Mr. Winterbee,They didn't say anything I wanted to hear. I was hoping to get an email that went, "What charming questions, Mr. Wetherbee. May we offer you a 50% discount on a headstone?" That means I don't have enough money to get Hank a decent headstone. That means a-gambling we must go.
Thank you for your inquiry. In regards to the sinking of the headstone, that’s really dependent on weight. The granite headstone is heavier. We do not recommend putting a headstone where it is likely to sink. As to your second question, yes you can bury ashes where you like so long as you are not trespassing. Finally, we don’t recommend putting a headstone on property not assigned for the purpose, or on property you do not own.
When I told Sammy and Boyce that we needed to head to the casino again, Sammy said he had a brilliant idea for how to place our bets. We never ended up burning Hank's journals, and Sammy took them home. He said he's convinced that Hank put a code into his journals from beyond the grave, and if we could just figure out that code, then we would know how to bet. Both Boyce and I pointed out that this would assume either: a) Hank wrote the journals knowing what we would do with them, and knowing how the numbers would come up whenever we bet, or b) Hank is going to change the journals from beyond the grave to fit what is going to happen before we place our bets.
Point of order, Sammy said. There are other options as well: c) Hank's hand was moved by none other than God himself, who existing outside of time knew what would happen at the casino, d) one of the unknown consequences of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is to see through time, e) visitors from other dimensions, charmed by our lives, felt like helping us out and exchanged Hank's journals with ones that will align with the numbers that come up.
At this point Boyce was convinced there were at least fifteen more possibilities, and said: f) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, would make the numbers come up to fit whatever code we come up with, g) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, tells us to forget gambling in the first place and directs us to a treasure chest in the trunk of the brand new Mustang he made for us that runs on the sound of Led Zeppelin music.
By this time I was so agitated I threatened with going to the casino alone. Neither wanted that, so we came to the compromise that I would bet using my system, and Hank and Boyce would bet with their system according to whatever code they find in Hank's journals (I agreed to provide one-third of their seed money). All winnings would go to Hank's tombstone. We also agreed that if the "ghost code" made more money than I did, we would include some variation of, "Thanks for the ghost code, Hank!" on the headstone.
I once asked Rachel about ghosts, and she didn't have much to say about them. She said, "How am I supposed to know that ghosts are real when I can't even convince myself other people are real?" Sometimes she said weird things like that, but she would say it smiling. I don't believe in ghosts, though. In fact, I don't think Sammy believes in them either. I think he just wants to try to have a story to tell people, so he's going to try to find a code in Hank's journals. Boyce believes in them, because he believes Charlotte. I gave Charlotte all those bird songs to write out as music, and it took her about a year to do. When she got to the blue jay though, she told me that after her mother died she kept seeing several blue jays together, either on a branch or in the grass or on a fence. She said those blue jays were her mother telling her not to feel alone. I told her she might as well say that the fence was her mother. But then Boyce got upset at me and said, "When is the last time you saw a bunch of blue jays hang out together?" And I had to say that I'd never seen that.
If I were to believe in ghosts, however, I do appreciate them appearing in bird form. If I came back as a ghost, I certainly wouldn't choose a translucent, wavy version of myself. I'd be a Great-Horned Owl. And when people saw me they would say, "Oh my god, it's an owl! I thought it was a ghost." But I wouldn't say, "I am a ghost. It's me, Cyrus!" Instead, I'd just fly away, because I'm an owl and I don't really care whether they know I'm Cyrus or not. I got flying to do.
