Dear George,
The worst moment of
childhood has to be when one first learns about death. Parents try to protect their kids, but
it’s nearly impossible. The family
goldfish dies, or sometimes a next door neighbor. And it’s not just realizing that we ourselves will
inevitably die. That’s bad enough,
but to discover that one’s parents are going to die is ten times worse. How can anyone survive without
parents? Even though I’ve been
motherless and fatherless for decades, I still get depressed about that idea.
My paternal grandmother
Olga and my maternal grandfather Guy passed away when I was five. As far as I can recall, nobody told me
at the time. My first experience
of actually seeing a dead body was a few years later when the Ogden Avenue
crossing guard at Washington Grade School had a heart attack and died. The funeral home was a half block away,
and several of us fourth-graders stopped in a couple of times to look at his
corpse. We stayed there quite a
long while, hoping to detect the slightest movement -- a twitch of an eyelid or
the slightest hint of a breath -- but there was nothing. It was eery, almost supernatural. One of my classmates claimed he had
gone to Heaven, but I had my doubts.
Our family only went to
church a couple of times a year, so I didn’t get much exposure to religious
beliefs about the afterlife. Most
of what I learned I got from my friends, and they weren’t that knowledgeable. After we moved to the country, I was
exposed to death on a daily basis.
Dead turtles and skunks lying on the road. Sometimes a dead chipmunk in the yard or a fish floating in
the river. One time I found a dead
five-foot pine snake outside our dining room window. Steven and I shot a couple of porcupines with the family
.22. And we must have killed a
million mosquitoes. All these
corpses struck me as dead as doornails, and I didn’t think there was any
possibility that they were living on in some other realm. If that were true for bugs and animals,
I decided, the same thing holds for human beings.
The only time I came close
to believing in ghosts was when I was a teenager. We lived a mile outside of town on Riverside Boulevard, and
the local cemetery was halfway between our house and the city limits. I’d
ride my bike into town after supper, then return home in the dark around 9:30
or 10. Words don’t even exist to
describe how scary it is to ride on your bike past the cemetery in the
dark. I’d watch the gravestones out of the corner of my eye, terrified
that I was going to see a ghoul or a ghost at any moment. I pedaled as
fast as I could, perhaps thirty miles an hour, and didn’t slow down till I
reached our driveway.
My father was very
pragmatic, and I don’t think he ever entertained the notion of an
afterlife. When he reached his
late seventies though, he got more interested in religious ideas. I can see how that happens. It’s easy to dismiss life after death
when it’s a distant abstraction, but, as possibilities become more imminent,
the idea gains in appeal and plausibility.
If people do go to Heaven
after they die, no one knows for sure what that’s like. What I learned in my grade school years
is that it’s up in the clouds, and St. Peter admits you through the Pearly
Gates. Nowadays I imagine Heaven
to be similar to retirement. You
have lots of free time, no onerous duties, and you can do whatever you like. Maybe you can smoke two packs of
cigarettes a day, drink a lot of bourbon (but never have a hangover), and be
fawned over by movie starlets who think you are the cat’s meow. On the other hand, they might have
rules against these things.
I hope it isn’t too dull.
Also I’m worried about being someplace for all eternity. I’d like to play a lot of one-on-one basketball in Heaven, but
how many eons can you do that without losing interest? Of course, you might run into people
like Marco Polo or Adlai Stevenson or Florence Nightingale. But I’d probably be too uncomfortable
to strike up a conversation.
It’s also true that, even
if there is an afterlife, there’s no guarantee that you’ll wind up in
Heaven. There have been times in
my life, especially around age twelve, when I was on a fast track in the
opposite direction. I wouldn’t say
I’ve been exactly evil, but it’s hard to think of any impressive virtuous
things I’ve done either. If I
added up all the behaviors in my life and plotted them on a scale from -10
(thoroughly evil) to +10 (saintly), I think I’d come out about a -1.5. If zero is the cutoff point, I better
start accumulating some morally admirable actions in a hurry.
Our family is of Swedish
ancestry, so I draw from my Viking heritage as much as I can when I think about
life and death issues. The Vikings believed that there were multiple
destinations after death, and where you go depends on how you lived your
life.* The number one option was Valhalla, the majestic hall presided
over by Odin. Only warriors who died in battle went there. Valhalla had 540 doors, rafters made of
spears, and a roof made of shields.
The warriors in Valhalla fought all day long and feasted all night. In addition to Valhalla, the Norse
Goddess Freyja chose half of the fallen warriors to join her in a great field
named Folkvangr. Like Odin, Freyja led her dead warriors in battle, and
women could go to Folkvangr if they died noble deaths. Other Vikings who led exemplary lives
but failed to die in battle went to Helgafjell, a warm, cozy place where people
would sit around and drink beer and talk. The worst after-life outcome
for Vikings was reserved for those who had died dishonorable deaths. They
went to Helheim, a cold dark place ruled by the monster Goddess Hel whose skin
was half-blue. Helheim is encircled by the impassable river Gjoll, and
its entrance is guarded by a hideous dog named Garm. Dishonorable deaths for Vikings included dying in bed from
old age rather than in battle.
Since I’ll probably die dishonorably in bed or in the shower, I may well
be headed for Helheim.
Because I grew up on the riverbank
in the Land of Wild Rice, I also have looked into the afterlife beliefs of the
Menominee tribe. These are
surprisingly compatible with Viking thought. In particular, the Menominees held that there is a huge dog
that guards the land of the departed.
To approach the dog, one had to cross over a dangerous river on a
slippery log. Evildoers and those
who had mistreated dogs in the past fell in and were swept away by the rushing
stream. If one were able to pass
the dog, though, they would join the spirits who had preceded them and would
enjoy nightly feasts with plenty to eat for the rest of eternity.**
At this point in my
spiritual quest, I'm mainly confused.
According to a Pew Forum survey, 74% of Americans believe in life after
death, and 50% are absolutely certain about the matter.*** The groups with strongest beliefs in
the afterlife are Mormons and evangelical Protestants, regular churchgoers,
Republicans, Southerners, and people with a high school education or
less.**** I’m not a member
of any of these groups.
Atheists (18%) and agnostics (35%) don’t usually believe in the
afterlife.**** Swedes believe less
in the afterlife than any other developed nation except the French.****** Among those who are believers, women
think they are likely to go to Heaven more than do men.***** I agree with that as a general
rule. My personal next step is to
dig up more facts about Valhalla and Helheim. If need be, maybe I still have time to gain some points and
reduce the odds of eternal damnation.
Love,
Dave
FOOTNOTES:
*
www.legendsandchronicles.com, "Viking Funerals Burials and the
Afterlife"
**
www.mongooseofmystery.blogspot.com, "Dogs in the Afterlife";
****www.gallup.com,
"Eternal Destinations: Americans Believe in Heaven, Hell"
******www.assets.aarp.org,
“Thoughts on the Afterlife Among Adults 50+”
G-mail Comments
-Linda C
(2-6): I need to look into where
the Irish go. The idea of floating around forever just bores me to tears.
