Ambrose and His Final Plans (standard:drama, 3161 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Jan 31 2003	Views/Reads: 3705/2522	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ambrose fought in the ‘War between the States’, saw his fourteen-year-old brother shot, while he himself escaped and lived to marry and raise a family. When he was 83 he took a notion to build his own coffin. This is his true story.

Ambrose was reasonably sprightly for an eighty-three year old man, at
least he considered himself to be.  He was born in 1846 and fought in 
the ‘War between the States', saw his fourteen year old brother shot 
while he himself escaped and lived to marry and raise a family, but we 
will not digress—not just yet.  Ambrose had always taken relatively 
good care of himself.  He tried once to smoke when he was fourteen.  
Homer Applebee slipped two or three cigarettes from his father, who 
rolled his own as everyone did then.  Homer took to it, but Ambrose 
could only remember being horribly sick and not wanting his mother's 
fried chicken that evening. 

Ambrose never cared much for sweets either, except for the homemade ice
cream he helped make on summer Sunday afternoons.  It was his 
responsibility to turn the crank until it would turn no more.  And if 
it happened to be a time when fresh Georgia peaches were in season he 
ate more than his fare share.  Yes, Ambrose took fairly good care of 
himself.  Of course if you counted the way he drove the team of black 
horses—well again—that's another story and we will not tell it here. 

Martha, his wife, was a good cook and at age eighty-two still prepared
three square meals a day, although neither she nor Ambrose ate like 
they used to.  Ambrose spent his days on various activities: walking, 
building and planting, whatever his mind could dream up. 

Lately he had been spending a good deal of time in his workshop on some
sort of secret project.  But one day, David his youngest 
great-grandson, happened by, and stopped in the open doorway of the 
workshop.  The smell of fresh wood shavings and the sound of the saw 
zipping through pine boards were clues that something was definitely 
taking shape.  David saw the stooped old gentleman bending over a very 
serious project.  “Grandpa, hey, watcha' doin'?” 

Ambrose turned around quickly,  “Hey, boy, what're you doin' here?” 
Ambrose tried to stand in front of the long box but it was impossible 
to hide it.  David came into the workshop. 

“Grampa, it looks like a coffin!”  David was thirteen and had never
before seen such a picture.  The old gentleman was making a coffin.  
“Whose coffin is that, Grandpa?  Is that your coffin?  Are you making 
your own coffin?”  David was thunderstruck. He knew that he knew what 
it was, and he had called it right. 

Ambrose had been cutting, sawing and sanding, and he still was not happy
with the outcome.  It would never be a respectable coffin.  He had been 
working on it for weeks, changed plans midstream, even looked for satin 
lining but he finally reached the conclusion it would never be good 
enough for a final resting place.  True, he hadn't heard of anyone 
making their own casket, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  
It was important to have one's plans finalized, and if you had the 
receptacle ready it would have to be a tremendous help for those you 
left behind. 

After a heart-to-heart talk with David—and the passing of a five-dollar
bill, which was quite a lot of money at the time, the project was 
turned into a fine bon fire and no one ever knew the difference.  But 
Ambrose didn't put his project aside completely.  He just altered his 
plans a little. 

After supper one warm evening in early October Martha and Ambrose sat in
their identical white rockers watching the red sun set behind the pine 
trees that lined the yard.  Ambrose said, “Mrs. Johnson,” (he always 
called his wife Mrs. Johnson)  “I'm going to make a trip to town 
tomorrow to see Brother Ives.” 

“Milton Ives? Why, Mr. Johnson, what on earth do you want to see the
undertaker for?”  She stopped rocking in her tracks. 

“Well, I have some plans to make.” 

Martha was on her feet.  “Plans?  What plans?  Are you sick, old man? 
What do you want to see the funeral man for?” 

“Now, now, it's not like that.  I am perfectly well as you can see.  I
can still do the garden as well as I ever could and my pulse is as 
strong as ever.  Hush now,” he said taking both of Martha's tiny hands 


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