Photo by Rick Geary

Imagine the paperwork involved in turning yourself into a NASA payload.

Dear Matthew Alice: Lately I have been pondering the question of alternatives for disposing of my earthly remains when the time comes. I have no interest in being stuck in a box in the ground or having my ashes in a vase on somebody’s mantelpiece. I am sure there is a more interesting place to spend eternity. It seems to me a few years ago I heard of a company that would shoot your cremated remains into orbit in space. Is that company still in business? Have they already “buried” anybody up there? How do I get in touch with them? — L. Myerson, Dana Point

Dying is just about as complicated as living these days. Imagine the paperwork involved in turning yourself into a NASA payload. Anyway, L, I admire your adventurous spirit, but I hope there’s a Plan B.

Around 1983 or so, the Celestis Group, a consortium of Florida morticians and aerospace engineers, came up with the idea of turning the average dead guy into, shall we say, an ash-tronaut. For $3900 and change, they would use a superheating technique to reduce your cremated remains to an ounce or so of dust, stick it into a small gold tube, etch your name and Social Security number on it, then slide you into a rack with other encapsulated thrill-seekers. When Celestis had a full load (10,300 “passengers”), they’d stow the rack in the nose cone of a Conestoga rocket, and you’d vroom into space. The cone would be inserted into orbit just short of 2000 nautical miles up, “the ultimate in undisturbed rest for the honored dead,” according to the brochures. Meanwhile, your Earth-bound loved ones would celebrate with a memorial service on the launch pad and a catered wake after blastoff. Because the orbiting columbarium would be coated with reflective metal, your heirs and assigns (those with low-powered scopes, anyway) could watch and wave as you zip across the sky each night.

In the entrepreneurial fever of the mid-’80s, the U.S. Department of Transportation, NASA, and the defense and state departments okayed the plan within one month. A few sorehead astronomers groused about it being just more space junk — and shiny junk, at that, but it was the state of Florida that finally shot down Celestis. Bureaucrats declared the outfit an unlicensed cemetery and said it failed to meet state standards: at least 15 acres of land with highway access to the plots. Celestis countered that they were a “transportation system” and vowed to fight, then considered moving to a launch area in Virginia, but finally ran out of money and called it quits. A few years ago, a Texas investor tried to revive the plan through a Houston-based company called Space Services of America (the group originally contracted to provide rockets and launch services to Celestis), but they, too, never got off the ground. About the same time, a Japanese company tried to corner the burial-plots-on-the-moon market but ran into problems with private-use regulations on lunar real estate.

Since you can’t be launched into space, L, how would you like to be socked off a golf tee? If so, I can refer you to a company that is alive and well and more than happy to entertain your quirkiest personal request, Canuck Sportsmen Memorials, Inc. The Knudsens, Jay Jr. and Sr., will figure a way to stow your ashes in whatever piece of sporting gear you like. The day I chatted with him, the affable Jay Sr. had just stashed a gentleman inside a hand-carved wooden quail at the request of the widow of an avid California hunter. The Knudsens have memorialized an NBA player in a basketball, several golfers inside putters and drivers, keglers inside bowling balls, and hunters in duck decoys. And best of all, the gear is usable, so your late Uncle Mort can still go out for a round of golf every weekend. Mr. Knudsen says they can fill about one request a week and have yet to encounter a plan they couldn’t handle. As long as it’s legal and ethical, they’ll try it. Their most unusual request was for an hourglass that trickled the departed’s ashes through in exactly 30 minutes. The San Francisco man planned for his friends to visit after his demise, but he didn’t want them to overstay their welcome. My personal favorite is the order from the widow of a hunter who was fond of more than one kind of wildlife. She had the philanderer’s ashes put inside a shotgun shell and blasted him into oblivion.

The Knudsens would be happy to hear from you, too. Write Canuck Sportsmen Memorials, Inc., P.O. Box 4052, Des Moines, IA 50333. Phone number is 515/244-8631.