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MY MOTHER'S CASKET IS IN an upstairs bedroom in her home, covered with a quilt, topped by coffee table books about birds of North America, and adorned with throw pillows. The bedroom was once known as the "pink room." Now it is known as the "coffin room."

Ever since I can remember, my siblings and I have been planning for our mother's funeral. Not her death, mind you - she's not even sick - but her funeral.

My earliest recollection of seeing a dead person was at my grandfather's wake. At 5 years old, I was too short to see anything. My mother just picked me up and sat me on the top of the casket. I was happy and the relatives didn't blink an eye.

Death was discussed in our home as a fact of life. We were taught not to fear it. We knew that when my mother eventually died, we were not, under any circumstance upon her death, to say she "passed away." "That's silly," she'd insist. "If a person dies, they die."

The thought that of her funeral planning being beyond her control was just too much for my mother. She took over - in advance. She bought funeral insurance. We discussed her printed funeral program as we sat around the kitchen table. The design is now safely stored on disk, to be printed from my sister's computer when the time comes. A burial site was purchased and a tombstone made.

My brother and I visited the site. We judged the placement of the stone and the suitability of location. We assessed the sloping of the ground and pronounced all fine and good. We commemorated the occasion with a toast. It will be nice to have at least one happy memory at the site.

My mother's response to a manufactured coffin was, "You want how much money for what?" My father, a carpenter by hobby, decided he'd take a stab at it. He enrolled in the adult woodworking class at the local high school. Amid class projects of dressers, bookcases, and headboards sat my mother's casket. I volunteered to make the casket "innards": pillow, mattress, and coverlet. My mother and I had a wonderful time choosing the right material. My mother lay in her solid oak, beautifully handcrafted casket, giving me suggestions and instructions, while I measured her carefully. Since the top of her coffin is not split, she was concerned that no one notice her knees under the coverlet. As I measured, I realized that on the day the casket is used for its true purpose I would be the one to make sure her knees won't show. I am strangely comforted by the idea that there will be one more thing I can do for my mother after she has died.

My children wanted to see the finished product. "Can we climb inside?" they asked. They did, closely followed by their grandmother. I have the photograph.

Not everyone is comfortable with this. None of the grandchildren will sleep in the "coffin room" alone. One sibling doesn't want anyone to know that there is a casket in my parents' house. Another requested that no names be used in this article, including mine.

My husband, however, has been surprisingly forthcoming with suggestions and recommendations. He offered a piece of land on our acreage for her use, but the burial site was already set. When my mother lamented the cost of a hearse, my husband offered to drive up with our full sized pick-up on burial day and take her remains to the cemetery.

When the casket was completed last spring, the local priest came and blessed it. The event was marked by a quiet celebration attended by a few of my parents' intimate friends and followed by dinner and a toast to the living. The priest admitted that it was his first casket blessing.

Our hope is that the casket won't be used anytime soon. Meanwhile, my father is making his own. He saw a casket recently that had a piece of glass in the lid, like a window, located above the head. "Now, there's a thought," he told me.

And my mother just sent me a note. "I need a pall. How much material do you think we'll need? We have to get this done so I can embroider all of our names on it (10), plus in-laws (eight), plus grandchildren (currently 15). After all, this is something handed down from generation to generation. We can all use it."

My husband went outside and started warming up the pickup truck. Just in case.

Meredith Stanton Vaselaar is a freelance writer from Adrian, Minnesota, who does not have a casket of her own - at the moment.