A week or so ago, I went over to the funeral home to pick up Connie’s ashes and get her death certificate. The funeral director, a lovely young lady named Amanda, had been wonderful throughout this whole grisly process — dealing with the hospital, the doctors and the state of Texas as part of their service.
Once all the talking was done, I said to the container of ashes, “Come on, sweetheart; let me take you home.” Whereupon Amanda gave a little sob, and ran out of the room.
All the way home, I talked to Connie’s ashes, telling her what I’d been doing in her absence, how the kids were doing, and in general keeping her up to date an everything that had happened since she died.
Stupid, huh?
I’ve always wondered at people who kept Mom’s ashes in an urn on the mantle like some sad reminder or token. Of course, it’s been a staple of black humor in stage productions and movies (the scattering of the ashes scene in The Big Lebowski comes to mind), and yes, it’s all good fun, but silly.
I don’t think it’s so silly anymore. Actually, it’s kind of peaceful and reassuring to have them around even though, let’s be honest, they’re ashes.
She’s not going to stay here, though. In fact, later in the year she’s going to be laid to rest in a long barrow in Wiltshire, built on the farm which belongs to an old family friend (pictured in the article). The irony is strong: Connie was always severely claustrophobic, but as another friend said, “She’ll get over it. Besides, she’s going to be among friends, now.”
What I do know is that Connie loved the place; she called it “home”, and when we visited the farm, she would sit for hours at the kitchen window looking out over the Vale of Pewsey. When I asked her what she was doing, she replied, “Looking at one of Constable’s paintings,” because that’s exactly what it looked like. Here’s what she was talking about:
It is even more beautiful than the photo suggests. And when it’s my time to go, guess where my ashes will end up? Yup… right next to hers.
Together again at last. And I’m not claustrophobic.
Perfect setting.
Glad to see you back, Kim, but sorry for the reason.
I’m in South Florida. I don’t get back to Pennsylvania often but, when I do, I pick up a six-pack of Iron City beer and head up to the cemetery where my parents are buried. I pour one beer on Dad and talk to them while I consume the other five. They’ve both been gone for some time but it is still therapeutic for me.
I’m very sorry to hear about Connie. You have my condolences.
Talismans are powerful. Don’t let this one’s power lie fallow while you need it. I pray that when you get to Wiltshire, this talisman will have done its job and you will be ready to part with it.
Kim, I can’t tell you how glad I was to hear from a coworker of mine this morning that you were blogging again. You and your rapier wit have been sorely missed around the blogosphere. I also received a gut-punch from the same coworker this morning when he informed me of your wife’s passing. You and your family have my sincerest condolences and deepest prayers.
Welcome back! We have missed you!
Thankee, my son. I only hope that I can live up to the expectations.
j/k
I have no doubt in that regard, my friend. Still can’t believe it has been ten years since TOSoK. It was one of my daily reads.
Kim,
Sorry it took so long to get here and offer my condolences (WP problems). I remember how kind Connie was when my dad passed away, and I only wish I could be a tenth as eloquent as she was then.
That looks like a lovely place. Please forgive my selfishness when I state that I hope it’s a long time before you join her there.
Randy
Glad to see you back, Kim, but sorry for the reason.
I’m in South Florida. I don’t get back to Pennsylvania often but, when I do, I pick up a six-pack of Iron City beer and head up to the cemetery where my parents are buried. I pour one beer on Dad and talk to them while I consume the other five. They’ve both been gone for some time but it is still therapeutic for me.