We cremated my mother. In Ontario back then there was a law against flinging cremated remains around, so my father and I took the sealed container up to the cottage; got drunk, undid the lead seal very carefully using a dinner knife heated to red hot on the gas stove; rowed out onto the lake, and had a weird and probably unholy little ceremony, with flowers, a lapis necklace, a bottle of champagne and a can of really expensive caviar going overboard with her. (We also recited Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach", which was a favourite of hers.)
There was a bad few minutes when we realized that the canister had a very different weight and feel when empty, but cinders from the fireplace did a stand-in job and then we reversed the hot-knife trick. We must have, despite the drunkenness and the ensuing hangovers, done a reasonable job. No one at the mortuary so much as flicked an eyelid when we brought the "urn" back to its final resting place.
It is one of my better memories of that time - I think it made both of us feel that we had done our best to give her one final "good time". I think burial customs are in many ways one's last chance to do something for a loved one...