Fast Food and Sacred Rituals - a Follow-up to Ashes

After reading my last entry, Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love, a few friends asked whether Rickie's ashes were indeed scattered by the rock above the alpine lake.

Within days of the funeral, Mom's remains were returned in a black cardboard box. Her explicit instructions were that we not waste money on a beautiful urn which would sit on the mantel. Just put her in a plastic bag, she said.

So we ended up with a cardboard box.

It didn't sit on the mantel. My dad didn't want to see it so he told my sister to just put it somewhere. She chose a spot in a glass cabinet among some of my mother’s cherished knick knacks. Two years later, Dad phoned my sister and asked where it was. He was ready.

Unfortunately, Dad's health had declined to a point where he could no longer hike to the predetermined spot at the alpine lake. He told us to go ahead and do it without him. After some discussion, we decided that Mom wouldn't mind if we didn't carry out her wishes exactly. More meaningful to Dad, and much more accessible for this and future visits, was a larger lake at a lower altitude surrounded by a flat path. Mom had often hiked there. It reminded him of her, so it became our choice for the scattering.

Referring to towering Rocky Mountain peaks, my dad remarked that there couldn't be a more spectacular tombstone.

At the shore, a friendly female duck looking on, it became evident that he couldn't hold his cane, balance the box, and maneuver the ashes. We needed something smaller with which to move the contents from the box to the ground. Mom would have been prepared for this, probably producing an old measuring cup from her fanny pack.

Thinking quickly, I ran back to my car, going out of my way not to trip over the duck who was inching closer, perhaps thinking that our box contained breadcrumbs or something. I retrieved an Arby's cup from which I had just slogged down a diet coke. We could pour ash into the cup and Dad could spill it around as he pleased. As we poured the first batch into the fast food cup, he said sadly, "She hated Arbys."

I often wonder what happens after death. I believe in eternal life, but I don't know what it looks like or whether our deceased loved ones can see us. But I'm sure of one thing: the moment we used a paper cup from Arbys to carry out this solemn ritual, no one was laughing harder than my mother.

With that duck following us the whole time, we circled the lake, stopping every few yards so one of us could pour some ash into the cup which Dad would then pour on the shore, by a boulder, or at the base of a tree.

Next weekend, we'll drive Dad up to the lake and walk around it. I think he's comforted knowing that someday his ashes will join hers in that majestic setting.

We may want to stop at Wendy's on the way.

Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love

On September 21, 2005, my mother died after a long and debilitating illness. The following is an excerpt from the short story I wrote in her memory.

(The morning of her death, I went into) my mother's office. I turned on the light and saw it pretty much as she had left it, save for a few photo albums her granddaughter Hannah had leafed through. In the front of the file cabinet, exactly as Mom had described, was a folder labeled, "To be used at my memorial service, as you think appropriate." It was a hand-written essay, about two pages long, dated September 1981, about a hike my parents had taken in the Colorado mountains to see the changing of the aspen leaves. As they moved through a forest, they discussed how the old trees fell away and decayed, providing room and nourishment for the young. It was clear that Mom had viewed death as a natural and necessary part of life.

In later years, I often accompanied my parents to the mountains for the annual viewing of the colors. At a particularly scenic alpine lake right below timberline (during a year when my own health was uncertain), I casually expressed my desire to be cremated and scattered at that spot and needed them to know, just in case. Mom burst into tears, responding more dramatically than I had wished, and promised that they would do as I asked. Further, she cried that she wanted her ashes in the same spot so that I wouldn't be alone on top of those chilly Rocky Mountains. I cringed, first wishing she'd stop, and then wondering why I couldn't have my own special spot. She didn't stop. She poked my dad's arm and said, "Bob, don't you want to be scattered here too? Don't you?" He replied that because we would all be dead, it didn't much matter, but ok, fine, he'd consent to anything in order to bring this conversation to a close.

A year before Mom, one of my cats died. In my grief, I decided to take my little companion's ashes to that same alpine lake. I wanted to symbolize that we would be together after death. I asked Mom and Dad if they wanted to come. (My sister) Carol came along too. Although we took the kitty's death seriously, we also silently knew it was a rehearsal for the future. I hiked to a rock above the lake, off the beaten trail where so many others walked. Carol and Dad followed, leaving Mom by the car because the climb would probably be too much. As I opened the canister to release the ashes, Mom cobbled up from behind, navigating the steep incline and rough rooted trail with her cane. Before I could scatter the ashes, she asked to see them. She had never seen cremains before and was curious. We all looked, noting the coarse dust and white fragments of bone which made it different from the fine fireplace ashes we were used to. I then raised the container and let the contents go, most landing with the rain that began to fall, mixing it with the ground, while some blew away in the breeze. I read a poem and we went back to the car, but not before Mom pulled a camera out of her jacket and took several pictures of the rock, the lake, and the view.