The Time Capsule | Roy Marshall

Dad, Mom told us later, came home from the war with burial plots on his mind. Soon thereafter he bought two. They were on a hillside and, as time passed, he became dissatisfied with the location. Each year we’d make our annual flower distribution trek, and he’d pull over near the site to comment on the view, which was to the east. Bad weather and invading armies come from the west, and the hill blocked that line of vision. Better, he’d say, had he paid a little more for higher ground. Mom would shake her head and tell him they were fine.

There came a Memorial Day when he stopped the Belvedere, set the brake, and began the old refrain. Storm clouds, he mused, would roll in undetected. He wanted their stone on the hilltop facing west. Mother was weary of it. I never heard them exchange harsh words, but my young ears sensed an edge when she told him to go buy whatever darned plots he wanted and she supposed there’d be a way to pay for them. He did, and for several years dad owned four grave sites.

Shortly after wife and I were married he asked if we’d take the original two. She was reluctant, thinking they were too much like a wedding gift. Later we had snarls and delays in getting records transferred and recorded, all of which prompted some youthful and good-humored plans for the grand finale. I wanted the music for mine to be Glen Campbell’s string guitar version of the William Tell overture. Her mother once told her if she kept seeing me she’d go straight to Hell, so her choice was “Ring of Fire.” Fire brought thoughts of cremation, and we preferred that over the alternative. She loves flowers and wanted whatever was blooming; hopefully hydrangeas, iris and roses. I went with sweet corn, watermelons and catfish.

We discussed an epitaph. On one of our first dates I’d taken her to the races at Ak-Sar-Ben. She loved horses but had never been there. Her older sister told her what to expect and gave her two dollars. We spent most of the afternoon in an area where the public could watch horses brought out and saddled, then view races from the rail. She kept her two dollars until the end. Finally she saw a grey she thought was cute and sent me to place her money on a long shot named “Old Wino.” She won $80. Although I hadn’t hit all day and was nearly broke, she did not offer to pay for dinner. Her original choice for an epitaph was “Old Wino in the Ninth.”

These plans evolved with time. I kept a rough count of fires investigated because an inevitable question at trials and depositions was “How many?” During the occasion of my 500th arson case I asked her to make my epitaph read “Off to Another Hot One—Toasted to a Fare-Thee-Well.”

Last summer we did our sweet corn challenge. I planted, staggering dates and varieties with the intent of having fresh sweet corn for as many consecutive days as possible. Her job was to compile recipes and fix corn a different way each day. We tried for 50 straight, but fell short. We came close enough, however, that she now wants her epitaph to read “44 Ways in 44 Days.” I argued that if we put that on our stone the place would attract more marching bands than the Rose Parade. She held her ground, saying the words were sure to draw descendants yet unborn, giving them reason to wonder what sort of genes they’d inherited.

We’ve had a lot of fun with Dad’s gift, which we drove by this past Memorial Day. A pleasant place, I suppose, but as the clock ticks on I’m beginning to feel uneasy about the view.

Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.