Ash Backwards

Due to popular demand, I'm reprinting an essay that originally appeared in BustedHalo and, later, in the San Francisco Chronicle. Over the years, I've received many requests for this essay because it turns out it's a popular piece to read at memorial services. Who knew?

And so, in honor of my Dad and Father's Day, I bring you:

ASH BACKWARDS

For 13 years Dad sat on Mom's nightstand.

Or at least his ashes did. I'm sure a nightstand from Levitz wasn't quite what he envisioned as his final resting place; in fact, I know it wasn't because 13 years earlier, when Dad learned he had Leukemia and was given just three months to live, he told us specifically where he wanted his ashes scattered.

The problem was, we forgot where exactly that was.

And when you forget a deathbed request, it's not like you can go back and ask the person to repeat their wish. We only realized our fatal faux pax when the time came to scatter his ashes.

"I thought you knew the location."

"No, you said you would handle it!"

And so on. What we did remember was that it was somewhere up in California's Mother Lode Gold Country. Dad's favorite hobby was dredging for gold and he had wanted his ashes scattered in the Tuolumne River. Or was that the American River? Maybe it was the Yuba River?

Good God, we couldn't remember! I could just imagine Dad shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Finally, on the 13th anniversary of his death, we said enough. We had to accommodate his final request. Maybe we couldn't remember the exact river, but we knew he loved the Mother Lode. Maybe we'd find a quiet, serene place, say a prayer, share a few special memories, then scatter his ashes. Dad would finally be laid to rest.

And so, on a sizzling summer day that would have marked his 75th birthday, we drove two hours north from the East Bay toward Columbia, a charming preserved gold rush town he had especially liked. There we were, a gaggle of Johnnie's gals...my mom, sister and me, plus our two best friends whom he had considered second daughters, and the 12-year old granddaughter he never knew.

Now in California, it's illegal to dispose of human remains, and my mother is a person who has never so much as rolled through a stop sign. She was a nervous wreck, convinced an FBI SWAT team was watching her every move, just waiting for her to show some ash.

When we finally arrived in Columbia, she clutched the box of ashes to her chest, looking furtively about. Coke dealers in the other Colombia have looked less guilty.

"Here," she indicated, anxious to get the illicit act over with before she was hauled off to San Quentin. "This is good. Let's scatter them here."

I looked at her in disbelief. We were standing in the middle of an asphalt parking lot in between a Hummer and a Volkswagen.

"It has to be someplace special!" I insisted. She thought about that for a second, then agreed that, yes, yes it did. So she moved a few yards. "Okay, how about here?" She pointed to a trampled trail dotted with horse pies from the Columbia stagecoach rides.

Oh for God's sake, this wouldn't do. I hustled Johnnie's gals, now hot, cranky and tired, back into the van. "We would drive," I barked, "until we found a spot that felt friggin' special!" A task that we soon discovered appears much easier in the movies than it does in real life. Where is that scenic overlook above a sparkling lake when you need one?

But after an hour of driving off beaten tracks and down desolate roads, we saw it: a doe and her fawn looking at us from a dirt path and thought, hey, maybe that was our sign!

Or maybe it wasn't. But we hadn't eaten all day, had sweltered in 100-degree weather, and still faced a long ride home. It would be our sign, dammit.

So we followed the deer a short way only to find ourselves looking down a hillside of trees and daisies. Hey, it was kind of nice. Peaceful and serene. Dad would have liked this. What should we do now? Hold hands and say a prayer? Share some fond memories? Contemplate the passing of a loved one?

“Hurry up!” Mom hissed nervously under her breath. “Before we get caught!”

Okay fine. We’d forgo ceremony to accommodate America’s Most Wanted who was still convinced that the FBI or John Walsh was skulking about.

Solemnly we began scattering Dad’s ashes. Suddenly our bickering ceased as the significance of saying goodbye one last time dawned upon us. No one felt the need to speak. Until, that is, a strong gust of wind came from nowhere and blew a tsunami of ashes back in our direction, coating everyone with a fine film of dust.

Or a fine film of Dad, to be more precise.

“PFffffffttt!” my niece sputtered, coughing. “I've got Grandpa all over me!”

After the initial shock of wiping Dad off our sweaty faces, slowly we started smiling. Then giggling. And then, for the first time on that hot, somber day, laughing until we were crying. This was an act so typical of Dad, an Irishman with a wicked sense of humor. No doubt he was making his presence known, even if his ashes now lay strewn among California wildflowers.

And Johnnie’s gals, chuckling and dusty, reminisced about this special man as we piled back in the van to make the long trek home.