When MaddyChristine Hope Brokopp received a terminal cancer diagnosis in her 50s, she knew she wanted to make her own casket. An online search led her to Mary Lauren Fraser, an artisan in Massachusetts who has been weaving caskets and burial trays for years — and who offered to guide Brokopp and bring along friends for a weekend of making.
On a snowy Valentine’s Day in the Pioneer Valley, Brokopp and a caravan of friends arrived at Fraser’s workshop. Fraser greeted them with peppermint tea and showed them the space where they’d spend two days working on the object that eventually will hold Brokopp. The workshop is part craft studio, part library: shelves divide books on basketry and on death. Finished caskets and trays lean against windows, their woven sides attached to pine boards. Fraser makes both closed caskets and “burial trays” — woven backs without lids. Brokopp chose a tray.
Fraser had already laid out the five pine ribs that would form the tray’s base. “MaddyChristine is five-five, so I’ll make the tray five-seven, or five-eight,” she said, marking a pencil line on the center rib. She’d prepared willow by soaking and sometimes freezing it to keep the fibers workable; weaving requires technical braids like waling and randing to make pieces both beautiful and structural. Fraser planned the difficult parts; the friends would do the simpler tasks under her supervision.
Many of Brokopp’s friends had come from different points in her life. Cynthia Siegers flew in from the Netherlands and, coincidentally, it was her birthday. Despite the weight of their mission, the group treated much of the weekend like an ordinary project: they ate chocolate, told stories about the drive, the kids, plans for spring, and joked as they worked. David D’Amico said it felt like “a team-building exercise that we’re doing together.”
On day one, Brokopp volunteered to weave the first rows of willow into the ribs. She liked the material — “it’s cool, and it’s wet” — and said she wasn’t overwhelmed by emotion. For her, the gathering wasn’t solely about confronting death; it was an opportunity to bring friends together and to have a meaningful, even fun, shared experience. “I realized that’s okay too. I don’t need to be crying here doing this,” she said.
Others found the moment surreal. Nita Landis, sitting beside Brokopp, took her hand and said, “I don’t think any of us can” fully comprehend the reality of making a tray that will one day hold their friend. Pam Clayborne and another friend had remarked on the drive up that, even knowing what they were about to do, they couldn’t imagine laying Brokopp on the tray — because that wasn’t where they were emotionally then.
By the second morning, long strands of willow had been woven into sides that stood up like tall grass. Unlike the first day, everyone could work at once, each friend braiding a section. Brokopp, tired from the previous day’s standing, watched from the couch. Fraser supervised closely, correcting mistakes and unweaving parts when the pattern or structure required it. She explained how every step of basketry is precise and time-consuming; the friends were allowed the easier parts precisely because the technical work demanded an experienced hand.
Despite some mishaps — gently pointed out by Fraser and met with playful blame among friends — the tray took shape. Fraser formed the hood over the head section and stitched six handles into the sides with white cotton rope. When the final strands were clipped and the tray finished, Fraser asked Brokopp if she wanted to try lying in it. Brokopp declined. “I thought about it,” she said, “And, I think that I do not want to try it on.” Landis agreed: “It’s not time yet.”
When the group lifted the completed tray — a long basket of light browns, oranges, and greens — they carried it into the snow together. Brokopp reflected on the friendship woven into the object: “It’s such a generous gift that they all made the drive,” she said. “They’re making something that I’m going to be in.” She hoped the experience could help others talk about death more easily. “I knew some of my friends would struggle with doing this, and I asked them anyway, and they came anyway. So it’s a gift that they’ve given me, and I hope I gave them a gift also.”
