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.

Do the Crime, Do the (Bath) Time

Silly girl Olivia often enjoys prancing through the wild ivy that grows rampant on hillsides and parks in my neighborhood. I suspect that stalking through the knee-high ivy feeds some deep primal urge that lurks within all dogs. I get a bit nervous when I think about snakes, but she usually stays just long enough to discreetly do her business, and then she joins me back on the trail.

But not today.

As usual, Olivia was frisking through the ivy, sniffing out a prime spot to heed nature's call, when she suddenly did a Kamikaze nose-dive. She buried her face in the ivy and then proceeded to roll over on her back, rocking back and forth with all four legs waving in the air, a look of sheer ecstasy flashing on her happy face. I smiled and let her enjoy the innocent pleasure until a light bulb flipped on over my head...

...what was my girl rolling in?

So I tugged at her leash and pulled her back on her feet, then leaned over to explore the source of such heavenly canine delight. And almost gagged.

It was a carcass. Something of such decrepit, molten decay, I couldn't even determine what it might have been in its previous incarnation. A raccoon maybe? Or perhaps a bison or woolly mammoth? It was squishy. Furry. And huge. I turned to Olivia and looked at the sweet face that I kiss and body that I hug at least a dozen times a day.

Cool, huh? her joyful expression seemed to say. And I'm covered in it!

Oh yes, indeed. Which explains why my little tiger soon found herself in another "cool" position: at the tail end of a hose.

Men May Come and Go, But...

Curse that first generation iPhone camera because I love these two pictures, fuzzy as they are.

The blurred images capture recent happy moments with two of the most important people in my life: Me with my "baby" sister Jennifer(top left), and below, with my BFF of over 30 years, Pam.

The only person missing is my "there, there" friend Deb; so named because no matter how bad things might be, she's always there to make me feel better with her metaphorical "there, there" love and compassion. Last year Deb fled costly California for a more affordable lifestyle in South Carolina. I know, I thought the same thing: how dare she! Not that we're letting a few thousand miles come between us, although it has messed up impromptu plans.

And the "celebration" card? It's a tarot card that I drew at a recent reading with an "Intuitive" (she doesn't call herself a psychic, but yeah, whatever). This card represents how much I value these relationships, she said. They mean the world to me: they sustain me, nurture me, keep me sane. They make me laugh, feed my soul, and keep me afloat when I feel like I'm drowning.

"This card represents the most important people in your life," the Intuitive said.

Amen, sister. And BFF.

Confessions of a Weather Wimp

I had plans this holiday weekend, big plans. Outdoor plans that included gardening, perusing Pleasanton's annual Antiques & Collectables Faire on Main Street, hiking around Lake Chabot, and, of course, long, leisurely walks with my greyhound, Olivia.

Oh yeah baby, plans, big plans. None of which happened.
Because when I awoke early Saturday morning and looked out my bedroom window, I saw gray, overcast skies and treetops swaying in the wind and had but one thought: Hell no, I won't go.
Because I am a Weather Wimp.
My friends know this all too well. I accept invitations for outdoor activities, but always with the caveat that I will cancel if it ____(fill in the blank): rains,threatens to rain, looks like rain, has rained, will rain, might rain, appears to rain, shows evidence of rain, drizzles, is windy, breezy, foggy, cloudy, damp or chilly.
Give me the heat any day. During hot summer days, my neighbors marvel that they rarely hear the drone of my air conditioner even during triple-digit temperatures. It's gotta be pretty darn toasty for me to break into a sweat. And thank goodness, California usually enjoys a dry heat. I love opening my windows and sitting in-between a nice cross-breeze, relishing the gentle warmth on my bare skin like a comforting hug.
Not so, the cold. It hurts.
The cold makes my eyes sting, my ears throb, my skin ache, and renders immobile my frost-bitten limbs. I can't move, can't think, can't function when a bitter glacial wind is cloaking my body like a blanket of needles. Only one thought is able to penetrate my ice-laden mind when I'm engaged in an outdoor activity and engulfed in arctic elements: when, oh when will the inhumanity end?
And when it drops below 60 degrees, then I really suffer.

So mostly, I stayed indoors this holiday weekend, braving the piercing winds only to take Olivia on her walks. Paying no heed to the crazy fools who were leisurely lounging by the community pool, cracking through the ice to splash about and pretend the weather wasn't really a Siberian 64 degrees.

Or so thinks the Weather Wimp.

Kindle Can't Hold a Candle

Over the weekend, I found myself, by chance, in an independent bookstore. I was walking Olivia, strolling through downtown Danville, when I noticed the inviting window display of Rakestraw Books, featuring hometown hero, Captain Sully Sullenberger and his new book, "Making a Difference: Stories of Vision and Courage from America's Leaders." He was scheduled to do a reading the next Friday, so I went in to sign up. Why not? I figured. Turn off "Jeopardy" and go out once in awhile. Live a little.

Yeah, I'm a wild and crazy kind of gal.

After registering, I perused the small, quaint store, fingering the latest best sellers and flipping through quiet but intriguing unknowns. Admiring the creative, colorful book jackets, inhaling the scent of fresh ink and woodsy paper. And I was reminded of the inviting and intimate atmosphere of independent bookstores, something I've missed since getting a Kindle for my birthday. Sure, downloading books is convenient, but that's it. Convenient.

Since the store is dog-friendly, I had Olivia with me--just try bringing a 70-pound animal into a big box book store--and several customers approached me, asking if they could pet her. Of course, I said, glowing with pride as my little tiger, so nicknamed for her striking brindle coat, put forth her best behavior.

One customer shared a story about his childhood dog, a beloved Border Collie. Another mentioned a book she'd recently read, "A Dog's Purpose," that I told her is sitting on my nightstand, and we conversed a bit about that. When I overheard a customer ask about the bestseller, "The Art of Fielding," I was reminded that, oops! that's the book I was supposed to be reading for my next book club meeting, so I grabbed a copy. And when I asked for a bag since I had a few miles to walk back home and didn't want to get the cover dirty with sweaty fingerprints, another customer went behind the counter and got one for me .

"I don't work here," he said with a grin, "but I'm here all the time." While he was there, Olivia got to enjoy a couple dog biscuits kept stashed behind the counter. When I left 40 minutes later, I felt a warm sense of connection with my community. A connectivity that didn't include routers or cables or modems.

As I walked back home, clutching the first honest-to-goodness, tangible book I've held in months, I pondered e-readers. Convenient, sure, and great for downloading sample chapters to determine if the book is something I'll like. But, at least for me, e-readers are to reading what Facebook is to friendship.

Nice, but just not the same.

Runaway Husband

Oh, the things that happen on our daily walks. Last week the bird, and now this.

There we were, me and Olivia, cutting across the asphalt parking lot of an empty office building when I noticed an older woman in a bit of a predicament. Huffing and puffing, she was trying, unsuccessfully, to prop open an exit door with her back while struggling to lift a man in a wheelchair over the bottom lip of a non-wheelchair accessible door frame.

And so I offered to help and she was most grateful. "At 78 I'm not as strong as I used to be," she sighed, "and we're still trying to figure things out since his stroke." The elderly man, whom I guessed to be her husband, sat with his head down, face expressionless, and arms hanging at his sides. He looked like a limp rag doll. I couldn't tell how much function he had, but it didn't appear to be much. Still, who knew?

"Here," I said, handing Olivia's leash to her. "You hold the dog and I'll take care of this." The chair was heavy, but I was able to lift both wheels over the lip. "There you go," I said, taking back the leash. "Problem solved!"

Gushing her gratitude, she turned her attention to Olivia as her husband waited behind her. "Is she an ex-racer?" she asked. "How fast is she? Where did she race? I had a rescue dog once...." and so forth. She was a nice woman and I didn't mind answering her questions except....

Her husband was starting to roll down the parking lot.

Since I wasn't sure how much control he had, I didn't know if he was moving under his own power. I didn't want to insult him, but he was headed right toward a parked car. I was getting nervous, my eyes flitting back and forth between the oblivious woman and, behind her, the dearly departing husband. Finally, I couldn't stand it.

"Um, uh...is he supposed to be doing that?" I stammered and nodded in his direction.

The woman turned around, threw both hands in the air and screamed "HARRY!!! She bolted after him as quickly as an overweight 78-year old can bolt, but thankfully, her intervention wasn't needed; his wheelchair came to a creeping stop just inches shy of the car. Crisis averted. Whew.

As I said so long to the couple, I wagged my finger toward her husband, who had sat through the entire escapade flaccid and unfazed. "You better watch out for this one," I teased his wife. "I have a feeling this guy's a troublemaker."

And off I walked with Olivia, but not before glimpsing the grin that slowly stretched across her husband's face.

Animal Planet 101

There we were, me and my greyhound Olivia, enjoying a brisk early morning walk today when I heard it:

"Tweeeet, tweeeet, tweeeet."

Then I saw it: a little bird hopping across a street that usually has a fair amount of neighborhood traffic, but was still quiet at 9am on a Sunday morning. Birds are plentiful on this particular trail, which parallels a park, but something about this little bird caught my attention.
I stopped. Watched. Listened.
And soon realized that the little bird was injured. He had to be. Because no normal bird would hop across a wide street and not fly away when the occasional car whizzed by.

With each approaching vehicle, I closed my eyes and plugged my ears, not wanting to hear the sudden silence that would signal the little bird's demise. But by sheer luck, he dodged all traffic and continued with that sad, despairing call: "Tweeeet, tweeet, tweeeeeeeeet." I wanted to help him, but with a 70-pound greyhound on a leash and nothing in which to contain the little bird, there wasn't much I could do.
And so we continued walking, but our pleasant morning walk was now tainted. I couldn't get that little bird's sad call out of my head. That's why, two miles later, when we returned to the parking lot, I made a U-turn and drove back to the street where I'd seen the little bird. Parking my Honda CRV, I opened the windows for Olivia since it was shaping up to be a warm day, emptied a shoe box I keep in the trunk, and went on a search. If I could find the little bird, I'd take him to the Lindsay Wildlife Museum in nearby Walnut Creek. There, he'd be in good hands.
I could hear the little bird. I recognized his distinct surround-sound of despair: "Tweeeet, tweeeeet, tweeeeeet." I stood in the middle of the street, holding a shoebox and looking left, right and all around as the town awakened and cars, bicyclists and joggers whizzed by. From my nearby car, Olivia poked her cocked head out the window and watched, obviously wondering what the heck was her human up to? The tweets were everywhere, but nowhere. I searched through ivy and poked through bushes, but couldn't find the little bird.
Sigh. Declaring defeat, I returned to my car. I know it's the nature of the beast and sometimes the beast is nature.
But I had to try.