Godspeed, Lisa Carlson

February 18, 1938 - June 4, 2023

A remarkable, unique woman died early this morning. Her long season has ended. She was a friend, a teacher, and a mentor to so many. I am one of them, and an important season has ended for me, too.

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Lisa Carlson, her husband Steve, and her daughter Joie. Taken May, 2023

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Lisa Carlson died peacefully at home June 4, 2023 at the age of 86, having been cared for by family and hospice during her decline.

She leaves behind her husband of 40 years, Stephen Carlson;  her son Stuart Mercer and daughter-in-law Mary Mercer of New York; her daughter Joie-Brackett Reeves of Connecticut;  her son Shawn Brackett of Vermont;  her stepson Joshua Carlson of Vermont; her stepdaughter Rosalie Carlson of Oregon,  her brother Edward Shippen of Texas; her brother Eugene Shippen of Pennsylvania;  her sister-in-law Laura Brackett of Vermont; her grandchildren Liam, Matthew, and Ellie Mercer of New York; her grandchildren Kadia Cox Brackett of Connecticut and Ellisa Cox Brackett of New York; and her grandson Kolbey Brackett of Missouri.

The family will announce a remembrance service for Lisa in the coming months.

Lisa was born in 1938 in Melrose, Massachusetts. During her varied career, Lisa was a schoolteacher in Massachusetts and Vermont, proprietress of her restaurant "The Hungry Pig and I" in Plainfield, Vermont, a saleswoman and installer of home vacuum systems, head of the state hospital in Waterbury, Vermont, and author of the first and only book dedicated to teaching families how to return to the time-honored practice of caring for their dead privately at home.

Lisa was a teacher by nature. She is best known for her work advocating for the fair treatment of bereaved people when arranging funerals. Lisa's husband John Brackett died unexpectedly by his own hand in 1981, leaving her widowed with small children and little money. An unusually self-sufficient and resourceful woman,  Lisa cared for John's body at home and drove him herself to the crematory.

What may have been a practical financial move was also what Lisa would come to call the "final act of love." Lisa rediscovered the old tradition of family care of the dead privately, and intimately, without the assistance or cost of a professional undertaker.

This lit a fire in her belly, and she felt compelled to teach others that the grieving do not have to part with their dead—and a great deal of money–in order to lay them to rest. In 1987, she wrote the book "Caring For Your Own Dead," the first manual of practical care for the dead written for lay families. That same year, the New York Times covered Lisa's story and her book, opening the eyes of millions of readers to the possibility of reclaiming the most meaningful and intimate moment in family life.

Troubled by the high cost of funerals and the deceptive sales practices in the commercial funeral industry, Lisa served on the board of a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping the grieving avoid funeral poverty. In 1996, she revised and greatly expanded her book into a new edition. "Caring for the Dead: Your Final Act of Love," added practical advice for families who wished to use a commercial funeral home but who did not know their options, their legal rights, or the ways to hold a meaningful goodbye on a reasonable budget.

That same year, Lisa became Executive Director of the nonprofit  she served, which soon became known as Funeral Consumers Alliance. Her leadership and research expertise made the organization the premier and trusted source for consumers, government, and media seeking objective advice on funeral planning.

During that time Lisa assisted famous muckraking journalist Jessica "Decca" Mitford, on the 1995 updated edition of Mitford's original blockbuster expose "The American Way of Death."

Lisa retired from Funeral Consumers Alliance in 2002, but remained active in consumer advocacy through her own nonprofit, Funeral Ethics Organization. In 2011, she teamed up with her successor at FCA, executive director Joshua Slocum, to co-write a third edition of her book, titled "Final Rights: Reclaiming the American Way of Death."

Lisa Carlson was a force of nature, and to some, an acquired taste. She liked to drink, smoke, and tell off-color jokes. Strongly opinionated and often uncompromising, Lisa could be at times difficult, as unusually passionate people often are. She was also one of the most caring and generous people one could hope to meet; the mentorship, instruction, and moral support she gave to students, family, and friends could never be recounted in an obituary.

Tough as nails and competent at any job she tackled, Lisa's heart was tender and loving. She was often moved to tears by the stories of the families she helped through difficult deaths.  Nothing satisfied her more than to see a family take her advice and discover that, yes, they could do this, and that it meant more to them emotionally than they could have predicted.

As she wished, Lisa's body was donated to the University of Vermont for anatomical study. "I'm not going to need it, but medical students need someone to learn on," she would say. Her friends and family suspect that the first thing she asked for on the other side was a double vodka, neat, and someone to chortle with over a bawdy joke.

Personal remembrance from Josh Slocum

Lisa and the Carlson family have become family to me, and have given me the kind of love and support that was not available from my own parents.

In 2001, I was working as a daily crime reporter at the News and Advance in Lynchburg, Virginia. Someone put a copy of Jessica Mitford's "The American Way of Death" on my desk and I finished it in one night. Fascinated by the funeral trade, I looked up FCA (what was then called FAMSA) online, and learned about Lisa Carlson's work.

One night I had no police calls to chase, so I picked up the phone and dialed the FAMSA number, thinking I'd leave a voicemail for the executive director. In her trademark lady-who-has-long-smoked voice, she answered, "Lisa Carlson." We developed a fast long distance friendship, trading calls most nights while I tried to work on a local story about the corporate takeover of funeral homes. It never went anywhere, as the state regulatory board was colluding with the industry to deny reporters records we were entitled to under the law.

It made me damned mad, and I told Lisa. She said, "Do you want a job in Vermont?" Did I ever. In a month, I'd packed up and left a promising beginning journalism career to come work for a woman who was warring with her board and on her way out, for an organization that everyone thought was the strangest thing they could imagine.

What a good leap of faith that was. Lisa picked me up at the airport in a teal Ford Taurus station wagon. As I sat down, she handed me a travel mug of red wine and an ashtray. I knew I'd made the right decision.

Oh, the nights we sat up researching, smoking, drinking, and laughing! The cigarettes and booze are long gone for me, but I treasure the memories.

Over the years, Lisa taught me how to research and analyze legislation for its effect on consumers. Under her mentorship, I, too, became an expert on funeral law and consumer advocacy; I was pleased to carry on the work she began. That chance meeting by phone changed the trajectory of my life, and gave me a satisfying career for 20 years.

But it wasn't just work that I learned from Lisa, it was life, too. I've always been frugal, but Lisa was a full-fledged tightwad (and proud of it). She once said, "We've never been rich, and we buy everything secondhand, but I have a home and a family and a rewarding life. I feel rich."

Lisa and her husband Steve walked me through buying my first home, a modest, small fixer upper. With their help and guidance, I learned how to tear down walls, put up posts, rebuild walls, and do the kinds of practical things I never thought I could do.

When it was time for me to buy a second home to help my family, the Carlsons were there for that too, making that investment possible for me. I still marvel at their generosity. If not for them, I wouldn't be where I am today.

Anyone who knew Lisa knew that she could be mercurial, bossy, and downright caustic. It's true, and she'd slap me from the grave if I lied about it. And along with that, she was often right. Not always—sometimes the bull in the China shop really does break some valuable dishes. But she was often the only one in the room who, as she would say, "had the balls to tell the truth."

She was right. We're living in an era where people lie constantly an pretend that the worst sin against another human is telling the candid truth while they'd prefer to smile through a mouth full of bullshit. We need more truth-tellers, and we lost one of the best.

This week when it became clear Lisa was dying, I went to the Carlson home to be with the family as we kept her comfortable. I'm writing this from Lisa's dining room table. Taking care of domestic and administrative tasks in times of trouble is something I'm good at, so I made sure she was registered with the body donation program, called the back up funeral home, and got the death certificate ready for the doctor's signature.

When I called the University of Vermont to confirm her enrollment, the pleasant lady who helped me said, "Lisa? Lisa Carlson? I know her!" Of course she did. Lisa gave guest classes to the medical school on the post-death process, and worked with the local body donation program to research the illegitimate for-profit trade in donated human body parts.

Said the UVM lady to me, "Do you remember when she went to Tucson and climbed into the dumpster to get that outfit's price list for body parts?" Did I ever. Lisa wouldn't stop crowing about it for weeks.

"Josh, look at this!", she said, waving a ketchup-stained, crumpled sheet that looked like a menu from an abbattoir. "$375 for one vagina, can you believe that!?" She could have told me it was $15,000 and I would have believed it, never having been aware of the market rates for that commodity.

This is the woman who wrote the book of funeral jokes, "I Died Laughing." Lisa believed—and she's right—that nothing heals like humor. As Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias said, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."

Readers—do me a favor? Tell a dirty joke in Lisa's honor. And if the person you tell doesn't like it? Fuck 'em.

Bless you Lisa, and rest well.