VALLEJO, Calif. — A memorial service for slain Vallejo Police Officer Jim Capoot was held at Vallejo High School’s football field on Nov. 30. Officer Capoot was 45.

According to The Reporter, approximately 5,000 people were present at his memorial service, with nearly 3,500 officers and 1,500 guests. Gov. Jerry Brown, the Vallejo City Council, and representatives from local and state offices were present.

On Thursday, November 17 at approximately 1:30 p.m., Capoot responded to a bank robbery that occurred at a Bank of America on Springs Road in Vallejo. According to the San Francisco Chronicle, Capoot was shot and killed during a foot chase after bank robbery suspect, Henry Smith, 37, lost control of his car and ran into a backyard. Capoot was found with multiple gunshot wounds in his back.

According to the San Jose Mercury News, Smith plead not guilty on Tuesday to homicide charges with special circumstances that could lead to a death sentence.

Many anecdotes about Capoot were delivered during the hour-and-a-half long ceremony. The services also included an eight-helicopter flyover, a 21-gun salute and 40 mounted officers stationed under each football goal post.

Vallejo Police Sgt. Jeff Bassett said Capoot served on the Vallejo Police Department for 19 years and received two Medals of Courage. Capoot was formerly a California Highway Patrol officer as well as an ex-U.S. Marine.

“He’s a guy that’s loved by everybody,” Bassett said. “We’re a small police department, we’re a tight family. There’s nobody in the police department who was not affected by this.”

Capoot’s obituary in The Vallejo Times-Herald stated that he coached the Vallejo High School varsity girls basketball team, served as a motorcycle officer, motorcycle instructor, driving instructor, and SWAT officer. In addition, he was a Vacaville resident since 1995 and is survived by a wife and three daughters.

“I found him to be a sound decision-maker, a person with tactical competence and a person who had a concern for the citizens of Vallejo,” said Vallejo Police Chief Robert Nichelini. “And, at times, you could tell he was a Marine.”

The bodies that lay just beyond my front door were rigid and still, lifeless and festooned for their final farewell. For the most part the mortuary was dead quiet, especially after hours, but every now and then it would teem with inexplicable activity.

I had just put the baby to bed for the night and was indulging in the weekly magazine I saved for that quiet time when everyone had gone home or was out picking up our newest client. Just as I had settled into my corner on the couch, the floorboard outside my door creaked with the heaviness of a footstep. With a suddenly accelerated heart rate, I awaited the next step…but it didn’t come. Either someone was standing just outside my door, or I had imagined it. A loud crashing noise shook me from my frightened anticipation. Someone must have returned and was making a raucous while transferring a new body. I slowly opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain securely fastened. Nobody was in the hallway. Upon thorough investigation of every room, I found that the mortuary was empty, save me and the baby. Walking quickly, as if followed by death, I made my way back to the apartment, heart racing, hair raised. I watched as an orb of light followed close behind my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway. I raced into the apartment, quickly locked the door – chain, deadbolt and knob – and returned to my corner on the couch, knees pulled up. While I rationalized the events, trying to laugh it off, it came again…the creaking floorboard.

The first thing people ask me when they read my book or hear a bit of my unlikely life story is, “You really lived in a mortuary…with dead people?” Yes, I did. And their next question is always the same…“why?”

I was newly married at twenty years old, six months pregnant and without many options for work and a home. This particular mortuary offered both and it was an offer impossible to pass up despite its obvious flaws. Needing a home and a way to provide for my new baby trumped the trepidation I had about whom, exactly, we would be living with.

The only mortuary experience I could remember before moving into that Northern California, family-owned funeral home was the service for my 92-year-old great grandma. I was barely into the double-digits of life and trembling while my grandpa firmly held my hand and walked me to the casket to pay my respects to one of my favorite people. When I got close, I was stunned by the lack of resemblance between the pasty, soulless body in front of me and the grandma who so often leaned over to peek at my cards while smiling as if she had a secret before asking, “Do you have any 4’s?” He made me kiss her cheek and I remember the smell, of what I now know to be formaldehyde, making me sick to my stomach and the cold, stiff feel of her cheek giving me the chills.

With this my only home-of-the-dead experience and the memories still haunting, I was a tad more than terrified to walk through my new front door. But as is the case with much of the unpleasant in life, I adapted. I began venturing out into the red-carpeted hallway, long and narrow, which led into the business office, casket show-room, chapels and, of course, the embalming room.

I helped after hours since I wasn’t technically an employee, only to find that it’s after hours that the place really comes to life. I ran the vacuum over every inch of carpet, at one point hugely pregnant and later with a baby dangling from a papoose slung over my shoulders. I cleaned the bathrooms, replaced the tissue boxes, collected and documented flower cards and gradually worked my way closer and closer to that room. Once inside, I came face to face with the morbid, matter-of-fact realities of death, and eventually, I painted those faces.

The first lesson I learned is one that has helped me through many uncomfortable situations. Human beings are surprisingly superb at adapting to our environments. At first mention, the idea of living with the dead was unfathomable, and I did spend many terrified moments curled up on the couch anticipating the next haunting footstep, shadow or looming light. But with time, I actually found myself unaffected by their presence, applying their make-up with the same matter-of-fact mindset I had while filing paperwork at a law firm months before, only with more cooperative clientele. I found a way to survive circumstances that had once seemed untenable, and I reminded myself of this when later faced with some of my darkest hours. I would repeat over and over the mantra, “no matter what, I’ll survive.” This mindset helped get me through a violent and at times life-threatening marriage, divorce and custody battle. It helped get me through single-motherhood. It still helps me with the uncomfortable uncertainty of life.

Life is fleeting. This is another lesson I learned from my time with death. The ironic contrast between the death that continually passed through the mortuary doors and the new life I held in my arms was unmistakable. It was terrifying, too, as I was quickly made aware that no one is immune to this certainty. Shortly after I brought my beautiful baby home from the hospital, another mother was bringing her still-born baby to our home for a service. With empathetic grief, I clung tightly to the life I would die to protect and grappled with the inevitability we must all face. I saw many ages, races and faces come through those doors. I saw natural causes and violent tragedies. Many who work in the business find themselves so consumed by death they can’t live life. Many turn to drugs and alcohol. I can’t really blame them. If death is the end of the road, life can seem futile and cruel. Luckily, before I was overwhelmed by the unforgiving and unrelenting reality of death, I caught a glimpse of what would become the most valuable lesson of all.

Any of us can play dead. It is, in fact, recommended as a useful tool while being mauled by bears. Hollywood goes to great lengths to recreate its likeness. But, the truth is, we can’t recreate it. It is undeniable that something is missing when you look at and touch a body that once was a living, breathing person. No matter how much make-up, glue or formaldehyde you use, you will often hear the family say that the body before them is not their loved one. They are most certainly gone…but where to? What is missing that made them who they were? These questions were ever present, and as haunting as the whispers in the hallway. It had been a long time since I had considered the Christian faith I was raised with. But the questions were demanding my attention. I began seeking answers and ironically, that place of death would become the beginning of a new faith and as a result, a radically new life.

Despite the many hair-raising events I suffered while living in that mortuary, I gained a lot from my time there. It was life-changing.

So if you are planning on taking up residence in your local funeral home, I have some advice: brace yourself for what might pass you in the hallways. And be respectful of the dead and their loved ones – for it will, most definitely, be you one day.

Rebecca’s book, “All the Wrong Places” is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website in both paperback and e-book format.

Ryan Dunn arrives at the premiere of Paramount Pictures and MTV Films' "Jackass 3D" at the Mann's Chinese Theater on October 13, in Los Angeles (WireImage)

Hundreds of friends and family attended a private, closed funeral in West Chester, Pa., for “Jackass” star Ryan Dunn, who was killed in a car crash Monday morning.

The “Celebration of Dunn’s life,” went on for more than four hours.

“Jackass” costars Bam Margera and Johnny Knoxville and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” actors Glenn Howerton and Rob McElhenney attended the service.

Rock band Kings of Leon, whose members were friends with Dunn, took timeout from their concert in London to remember him.

Dunn, 34, was killed after crashing his 2007 Porsche 911 GT3 into a guardrail at 2:30 a.m. Monday. Police say he was driving up to 140 miles-per-hour in a 55 zone, and his blood alcohol level was nearly .2, more than twice the .08 legal limit.

A 30-year-old Iraq war veteran, riding as a passenger, was also killed in the crash after the car hit a guardrail and flew through 120 feet of wooded space before hitting a tree and bursting into flames.

A protest sign held by a member of the WBC (left) and Elizabeth Edwards. (Media Credit/www.Huffingtonpost.com)

The Westboro Baptist Church announced in a memo on its Web site, www.godhatesfags.com, that it plans to picket at Elizabeth Edwards’ funeral Saturday, to be held in Raleigh, N.C.

The group, based in Kansas, frequently protests soldiers’ funerals and is famous for its many hateful–and distasteful–picket signs, including “God Hates Fags,” “Thank God for Dead Soldiers,” “Thank God for Breast Cancer” and “Thank God for 9/11.”

Edwards, the estranged wife of former presidential candidate John Edwards, died of breast cancer earlier this week at the age of 61. The WBC’s memo claims that “God hates” Edwards and that she is a “resident of hell, where her rebellion and rage will take full flower.” The group’s anger towards her seems to be rooted in her statements to the media regarding she and John’s 16-year-old son Wade, who died in a car crash in 1996. The WBC deemed her statements “blasphemy.”

The WBC’s memo can be read in its entirety below.

The funeral for Adam Goldstein “DJ AM” was held Wednesday at Hillside Memorial Park in Los Angeles.

Many of his friends in the music and entertainment world came to pay their respects and lay to rest the popular but troubled musician.

DJ AM was found dead in his New York apartment August 28 of an apparent drug overdose. The DJ survived a plane crash last September with Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker. The crash killed four others, and it has been widely reported that DJ AM suffered survivor’s guilt.

Dear EarthTalk: I’ve heard that increasing eco-awareness around the world has now extended itself to the afterlife, whereby burials can even be “green.” Is that true? — Mary Lewis, Duxbury, MA

Modern western-world burial practices are arguably absurd, all things considered: We pack our dearly departed with synthetic preservatives and encase them in impenetrable coffins meant to defy the natural forces of decomposition that have been turning ashes to ashes and dust to dust for eons. And in the process we give over thousands of acres of land every year to new cemetery grounds from coast to coast.

According to National Geographic, American funerals are responsible each year for the felling of 30 million board feet of casket wood (some of which comes from tropical hardwoods), 90,000 tons of steel, 1.6 million tons of concrete for burial vaults, and 800,000 gallons of embalming fluid. Even cremation is an environmental horror story, with the incineration process emitting many a noxious substance, including dioxin, hydrochloric acid, sulfur dioxide, and climate-changing carbon dioxide.

But increasing demand for more natural burial practices has spawned changes in the industry, and dozens of funeral homes and cemeteries across the country have started to adopt greener ways of operating. Many of these providers are members of the non-profit Green Burial Council, which works “to make burial sustainable for the planet, meaningful for the families, and economically viable for the provider.”

The organization partners with land trusts, park service agencies and the funeral profession to help consumers get the greenest burial experience possible. Its network of approved providers is committed to reducing the industry’s toxins, waste and carbon emissions. Many of the group’s member cemeteries-you can find a directory on the Green Burial Council’s website-offer clients the option of burying loved ones in more natural landscapes uncluttered by headstones and mausoleums. In place of a traditional headstone, for example, a tree might be planted over the grave.

And instead of conventional wood and steel coffins, clients can bury loved ones in more biodegradable wicker or cardboard, or in a casket made of wood certified as sustainably harvested by the nonprofit Forest Stewardship Council. Advocates of such greener burials say that people take comfort in knowing their bodies will decompose and become part of the cycle of nature.

Likewise, dry ice is becoming a popular, non-toxic alternative to embalming. According to Greensprings Natural Cemetery in Newfield, New York, “No state in the U.S. requires embalming, though some may require it if burial doesn’t take place within a set amount of time-usually 24 or 48 hours.”

Even the practice of scattering ashes at sea has a new wrinkle. Florida-based Great Burial Reef will place urns with cremated remains within 100 percent natural, PH-balanced concrete artificial reefs placed at the bottom of the ocean. And Georgia-based Eternal Reefs will mix your ashes with the cement they use to create “reef balls”-hollow spheres that resemble giant Wiffle balls that are sunk offshore. Loved ones equipped with the GPS coordinates can boat or even dive to visit the site of the remains.

CONTACTS: Green Burial Council, www.greenburialcouncil.org; Forest Stewardship Council, www.fscus.org; Greensprings Natural Cemetery, www.naturalburial.org; Great Burial Reef, www.greatburialreef.com; Eternal Reefs, www.eternalreefs.com.

GOT AN ENVIRONMENTAL QUESTION? Send it to: EarthTalk, c/o E/The Environmental Magazine, P.O. Box 5098, Westport, CT 06881; submit it at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/thisweek/, or e-mail: earthtalk@emagazine.com. Read past columns at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/archives.php.

Dear EarthTalk: What’s the deal nowadays with aerosol spray cans? I thought that the ozone-depleting chemicals used in them were eliminated back in the 1970s. Is this true? If so, what is now used as a propellant? Are aerosols still bad for the ozone layer? — Sheila, Abilene, TX

The aerosol spray can has a storied history in the United States. First invented in the 1920s by U.S. Department of Agriculture scientists to pressurize insect spray, American soldiers eventually used the technology to help ward off Malaria in the South Pacific during World War II. The aerosol spray cans today, while much smaller and more refined, are direct descendents of those original military grade clunkers. Use of the cans for consumer applications took off during the ensuing decades, until the mid-1970s when ozone depletion first came to the public’s attention.

As a result, consumer aerosol products made in the U.S. have not contained ozone-depleting chemicals-also known as chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs)-since the late 1970s, first because companies voluntary eliminated them, and later because of federal regulations. Clean Air Act and U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) regulations further restricted the use of CFCs for non-consumer products. All consumer and most other aerosol products made or sold in the U.S. now use propellants-such as hydrocarbons and compressed gases like nitrous oxide-that do not deplete the ozone layer. Aerosol spray cans produced in some other countries might still utilize CFCs, but they cannot legally be sold in the U.S.

According to the industry trade group, the National Aerosol Association, aerosol manufacturers in Europe and other parts of the world initially did not follow the lead of U.S. industry in substituting alternative propellants for CFCs. “The fact that aerosols made in underdeveloped countries may contain CFCs has caused confusion in press reports and in the public mind about the stratospheric ozone/aerosol link,” reports the group. Other countries have also switched out ozone-depleting propellants with non-depleting forms because they signed 1987′s Montreal Protocol, a landmark international agreement signed by 191 countries with the goal of phasing out the production and use of CFCs and other ozone depleting chemicals. Scientists report that that the phase out of the chemicals is now about 90 percent complete.

Of course, just because those deodorant sprays and shaving cream cans aren’t depleting the ozone layer doesn’t mean they are actually good for the environment. They still contain hydrocarbons and/or compressed gases notorious for their contribution to global warming. Every time you hit the button, then, you are raising your carbon footprint, albeit ever so slightly.

Modern-day, CFC-free aerosol sprays also emit volatile organic compounds (VOCs) that contribute to ground-level ozone levels, a key component of asthma-inducing smog. The state of California is now regulating consumer products that contain VOCs-and aerosol sprays are not the only targets: Fingernail polish, perfumes, mouthwashes, pump hair sprays, and roll-on and stick deodorants also emit them.

CONTACTS: National Aerosol Association, www.nationalaerosol.com.

GOT AN ENVIRONMENTAL QUESTION? Send it to: EarthTalk, c/o E/The Environmental Magazine, P.O. Box 5098, Westport, CT 06881; submit it at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/thisweek/, or e-mail: earthtalk@emagazine.com. Read past columns at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/archives.php.

“I’m a big fan of blush. This right here is my secret,” the young man says, pulling out a small, circular tin from a cosmetics tray. “A little bit of this, just dab it on, it really adds a lot,” he says, running a large powder brush across the top of his hand.

In a tidy pinstriped suit, bright-blue shirt and golden geometric tie, this 24-year-old with long hair and light chin fuzz could be a grandson of the older woman resting inside the casket. But Tyler Pray is actually a young funeral director, the one who arranged this small service on behalf of an estranged sister who wanted to bury her broken relationship as soon as possible.

With the collar popped on his black trench coat, Tyler grasps a silver bar affixed along the side of a gray container. His father and grandfather help march it out a back door, balancing the weight within.

The three generations of Pray men stand in as pallbearers and family for the petite woman who spent her last few years in a wheelchair. Under soft, pink lighting, she appears asleep in such an unnatural position — hands crossed in front and glasses shielding her closed eyes. An assistant cranks the casket closed and the woman’s body slowly tilts back into place, her stiff, clasped hands freeze in the air as if reaching for one last handshake. The men lift her closed casket into a black hearse. Only 10 people show for the funeral. Two attend the burial.

Still, Tyler makes sure she looks great. He sets her hair in neat curls, dresses her in a stylish leopard-print blouse and brings her pale skin back to its natural glow. It’s a chance to do something for her that she can no longer do for herself.

“It doesn’t do anything to my skin, really, but something that’s really pale, like, look at our hands. They’re red. They’re fleshy. It just makes it look like there’s blood flowing through there again. Not that they’re alive, but just a more natural appearance.”

He flips the blush case over. “Oh god. This is so cheesy,” he says. “This is called Sparkling Wine.”

Reputation is important, not only in the bereavement business, but in this small community. The Pray family handles roughly 150 deaths each year in Charlotte, a town of 8,300 near Michigan’s capital of Lansing. Blunders in this small place don’t go unnoticed.

“I don’t want to put too much red on somebody … if they didn’t wear red lipstick,” Tyler says. “Same as with a man. I want to put color on his lips but look at my lips. They’re a pretty red. And I’m a guy not wearing any makeup.

“When I first introduce people to their person in the casket, a lot of times I’ll kind of read and listen to them, ask them if everything’s OK. And people say, “God she looks terrible. There’s too much red on her.’”

Families suffer the most intense episodes when they enter the home and see their deceased for the first time, he says. They hug and cry uncontrollably; some collapse. But that’s how they deal. And sometimes, the Prays are all that families have. Tyler is most proud when someone says their dead relative — not breathing, laughing, smiling like they once did — looks good.

“People who don’t get a chance to have this final moment always seem to be disconnected with what’s really happening,” he says. “Like it’s not true. Like they’re going to come home tomorrow. But they’re not.”

Tyler walks all of 60 feet to work through a back alley from an old, gray colonial, one of three houses the family owns. It’s a prime location for a job with no set schedule. And he’s made it a hub for his creativity. He stands at the kitchen table flipping through some poetry publications that arrived in the mail today. In another room, a guitar stands upright on display and an old typewriter rests on his desk, both ways for Tyler to turn out inspiration. He’s particular about his feng shui, too, demonstrating how the mounted flat panel TV looks cleaner when the DVD rack isn’t directly underneath. He says the spacious apartment is a peaceful getaway from the extreme hours next door.