This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2011, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
We buried Tate Jensen Monday. Still a young man when he was murdered, Tate probably hadn't ever given his own funeral a thought. It was left to his family to decide how to remember him.
A hundred people gathered around the open grave in an aspen grove high on East Tavaputs Plateau. The late-summer day was bright. Fall whispered in the breeze that washed the leaves. The sunlit view went forever.
Everyone was silent, then heads turned as a group of riders appeared from a distant stand of trees. Coming toward us was a common ranch scene; riders returning from working the range.
As they drew near, we noticed Tate's father, Butch, leading his son's horse with its empty saddle. There was a missing rider.
As final goodbyes go, it worked. Those gathered in that grove will carry that poignant image for the rest of our days.
Driving home, I asked my wife what she had planned for my funeral. Assuming that I died first, how would she arrange my final adios?
She said she wasn't sure. She was torn between having me interred in a nearby cemetery or raffling off my corpse to various medical colleges.
Actually, she said she hadn't given the matter much thought. I made up the rest because she's still peeved about something I did that I can't tell you about but was expensive.
"What would you like for your funeral?" she asked.
That got me. Planning my own funeral was something I hadn't really considered. Mostly because, like everyone else, I plan for the future as if I'm going to live forever.
But the Big Sleep comes to us all. Maybe I should have some kind of event pre-planned. Who could I get to offer my eulogy? Where would the funeral take place? What mementos should be placed in my casket? How should my hair be combed? What about refreshments?
After much thought, all I could come up with were nachos and having B.B. King play at the service. I really wanted Stevie Ray Vaughan, but he's already dead.
Funerals are for the living. When it comes to death, human beings are big on closure. A funeral or some kind of event helps us at least try to come to terms with our loss.
We do that in a variety of ways — funerals, ash scatterings, candlelight vigils, drunken wakes and long memorial services. When you can't wave goodbye with your hands, you try to do it with your heart.
I gave up thinking about my own funeral. Planning it struck me as more than a bit narcissistic. Why should it be up to me how my loved ones say goodbye? I'll be the dead one. It's not like it will make any difference to me.
If our spirits indeed live on and I am able to look back at what's happening, I'm fairly certain I won't care how my friends and family choose to celebrate my life.
Given the way I lived it, something tells me I'll have bigger things to worry about.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/notpatbagley.