Sheet for a shroud, '62 Chevy Suburban for a hearse Last month, on March 7th, my old friend Mark Petteys would have turned 53. We share the same birth vintage: 1962. But Mark died in his sleep five months shy of turning 50. His death was unexpected, but his health hadn't been good.
Mark had often told his beloved wife Phyllis, "If I die, pack me on ice and take me to the Petteys pioneer cemetery in Ione, Oregon."
As Phyllis says, "It turns out it's more complicated than that." But with the help of friends, she made it happen. This is their story.
* * *
I met Mark at Reed College. A few years later Phyllis arrived on the scene. I'm pretty sure it was love at first sight for the two of them. Mark had been something of a child prodigy bluegrass banjo player; he was on a first name basis with the greats like Bill Monroe. Mark's talent was matched by a formidable mind. Their son Guthrie was born in Boise in 1991 while Mark was getting his Master’s in Geophysics. As Phyllis recalled in his death announcement:
"Mark was fascinated with science— he studied physics, math, chemistry, geology, geophysics, hydrogeology—and was always sharing his insights with us. He was also a serious fisherman and fearless whitewater rafter. He was an incredible father, playing chess with Guthrie instead of Candyland, and taking him rock hounding, fishing and rafting at an early age. And of course, Mark was a creative banjo and guitar player who thought about music constantly. As I write this I’m listening to Guthrie play Ruby My Dear on the piano, and I know that this love and curiosity lives on in his son."
When Phyllis awoke that dreadful morning to find that Mark had taken his last breath in the night, there was one thing she knew for sure. She wasn't going to let the funeral home rush him away. He laid on their bed most of the day - "a little weird" Phyllis knows some might think, but "believe it or not, I found helpful, even as I look back."
I got a call from a mutual friend and started phoning around for dry ice - not easy to find during a prime Halloween haunted house weekend. (I've since acquired some Techni ice to have on hand.) Fortunately, other friends located a funeral home willing to do the bare minimum for the family. The funeral home eventually moved Mark into their refrigeration unit, provided a simple wooden tray for Mark's body to lie on in transit, and even suggested that he could be shrouded in a sheet signed by all his friends.
Mark had often told his beloved wife Phyllis, "If I die, pack me on ice and take me to the Petteys pioneer cemetery in Ione, Oregon."
As Phyllis says, "It turns out it's more complicated than that." But with the help of friends, she made it happen. This is their story.
* * *
I met Mark at Reed College. A few years later Phyllis arrived on the scene. I'm pretty sure it was love at first sight for the two of them. Mark had been something of a child prodigy bluegrass banjo player; he was on a first name basis with the greats like Bill Monroe. Mark's talent was matched by a formidable mind. Their son Guthrie was born in Boise in 1991 while Mark was getting his Master’s in Geophysics. As Phyllis recalled in his death announcement:
"Mark was fascinated with science— he studied physics, math, chemistry, geology, geophysics, hydrogeology—and was always sharing his insights with us. He was also a serious fisherman and fearless whitewater rafter. He was an incredible father, playing chess with Guthrie instead of Candyland, and taking him rock hounding, fishing and rafting at an early age. And of course, Mark was a creative banjo and guitar player who thought about music constantly. As I write this I’m listening to Guthrie play Ruby My Dear on the piano, and I know that this love and curiosity lives on in his son."
When Phyllis awoke that dreadful morning to find that Mark had taken his last breath in the night, there was one thing she knew for sure. She wasn't going to let the funeral home rush him away. He laid on their bed most of the day - "a little weird" Phyllis knows some might think, but "believe it or not, I found helpful, even as I look back."
I got a call from a mutual friend and started phoning around for dry ice - not easy to find during a prime Halloween haunted house weekend. (I've since acquired some Techni ice to have on hand.) Fortunately, other friends located a funeral home willing to do the bare minimum for the family. The funeral home eventually moved Mark into their refrigeration unit, provided a simple wooden tray for Mark's body to lie on in transit, and even suggested that he could be shrouded in a sheet signed by all his friends.
Ione, Oregon. Population 332. In the meantime, Phyllis was making arrangements with the manager of the pioneer cemetery that bears Mark's family name, in the eastern Oregon town of Ione. Despite the fact that the original occupants of the cemetery were surely buried unembalmed, without a concrete burial vault, the concept of a green burial was by now against cemetery policy. Phyllis told them, "Too bad, that's what we're doing."
Four days after Mark's death, Phyllis and friends loaded him into "Pete," a 1962 Chevy Suburban that had taken them on many a camping excursion over the prior 28 years. It was, Phyllis says, "a perfect hearse for Mark's last ride."
Many carloads of friends and family joined the procession down the Gorge and through Eastern Oregon. They gathered around Mark at the cemetery, on top of a hill over looking wheat fields. Friends offered remembrances. Phyllis reports, "Joey McKenzie, Peter Schwimmer and Brian Oberlin shredded several tunes—including How High the Moon (which Mark often puzzled over) as Mark was lowered into a 6 foot hole. Friends and family placed thunder eggs and obsidian, or other mementos. My brother-in-law, Vern, sang Brokedown Palace with Peter on banjo as friends filled the hole. Towards the end we were able to laugh and tell each other Mark stories."
Four days after Mark's death, Phyllis and friends loaded him into "Pete," a 1962 Chevy Suburban that had taken them on many a camping excursion over the prior 28 years. It was, Phyllis says, "a perfect hearse for Mark's last ride."
Many carloads of friends and family joined the procession down the Gorge and through Eastern Oregon. They gathered around Mark at the cemetery, on top of a hill over looking wheat fields. Friends offered remembrances. Phyllis reports, "Joey McKenzie, Peter Schwimmer and Brian Oberlin shredded several tunes—including How High the Moon (which Mark often puzzled over) as Mark was lowered into a 6 foot hole. Friends and family placed thunder eggs and obsidian, or other mementos. My brother-in-law, Vern, sang Brokedown Palace with Peter on banjo as friends filled the hole. Towards the end we were able to laugh and tell each other Mark stories."
Since his burial, Phyllis has visited Mark's gravesite a number of times. "We spent the night in the cemetery with Mark a few weeks ago on the way to Weiser," Phyllis wrote me when she shared this great photo.
That's Phyllis on the right; in the background, "Re-Pete," the replacement for the original Suburban, crushed in a windstorm just months after Mark's death. On Mark's headstone, the lyrics:
Somewhere there’s music
How faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon.
That's Phyllis on the right; in the background, "Re-Pete," the replacement for the original Suburban, crushed in a windstorm just months after Mark's death. On Mark's headstone, the lyrics:
Somewhere there’s music
How faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon.
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