Martin Schultz

I live off Washington Pike. It is my lifeline, linking me to all the nodes of my existence, smoothly connecting me to banks and insurance agents, repair shops, restaurants and stores, and relatives in assisted living facilities.

It is a highway in constant motion. The odd traffic light barely interrupts the smooth surge of vehicles. Even the appearance of the school bus with its sudden stops barely ripples the flow of traffic.

In this contented atmosphere, it barely concerns me whether the Pike continues far beyond Beijing at one end and Mississippi at the other. I am only interested in the portion of this humble two-lane highway linking Heidelberg and Boyce Road. On this stretch I perform the errands of my life fortified against almost every kind of obstacle. Like the proverbial mail carrier, I am impervious to rain and hail, even the occasional flood, as well as drivers practicing for the Indy 500, and some who should take a bus. My mission is paramount and the Pike is a means to its completion.

Almost every obstacle, I say, because I have spied the ultimate restraint on my ability to travel the Route of Freedom. A funeral home has been constructed on Washington Pike. Now, let me immediately declare that I am among the first to offer my solemn respect for those who have passed beyond the mortal bounds of this life. Removing my chapeau whenever a funeral procession passes, I am prepared to stand with bare head bowed in a state of repose as I contemplate the ephemeral nature of life.

When, however, a funeral home opens for business beside the Pike, I am no longer reposed. Sleepless in South Fayette, I see funeral processions wending their way on my humble two-lane highway toward the new funeral home and the cemetery. Like a conga line, they will twist and turn with the twist and turns of the road, headlights on, flags flapping, holding to 15 miles an hour – a convoy 50, 60 cars in length. Taking up huge portions of the Pike, severely impeding movement of non-funeral traffic. Impeding my mission, to say nothing of its effect on the progress of emergency vehicles and school buses (carrying vast herds of wild children desperate to reach waiting parents, cars, secret candy hoards, bathrooms).

That such a terrifying event keeps me awake in the dead (sorry, an unfortunate choice of word) of night is not the entire nightmare I have described just one such episode. But suppose, and here I confess to a hint of vulgarity, a wave of Final Departures turns into an endless flow of processions wending their way along the Pike. Would this mean the end of my lifeline? Would my artery thus harden and so threaten my freedom to reach the all-important nodes of my existence?

Of course, I have options. I can politely request the funeral home to change its mission, perhaps reopening as a birthing center. I could contribute a dollar towards a fund to widen the Pike into a six-lane interstate. I could even seek to persuade Harrisburg to pass legislation requiring funeral processions using the Pike to operate only between the hours of Midnight and 6 a.m., or I could revamp my mission, reaching all nodes of existence online. Then I’d never need to use the Pike.

The price of freedom. •