time Woody had heard music played for pleasure at the funeral home. Lots of eulogies and goodbyes, very little jazz.

Around noon, Woody was able to check on Stanley. He walked over noticing the music had ceased, wondering if the radio batteries were dead. It was only two AAs. He reached down, picked up the radio, and tested a knob. It still had life in it, someone must have shut it off. 

“Stanley?” 

“Hello, Woody. How’s it going up there. In the middle of a fantastic Miles Davis solo, the radio just stopped!” 

“I guess someone must’ve turned the radio off. Maybe visiting a relative nearby and wanted some quiet.” 

“To each their own. I’d rather mourn to trumpet” 

If Stanley’s body was able to produce the electrochemical signals that made real movement possible, he would’ve crawled up through the dirt and turned the radio back on himself. In his current state, he simply had to wait for Woody to turn it back on for him.

“Was the volume alright?” 

“Oh, it was perfect, Woody. Thanks for facing the radio down, by the way, I felt the difference as soon as you did it. In my bones.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“I know this is probably against some rule or policy but could you sprinkle some birdseed nearby? I used to watch the birds all the time. It’d be nice to at least hear them chirp a little bit more.” 

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll pick some up tonight.” 

“A marvelous man you are. Thank you.” 

Woody walked away, invigorated. Undertaker is a thankless job most of the time.

The next morning, Woody arrived carrying a small bag of black sunflower, cut maize, white millet seed, pinhead oatmeal, linseed, and hempseed. This makes a great mix for smaller birds, the salesperson told him, the kind that chirp and whistle and sing. 

He sprinkled a few handfuls close to the gravestone, encouraging birds to congregate where Stanley would be able to hear them best and stepped away. Birds like that typically don’t get close to people, the salesperson told him. The advice was to sprinkle and then walk away. Apparently, the birds would be watching the whole process from afar, trying to determine if this was an attempt to trap them. Much smarter than we know. 

“I put down some birdseed, Stanley.” 

“Oh, that’s just wonderful. Thank you.” 

Within minutes, a dunnock, song thrush, and wren appeared, snapping up the seeds and calling out to others. 

Woody watched and listened. He hadn’t stopped and enjoyed the beauty of the funeral grounds before. A place filled with death, but a garden nonetheless. He’d cared for the grounds for decades, but never just enjoyed it. The birds sang out, enjoying the moment too. Stanley, Woody, the birds, all together.  

When no seeds remained, the birds flew away, ready to carry on, eat more seeds, find worms, and build nests.

Woody walked back over to Stanley’s plot and called out to him. “Did you hear the birds?” 

“I certainly did. A song thrush, dunnock, and wren by my count.”

“You could tell all that just from their songs?” 

“Oh absolutely. Each bird has lots to say if you’ll listen to it.” 

The undertaker realized that maybe he owed birds a little bit more attention. He hadn’t ever stopped to just listen to them like that.

“Woody?”

“Stanley.” 

“I think I’m ready to go to sleep now. Thank you for being a friend.”