Elizabeth Fournier's Blog

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Excuse my absence, but I am busy rehearsing for TEDx Salem! See you in Oregon’s state capitol in January 5, 2019.

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[image error]Melanie is a local who heard about the Green Reaper in Boring, Oregon and had questions. The first time I met her, I was outside filling my bird feeder with black oil sunflower seeds. A rickety old truck pulled up and parked by the funeral home. A very short woman with black spiked hair and about 30 arm bangles got out and announced she wanted to talk to me about death and assorted topics.

“Tell me stuff about cremation. It’s the ‘envio’ way to check out, right? I mean, I don’t need to take up any space.”

“Well, kind of,” I said, “But it has an environmental impact and carbon footprint.”

[image error]“Okay, wait,” Melanie said. “So, what are you saying? You want me to pay you to plug me with chemicals?”

“No, not exactly.” I offered her a Diet Coke as we walked into the funeral parlour and her purple fingernails clawed at the tab like she was on a soda jag.

“Cremation is a great choice,” I said. “But it’s not the most eco-friendly.” Melanie listened respectfully as I explained the not-so-green aspects to cremation that many people don’t consider. For instance, cremation burns fossil fuel, and older cremation facilities can use significantly more energy for this compared to modernized ones. Mercury is also emitted when a person with dental amalgam fillings is cremated, although just how much mercury is widely debated.

“But what else can I do?” Melanie asked with a shrug. “I really don’t want to be put in the ground.”

“There is a method, little known in the U.S., but on the rise, called water resomation.”

Melanie sat up straighter; looking stunned, “What the hell is that?”

“Rather than cremating with fire, water dissolves the body through alkaline hydrolysis.”

“How?”

“A combination of water pressure, heat, and alkalinity. This is the most eco-friendly, sustainable method we have so far.”

“Okay, wait. Would that be like putting grandma in a washing machine?”

“Kind of,” I said, laughing. “Water resomation accelerates the natural disintegration process, sympathetically returning the body to ash.”

I could see wheels turning in Melanie’s mind. She actually tipped her head like the RCA dog.

“Hard to wrap your head around, huh?” I said.

“So what would they do with my body after the spin cycle?” Melanie asked.

“They’ll gently place you in water within a pressurized stainless steel chamber. After a few hours, all that remains is your skeleton, which will be so soft the technician can grind it into ash by hand.”

“But what about the dirty wash water?”

“There isn’t any. Just a sterile, contaminant-free liquid that can be safely disposed of at a water treatment plant.”

[image error]“I’ll be damned,” Melanie said. “So how long does this take — a week?”

“A few hours, just like fire-based cremation. And no one has to cut out your pacemaker.”

“How come pacemakers can’t be left in place for a fire-based cremation?”

“The batteries inside them can explode when heated.”

“That’d be a wakeup call,” Melanie allowed. “It kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Water cremation–since we’re mostly made of water anyway.”

“I think it does,” I agreed. “I think it will become widespread here once people know it’s an option. What about you? Would you prefer alkaline hydrolysis to fire cremation?”

“I wouldn’t hesitate for a second.” Melanie declared. “Water sounds nicer than fire — gentler.” I agreed, enthusiastically.

I retrieved another Diet Coke for the fascinated Melanie. “I researched it about a year ago. There was a guy with cancer named Allan whose dying wish was to be buried upright in a biodegradable body bag. There’s no marker or headstone and the location of his grave is identified only by coordinates and a grid reference on the cemetery gate. Apparently, for each body that goes in the ground like this, a tree is planted on a nearby hill.”

Melanie cracked the second can and a bottomless belch came out of her skinny self. It was so loud I almost blushed, but Melanie was way too into our conversation to notice anything.

Melanie chuckled. “Well, when it’s my time, put me the washing machine.”

In no perfect order….

[image error]Sharp pencils. There is nothing like a sharp pencil. I feel like I could open a book of white paper and write forever, the sharp tip of my instrument creating beautiful words and imagery. What is it they say? A dream and a sharp pencil can take you anywhere. It sounds like a delicious ride on a fluffy cloud.

Packing a grocery bag. Give me boxed foods, canned goods and a paper bag, I can fit the puzzle pieces together. But there are fittings you must know to avoid: you never want to mix items containing chemicals in with foodstuffs; the chemicals may leak and contaminate the food. And bread on top, always. I learned the hard way, as does everyone else.

Canned food. I wish you all had the luxury of looking in my pantry. It is all there in living can color, cans arranged by month and year. Every three months I rotate them all out and restock. I lust for pull-out shelves someday. That would be more delightful to me than walking through Crystal Gayle’s long and luxurious locks barefoot.

[image error]Lino Rulli from Sirius Radio’s The Catholic Guy Show. He does wacky things such as speaking with postulants (nuns in training) at convents to ask them what they miss in secular life. It’s fun to hear the girls say they miss simple things like their favorite perfume, singing loudly to their favorite pop song, or spending luxurious time in a bubble bath. I imagine they all hunker down on overstuffed couches on Saturday evening, with buckets of 94% fat free popcorn and Tom Hanks films. The only difference between them and me in my mind are the oversized crucifixes on the wall and maybe some windows made of stained glass.

Mia, the glass angel wind chime. She lives in the tree out front of the funeral home and waves at me in the bright sunshine. Okay, Mia doesn’t really wave at me, but the light glints off of her just right sometimes and my eye catches her love. She watches over the funeral home when I’m not in. No, it’s not weird.

Singing loudly out in nature. Something wells up inside me, starts at my feet and works its way up during the opening of The Sounds of Music. I, too, want to twirl and saunter and be at one with deer and owls as I prance to and fro, singing out the notes in a melodic, merry frizz. Julie Andrews would certainly have nothing on me.

[image error]Being a Synesthetic. The special gift of identifying numbers with colors. Can’t you see that 2 is always canary yellow, and that 10 is fire engine red? Not everyone does, so it has a social name: Color Synesthesia. Numbers or letters are perceived as inherently colored, and this makes little old me quite special.

Telling people I have a round bed. I have yet to meet someone who has one, they always answer with, “Really? No way!” Way. Then they always want to know if I have special sheets. I think I would be inclined to ask how a round bed fits against a wall, or if the round bed sleeper falls out of bed easier.

The amazing comfort of my electric blanket. I crank it up to Number Eight, hunker way down low, and slip off to dreamland. It is delicious.

[image error]Hearing that my daughter is a mini me. I always wanted a son, but I birthed a baby girl who looks and acts just like me. She has even developed my passion for canned food and sticks her fork directly into the can to enjoy its savory contents.

I love to rhyme. Unabashedly.

Performing the monologue from Princess Leia. Boys of all ages sort of tilt their heads and stare at me with glossy eyes as I begin, “General Kenobi: Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars. Now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire.”

[image error]Sesame Street. My favorite show of all time. A happy place. I want Elmo as my best friend.

A fresh perspective. Just being able to wake up to the sun shining in the morning. Each day is yet another chance to turn it all around.

Those moments when the universe has my back. It’s glorious!

[image error]Despite the widespread attention garnered by Jessica Mitford’s 1963 exposé of the funeral industry, The American Way of Death, the American way of death still includes average funeral expenses of between $8,000 and $12,000. What’s more, every year conventional burials in the U.S. contribute 800,000 gallons of embalming fluid, containing carcinogenic formaldehyde, and tons of steel, copper, bronze and concrete caskets deposited into the earth.

There is a better way and Fournier, affectionately dubbed the “Green Reaper,” walks readers through it, step-by-step. With green burial and home funeral basics to legal how and what’s; choices in practices (at home, at sea, etc.); and even detours into examples of celebrity green burials; this is comprehensive and compassionate guidance.

The idea of a “good death” has been much discussed. Fournier points the way to good post-deaths, ones that consider the environmental well-being of the planet and the economic well-being of loved ones.

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[image error]When Elizabeth Fournier was eight, her mother and grandparents died. She spent a lot of time in funeral homes as a kid since her family were frequently found in caskets. Fournier family members didn’t have the best longevity record.

As a young girl, Elizabeth found cemeteries a place of peace and tranquility. As a teen, she’d attend funerals of people she didn’t know. Not

surprisingly, she eventually headed into the local funeral home and asked for a job, any job. She landed the position of live-in night keeper, where she resided in a trailer in the far reaches of a large, hilly cemetery. She slept with a shotgun near her bed, experiencing the scariest summer of her life.

In her memoir, Elizabeth Fournier writes about her calling to the funeral industry, and how her early struggles helped shape her life ministry: taking care of the dead and preparing more meaningful burials.

As a one-woman funeral service in the rural town of Boring, Oregon, Mortician Elizabeth Fournier supports old-school burial practices that are kinder to humans and the Earth. She has been called “The Green Reaper” for her passionate advocacy of green burial.

As an undertaker, she is always ready to lend a hand, or a shovel.

What characterizes our current period of funeral planning? Future visitors to the funeral museum will reflect on our generation’s proclivities for personalized, eco-friendly, tech savvy, and hyper-connected options. Here are a few new (old) trends in funeral planning that are continuing to increase in popularity:

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Cheesecloth Burial Dress:

I had someone come in and talk about making a cheesecloth dress for their mother who is checking out of this world soon. She got excited about something found on Pinterest and the fact cheesecloth is recyclable and probably biodegradable. The daughter likes to sew, the mother loves cheese. It really is a win.

But most cheesecloth is a gauzy, extremely thin fabric that could barely be sewn as it is more holes than thread. It is used in costuming, making jams, making cheeses, basically to strain things. I can’t imagine how it could be used in a garment or even sewn. It tends to stick to itself. Maybe take a look at doilies?

Extreme Embalming:

[image error] This is the art of capturing a life-like pose, only you are dead. The deceased takes in the whole scene while seated and adorned in their signature clothes and surrounded by their accoutrements. The body of David Morales Colón was placed on his motorcycle in a peculiar “viewing ceremony” that his family requested after he was shot in San Juan, Puerto Rico.[image error]

Embalmers estimate it would take quadruple the typical number of hours to prepare such a unique funeral experience, and it would mean the funeral industry would have to change how we embalm a person. We would likely have to use a harder fluid so the body would stay stiff in whatever position and the person would have to be embalmed in the position they would be viewed.

Bad Karma Coffin:

[image error]At a Buddhist temple in Thailand people lie in coffins in order to put bad karma behind them and start life afresh. You drink beer, eat snacks, and talk about death. Then you lie down in a coffin and pretend you are dead. These events are happening in Japan and sponsored by funeral homes and coffin.

Coffin Academy in South Korea is a motivational seminar intended to inspire people to lead more fulfilling lives by simulating death. During the program, which costs $35, you decorate your tombstone, write a will, and say your final goodbyes then climb into a coffin.

Participants say they are reborn after the ritual, with all their bad karma behind them. Other people explain that the ritual helps to fool spirits into thinking they are already dead, allowing them to start their lives afresh, like newborns. Some people even claim that while lying in coffins they have met the spirits of their ancestors.

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As seen in Reader’s Digest. Story by Lauren Cahn.

Don’t let the name fool you—there are some really intriguing things going on in Boring. Take Elizabeth Fournier—the Green Reaper: She provides natural burial services, and she’s raising awareness about green funerals with her book, The Green Burial Guidebook: Everything You Need to Know To Plan An Affordable, Environmentally Friendly Burial. Known around the Portland area for her compassion, Fournier provides the Portland area access to less costly, more environmentally friendly funerals.

[image error]My little girl was up in her loft the other day when I heard her ask someone if they could please move because they were in her way. Minutes later Sofia comes down the stairs and says that Mrs. Butler won’t stop sitting on her bed and she has already asked her nicely to move. Sofia wants Mrs. Butler to like the color pink and summertime, and holding hands all the time in the grocery store and the park. But she doesn’t ever get an answer from her.

We moved into a house in the hills that had sat vacant for years. Vacant of taxpayers but not really vacant of ghouls, the former couple who died in the house. We were aware of this when we signed on the line for the place but we just weren’t phased. We figured we were generous enough to share the space with them — so long as they didn’t do things that would scare the hell out of us.

[image error]Sofia sees them, we do not. But that doesn’t stop me from constantly talking aloud to them, explaining cheerfully that we acknowledge we are in their house, and while we are honored to be living in their house (and please notice we didn’t remodel anything in the house we heard they really liked) we would be very, very happy if they played nicely with our child.

Closed-minded people repel most spirits. It may sound odd, but it’s true. If you are fiercely defending your position that “ghosts do not exist,” odds are you will never see one. Here’s why: first and foremost, you will miss any sign, and if you do notice one, you’ll quickly brush it off without analyzing the situation.

Second, and most important, spirits avoid closed-minded skeptics for the most part. Spirits are people and they do not waste time if they feel they won’t be noticed. Put yourself in their invisible shoes; if you were somewhere and someone was looking right past you, not hearing you or even joking about your non-existence, what incentive would you have to talk to that person? Just as spirits can sense who is open to spirits, they may also sense who is closed and avoid them. This is why children are their perfect audience.

Our loved ones often leave us little reminders that they are still with us. Some of us may be so wrapped up in stresses and worries that we miss the subtle signs we are given. Some are in tune, and when they look for a sign, they often find one. But all my ghost experiences have been total strangers.

[image error]Ghosties love to communicate, especially with small children. I decided to take a bag of pure white flour and pour some on a big mirror on the floor. After I left the room and closed the door, I had Sofia ask the ghost in a clear but friendly voice to write his/her name in the flour and stay in the room until we came back. So I came back the next day to see what the ghost’s name was; I was planning to check the flour for the ghouly name, call the entity by its revealed name, and explain to him/her that he/she is welcome in our home but that he/she has passed on and it is time to move towards the light and forever be in peace.

The next day I came in and was pissed. Instead of a name in the flour, the dog had gotten into the room through the secret door in the closet and rolled in it. I spent a few hours getting the pound bag-full of flour out of the carpet, cursing the ghost at full lung capacity.

Ironically, the plan worked. He/she has never appeared since.

Last week Sofia told me a new ghost has been dropping by her dreams lately. It’s a cigarette-smoking ghost. She thinks it’s a boy because it’s stinky.

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[image error]One perfectly sunny Thursday in San Francisco I crashed the funeral of Joe DiMaggio, the elegant Yankee Clipper. It was in invite-only service; the hubbub in the park across the street was that none of the Yankees had been invited. My location was Washington Square Park, a huge green space across Filbert Street from the twin-spired Saints Peter and Paul Church. All of us fans, reporters, TV trucks, and gawkers were sandwiched between orange cones. I surveyed the park crowd a few times for George Steinbrenner.

I showed up after the start so I missed the seven limousines pulling in front of the church around ten that morning, shuttling 50 DiMaggio family members and friends to the service. The word on the grass was that the presiding priest had known DiMaggio since the two grew up together. Joe’s surviving sibling, Dominic, would be giving the eulogy.

[image error]Even though the blocks of mourners were behind a police barricade, it wasn’t just a crowd of lookie loos. A lot of ballplayers and ballplayer’s kids were standing among us in the grassy North Beach park. This was San Francisco’s Italian enclave where DiMaggio spent his childhood; so many people here were neighbors with some connection to him.

I had to get closer. I wanted to be a part of the funeral, not just a lawn-gawker drinking a Diet Pepsi in a park. I moved closer and resorted to obvious measures: I flirted with a security guy and he let me in the parish offices to the left of the cathedral to use the bathroom. He thought I was going to come out again and give him my number, but I stayed, perched on my temporary kneeler of a toilet inside the church and strained to hear the majesty of “Ave Maria.” My cover was blown when Mr. Rejection narked on me and a female guard banged on the stall door. Out to the street I went. I rejoined my park mates in time to shout “Bravo!” and applaud as Joltin’ Joe  was carried out of the cathedral in a masculine brown casket.

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I have summited Mt Jefferson, Mt Shasta, Mt St Helens, and have stood on the top of Mount Hood a full three times.

I co-founded the Labor Coalition for Environmental Responsibility when I was in college. Rather than drinking myself silly at fraternity parties, I knew early on that I actually wanted to be somebody distinct in the crowd.

I cry a few times per day. Genuine human kindness touches me greatly. If someone is ultra-kind to me, it really touches me. I also have webbed toes.

I don’t get grossed out easily. If you dared me to clean a cat box out with my bare hand you would lose (but I’m not gonna do it now that I publicly announced I have the ability).

I was a very lonely little girl who became interested in acting so I would have something fun to do with my invisible friends. And I have undoubtedly learned over time that there is a difference between imaginary friends and invisible friends.

I made out like a bandit for choosing longshot Jorge Cardinal Bergoglio from Buenos Aires to become the new pope. The now Pope Francis was given 33-1 odds – so don’t cry for me, Argentina!

I have seen every Clint Eastwood movie even dating back to Francis in the Navy and Tarantula. Play Misty for Me was so disturbing I was thrilled when he face-punched the deranged female fan through a window and over a cliff. My all-time favorite would be Dirty Harry, but I have a soft spot in my heart for Paint Your Wagon because he sings, and I secretly pretend I am the blonde in “I Talk to the Trees.”[image error]

I apparently didn’t listen so well in my undergraduate studies since I have begun pretty much every sentence here with “I.”