According to the Bible, Methuselah was a gentleman who lived 969 years.
I know this for a fact because it is mentioned on five separate occasions in Genesis 5, in First Chronicles, and in Luke, Chapter 3 Verse 37. So there is no debate about Methuselah’s age. In 1935, George Gershwin wrote an opera called Porgy and Bess. In that opera there is an aria called “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” Methuselah is mentioned in this aria where the verse is cited as:

Methus’lah lived 900 years,
Methus’lah lived 900 years,
But who calls dat livin’
When no gal’ll give in
To no man what’s 900 years.

So you see, it is quite clear that the Bible, George Gershwin and the two lyricists, Ira Gershwin, and DuBose Heyward, fully confirm my contention that Methuselah was real and once walked among us all.
On December 22, I had my semi-annual visit with Andrew Beamer, my cardiologist. I did not have the courage to bring up Methuselah, but I did ask him, in view of the favorable result of his examination, how long I might be expected to last, given that I would like to outlive the depression that is now occurring in financial circles. Dr. Beamer seemed to support the idea that perhaps I could outlive the depression but I know that in all likelihood, my life span will not approach that of Methuselah. However, it is quite clear that I am in the late innings of my life. And so I wish to take this occasion to remind my descendants about how they may commemorate my passing. Who knows when the passing will take place if Dr. Beamer refuses to speculate on it? But if Methuselah moved on at 969 years, I am reasonably certain that at some point I will move on as well. Nobody knows the cause of Methuselah’s death because the Bible, nor George and Ira Gershwin nor DuBose Hayward have cited it.
Twelve years ago my wife and I visited Paul Ippolito, the local undertaker, and made arrangements with him for our prepaid funeral expenses. At the appropriate time, Ippolito will see to it that a cremation is carried out and that the residue will be finely ground into cremains. That is simply a wedding of the words cremation and remains and will probably not be found in most standard dictionaries. But once the finely-ground cremains are in the hands of my descendants, I have a wish for their disposal.
My parents were the descendants of Irish immigrants, most likely from County Donegal. During her lifetime, Lillie, my mother, stoutly asserted her Irishness. She had never been to Ireland and when, later in her life, I could afford to support such a trip, she was too frail to undertake that journey. My parents knew only that their ancestors had come from Ireland and my guess is that they were probably farmers. Those early ancestors did not have the ability to read and to write, so wound up when they came to this country as sharecroppers or tenant farmers. But Lillie and her sisters were always quick to flail anything of the British and to cheer anything Irish.
When I was a small child, my Aunt Nora used to question me, asking, “Boy, what would you be if you were not Irish?” I soon learned that the answer to that question was, “I would be ashamed.” During World War II when Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, came to this country, my mother read about it in the St. Louis Post Dispatch. One way or another, she assumed that the Prime Minister must be a big shot in the English church. Her question was, “What gives that Englishman any reason to come here to lecture us about our religion?” As you can see, Lillie and Nora and their sisters gave the English no quarter at all.
Given this set of circumstances, I hope that my passing will provide an opportunity to complete the circle. I believe the ghosts of my parents and their ancestors would be pleased to know that among my final wishes was the desire to return to the place that they had left around the year 1850. They did not leave Ireland voluntarily but rather they were forced to leave because of the famine that overtook Ireland during that period of time. I have two daughters, two sons-in-law, and five grandchildren, to whom this message is addressed. These, then, are my descendants. There will come a time when the hand wringing will be completed and those descendants are ready to move on. At some point, I would like for one or more or all of those descendants to consider a return trip to County Donegal, the place where it all started. I realize that this is all symbolism but I hold the unshakable view that a return trip to Donegal would be appreciated by the ghosts of my ancestors.
Specifically, it is my hope that a handful or a small cellophane bag, which would hold a few of the cremains, would accompany my descendants on their trip to Ireland. The international airport in Ireland is located at Shannon, on the Atlantic shore. Once the plane has landed there, I would hope that they would transfer to a Ryanair flight for the trip north to Donegal. Ireland is a small country so the trip would take only half an hour or maybe an hour at most. Once in the city of Donegal, they should locate a good hotel, which the county administrators assure me exist in some profusion.
And then there are two things that I would like to have happen. I am assuming that a car would be rented which would convey my descendants around County Donegal until a likely farm could be found. Scattering my cremains on such a farm would be pleasing, I suspect, to the ghosts of my father, my mother and their parents.
Secondly, it is my hope that my descendants who make this trip would find the last likely spot in Donegal from which our ancestors would have left. Perhaps it would be a train or even a boat. As in the case of the farmland, it would be appreciated if a few of my cremains would be deposited on the spot where our ancestors last left their footprints on Donegal soil.
After this work is done, I hope that my descendants will then turn eastward to a town called Howth, located north of Dublin on the Irish Sea. There they will find accommodations provided by the King Sitric Hotel and by its marvelous restaurant. I have enjoyed many glorious meals in that restaurant, so a handful of cremains might be saved to be used somewhere in the town of Howth.
Once the meals have been consumed, it is hoped that there would be a walk up the hill to the Abbey Tavern, where Irish folk music is played to the delight of its visitors. So you see that I have given my descendants light work in spreading cremains on a farm, on the last spot that our ancestors touched, and on the grounds of the King Sitric Hotel.
The remaining cremains should be spread on the waters of the Hudson River at Hoboken. Primarily because I used that ferry landing for perhaps thousands of occasions on my way to and from my place of employment. The remaining cremains can be deposited on the muddy Mississippi River near the site of the MacArthur Bridge in St. Louis, which I crossed on dozens of occasions – successfully.
I am quite aware that the trip to Ireland is an exercise in symbolism. But symbols are a matter of hope and the makers of memories. Beyond that, it should give pleasure to our ancestors to know that the circle has finally been completed after 158 plus years. Anything that achieves all of these objectives can’t be all bad.
Now, as for Methuselah, who was the inspiration for this essay, there is this much to say. He was not an Irish citizen nor an emigrant from that country. But I suspect that his ghost would also be pleased to know that my descendants could return to Donegal in a symbolic trip and enjoy the magnificent meals provided by the King Sitric Restaurant and the fine dining in Donegal. Any trip, symbolic or otherwise, that accomplishes all of these objectives has to be viewed as meritorious in every possible respect. My only regret is that I will not be around to enjoy the trip and the dining. But I guess that in this case you have to play the hand that you have been dealt. It gives me adequate pleasure to know that my descendants will have specific directions and that they will not be stuck with a small barrelful of cremains.
E. E. CARR
December 26, 2008
Essay 356
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Kevin’s commentary: Hell of a list. I wonder if any other stops would be considered now, five years later. Presumably at least some ashes should be left or scattered on Long Hill Drive, yes? Seems like that might be a humble start to an incredible trip that I incidentally do not want to take quite yet. Maybe in another 800-something years.