Da-Da, The Final Chapter: The Best Little Send-Off in All of Shelby County
The final chapter in series. To read it from the beginning, here are parts one, two and three.
I picture it like this. A gunshot, then a thin stream of dark gray smoke flowing upward. At the same time, my father’s soul is released, traveling up past the smoke, through the plaster ceiling, bursting through the roof, and up toward the sky, where it disperses and scatters across the universe like so many stars. The faulty body is left behind, and the spirit surges forth, running, leaping, dancing throughout the cosmos, as free and unbound as a joyous child.
I’m happy for him. The cliches about suicide being a selfish act don’t apply here. He was selfish in life, but his death was simply what he came to see as his only option. His mind was damaged, and his body had been the vehicle that helped liberate him from it. It transported him to bars and through shady adventures. It carried him to foreign countries and foreign beds. Once he became immobilized, he lost the freedom to escape himself. He became imprisoned by a sick mind and a tortured heart, and who can blame him for wanting to leave that behind? I can’t.
~~~~~~~~~~
We met in Memphis, my brother, sister and I. My half-brother, our mother’s son from another marriage, came too. He brought us love and support and a sense of calm.
There was much to do. Relatives to meet, people to call, memorials to plan, personal effects to be divided. There was a condo to sell, and a cat to find a home for. And there were ashes to scatter.
My father wanted to be cremated. We drove to the funeral home, and discussed the details with the director, a stuffy man of studied compassion. A memorial service was scheduled, and we told him that we’d find someone to officiate.
The director then calmly and delicately presented various cremation plans and death packages, and the more he talked, the more we began to see the surrealism of the situation. Our bullshit detectors were moving into the red zone. No, we didn’t want the golden urn with the engraved nameplate. No, we didn’t want the special, hermetically-sealed mausoleum to encase his ashes for all eternity. We were going to scatter them.
It seemed so odd, hearing a stranger speak of our father as though he were a former head of state, or some beloved folk singer. It made us sort of giggly.
“Could we get him extra-crispy?” I asked, and my siblings burst out laughing.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was difficult to find a rabbi who would lead the memorial service. Although he considered himself quite spiritual, Dad belonged to no synagogue, and he’d committed suicide, two big no-no’s in the Jewish faith. I’ve never understood how people can abandon each other at such times; it’s one of the many reasons I’m not a big fan of organized religion.
Finally, we spoke to a warm and good-hearted rabbi who agreed to eulogize him. He met with us beforehand so that we could give him details of our father’s life. For the first time ever, we found ourselves speaking to a stranger about him, trying to explain who he was to someone outside of our family. We moved through the gamut of emotions, laughing and crying, full of pain and pride and humiliation as we described his accomplishments, his brilliance, his humor and his destructiveness. What a difficult task it must have been for that rabbi, taking such crazy information and molding it into a compassionate speech.
I don’t remember much about the memorial service. I was surprised at how many people showed up, but their faces are all a blur. How amazing those friends and family members were who came to pay their respects. I was struck by the fact that although it was obvious that Dad wasn’t an easy person to be with, they’d all seen some goodness in him, something that drew them toward him. He really could be so damned charming.
The rabbi talked about the father we used to know. The one who built his own successful realty business, played a seven or eight handicap golf game, and loved fast cars. He spoke of the man who was at one time the life of the party, the one who was able to “transcend his physical limitations, if only momentarily.”
And then he said this: “He had a difficult time finding serenity. He never wanted to be pitied, and consequently, he rarely let people into his life. Even those closest to him, could never get too close, for he wanted it that way.”
“It was not his way to share his love openly, but after hearing and studying a fair amount of his life these past two days, there is one thing of which I am certain. He loved his children even when he didn’t know how to. When tears clouded his eyes in recent years, when his world darkened and his heart was heavy within him, he could never blot from his mind the love he did know.”
I hope that rabbi was right.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next day, we picked up a box containing Dad’s ashes and I was astounded by the fact that I could now lift my father and put them into the back seat of my car. I carried him around like a purse for a few days, taking him with me wherever I went. When we were driving, I’d turn around and talk to him from time to time.
“Don’t worry, Dad. We haven’t forgotten you.”
“Speed bump, Dad– sorry.”
At first, we wanted to scatter his ashes in the Mississippi River. He loved water. Bathtubs, oceans, rivers and streams. In part, he chose his condominium because it had a big duck pond nearby, and when he was mobile, he loved to go and visit it. Water seemed to bring him peace.
We needed a boat, but we didn’t have one. An old girlfriend of Dad’s called and offered us the use of a pontoon, with the stipulation that she be allowed to attend the scattering. Nope. This was going to be a very private ceremony. Nutty family only. No goofy girlfriends.
We racked our brains trying to figure out what to do. Still rather dazed, we weren’t thinking clearly, and we weren’t ready to say goodbye.
I’d been driving Dad around for days by this point.
“Sorry for taking so long, Dad,” I said to the big white box. “We just want to do what’s best for you.”
Early Saturday afternoon, our youngest brother shook us out of our indecision. “Guys, you have to do this. Two of us have flights that are leaving in a few hours.”
And so we decided. We grabbed the box of ashes, a bottle of wine, a boom box and Dad’s beloved Carpenters tape, and stealthily made our way to the pond in front of the condominiums, an exhausted group of outlaw mourners. My sister and brother and their spouses, my youngest brother and I solemnly gathered along the bank.
My brother’s wife mentioned the illegality of this proceeding, and we agreed. It was just the way Dad would have wanted it.
I opened the box of ashes. Pouring part of them into the pond, I ran my fingers through the gritty soot that had once been my father, and said my final goodbyes. The box was passed from person to person, each one gradually emptying the ashes, and gently voicing what was in his or her heart.
We stood there silently for a while, watching them sink to the bottom of the pond. Ducks floated respectfully in the distance. We opened the wine, poured some of it into the water for Dad, then passed the bottle around and drank a final toast.
Then we hit the “play” button on the boom box. No sound came forth. In our haste, we’d forgotten to check the batteries, and they too were dead.
We stood there for a moment. Someone began to sing, and we all joined in.
There’s a man who leads a life of danger,
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger
With every move he makes, another chance he takes
Odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow.
Secret AGENT MAN!
Secret AGENT MAN!
They’ve given you a number, and taken away your name.
We giggled quietly, then became quiet again, lost in thoughts and memories. We passed the bottle a second time.
Then we sang, “Close to You.”
And then we cried. We hugged and kissed, then walked back to the empty condominium.
Dad would have loved it. I picture him watching our little ceremony– the unlawfulness, the disorganization, the wine and the sorrow. I imagine him listening to our words of love and our pitiful singing and just laughing like hell, tears of joy pouring down his face.
Little Miss said,
January 17, 2008 at 6:01 pm
Another score. You have this fantastic ability to weave humor and sadness so closely together that the read is completely enjoyable. What a perfect sendoff for your father.
Thanks, LM. The whole time I wrote this, I kept trying to do it in such a way that my father might approve. I think he would.
leakyfaucet said,
January 17, 2008 at 6:43 pm
Oh I really enjoyed reading this series, thank you for sharing.
I’m so glad you did! Thanks for taking the time to read it, and to comment.
Brian said,
January 17, 2008 at 6:44 pm
Beautiful. Just beautiful. Even though you made me cry.
I’m sorry I made you cry!
Thanks so much for the links on your site, Brian. I feel so honored!
WC said,
January 17, 2008 at 8:19 pm
What a great send-off. Liked the so accurate “stuffy man of studied compassion” . Glad you didn’t let the former girlfriend horn in either. Thanks for a well written story about a life that, in spite of its bad times, was definitely well lived.
Thanks, WC. I think he lived it as well as he could, and that he did have some fun adventures to look back on.
I enjoyed the link to your books (they look wonderful)– please tell your publisher to call me!
David said,
January 17, 2008 at 8:26 pm
McQueen you are really something special. I still don’t know what to say. Your Da Da saga was just incredible! I hope it was as helpful to you writing it as it was to me reading it.
And thanks also for the hilarious “commercial”!
I’m so glad you liked it, and I really appreciate the positive feedback. It did feel cathartic to write it.
Wasn’t that commercial great? Parenting at its worst, but comedy at its finest. There’s another one out there, where Pearl is a police detective. She’s a badass!
ohchicken said,
January 17, 2008 at 8:42 pm
thank you for this whole series. so beautifullly written, and full of love–i think you’ve helped me make a little more sense of my own complicated father: his life, his death, and the achy-difficult love between us.
Such a wonderful thing to say. It makes me so happy to think that writing this could somehow make things clearer or easier for someone else. Thank you.
Jan said,
January 18, 2008 at 12:19 am
what a beautiful story. UnConditional Love at it’s finest. (((HUGS)))
(((Hugs))) back, Jan. Thanks.
CuriousC said,
January 18, 2008 at 8:05 am
Thank you. Beautiful powerful stuff.
Thanks C.
Alyson said,
January 18, 2008 at 9:22 am
Wonderful. This reminded me of watching “Steel Magnolia’s”. Every time I watch it, I am laughing and crying at the same time, just like now.
Extra Crispy. LOL!
When my grandpa died they tried to sell my dad an extended warranty on the burial vault. I asked dad, “who the hell knows if the vault is defective? If it has a 20 year warranty, do you dig it up in 19 years to make sure it’s still intact?”
LOL Alyson. Your question was great– I guess funeral homes bring out the smartass in all of us!
Jamie said,
January 18, 2008 at 9:42 am
Now everyone who passes my desk will think somethings wrong with me because my eyes are all red. You could at LEAST put up a Kleenex alert or something as a caveat!
Seriously, well conveyed.
Ooooh, I’m sorry, Jamie. That’s why I have the Depressing Blog Post Warning System at the top of the page!
loopyloo350 said,
January 18, 2008 at 9:57 am
Beautiful, and somehow it seems such an ending was the only choice.Your writing is so compelling that you find yourself part of the story. Thank you
I’m glad that it made you feel a part of it. Thanks, loopyloo.
lethaleuphoria said,
January 18, 2008 at 11:14 am
wow.. this is beautiful. i read the whole series now and i’m speechless and stuck in thought. amazing stories, your power with words is divine. it does bring a tear to my eye to read this… it shows your talent and your strength as a person as well. thank you again for writing!
Thanks so much, LE. I am glad to have written this story. It’s a bizarre tribute to my father, but one he would have appreciated (I think!).
Wendy said,
January 18, 2008 at 2:48 pm
This was wonderful, from start to finish this has been an excellent series of posts. We all enjoyed it so much, and I hope that for you it’s been a pleasant experience that will lift you to a whole other level you didn’t even know about.
Thanks, Wendy. It was quite the writing challenge. It was a good experience, but I’m ready to get by to my “other” blogging.
Accountable said,
January 18, 2008 at 8:24 pm
Wow.. Thanks for sharing a part of your life.
Thank you for letting me share it!
Red said,
January 19, 2008 at 1:02 am
Aww, that just sounds so incredibly perfect ….. the way you and your siblings resolved to scatter his remains .. Im damned sure he appreciated that.
And I love how yall sang the song .. when there were no batteries. Classic!
Thank you, Red. His scattering was so healing. It felt good to know that we ended things the way Dad would have liked it. It gave us a bit of closure, and I look back on it as a very crazy, loving ceremony.
joanharvest said,
January 19, 2008 at 2:43 pm
I know this is real life and not a short story but I love the ending. It was as it should be. We buried my father’s ashes next to my mother’s. It was me, my sister and brother, our three children and my ex-husband who wrote something very touching which he read. The cemetery where my dad and my mom are is beautiful. We had no service because my father would have hated all the attention. My son took it the hardest. He was traveling the country at the time and was in Utah when it happened. I told him not to come home, there was nothing he could do but he drove all the way home during a terrible snow storm, driving day and night with his girlfriend. He didn’t want to miss the burial. I’m sitting here in tears right now. I guess I am just crying for everyone who has lost a loved one. I needed to cry anyway. If I don’t cry every few weeks, I’m good for nothing. Reading your story was worth the cry. Thanks again.
Okay, more hugs for you, Joan. I’m sorry I made you cry, but glad you felt that it was worth it. Your above story about Damon made me pretty weepy too. I’m glad he made it there to say goodbye.
ivdanu said,
January 19, 2008 at 6:11 pm
I wish my children will do the same for me… Except I wish they play `Supertramp:It’s a cruel world’… It’s a great story – because it’s true? even if it’s true? – Moonbeam, full of pain and joy, sorrow and irony, just like a very good movie… or a Hemingway story…
I also want to be cremated and probably I will end same as your dad. No big deal… and I hope they’ll want me crispy too… for humour is important at all times…
It’s all true, Danu. I hope you get your final wishes. I’m not sure what I want done. My ex-husband wants to be made into a candle. I think maybe I’d like to be sculpted into a Duraflame log or something. Poof! Up the chimney, and away I’ll go!
Grace said,
January 20, 2008 at 12:07 pm
WOW…I’ve been an avid reader of your… (I don’t want to refer to it as a blogg, ’cause it’s so much more than that)…your…column. I could praise your writing for days, but the time isn’t appropriate.
I too experienced the death of my father recently, and your reference to the funeral home is right on point…how pathetic and insensitive they are! Considering the circumstances, they should be anything but.
I as well chose the card board box, and he became one with the Atlantic Ocean…then he was gone. How surreal. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… He had become nothing more than a piece of dust. My dad. I still expect him to be outside on his lawn chair, passed out with an empty vodka & cranberry glass in his hand. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was my dad.
Thank you for sharing your experience.
I don’t EVER follow bloggs, and I’m not quite sure how I cam across yours, but I’m stuck. You’re a wonderful writer (hopefully you will find a position someday, so that you may do it professionally). The world needs input like yours. Needs that honesty, and sometimes a BIG FAT SLAP IN THE FACE!!!
tHANK yOU!
Grace, thank you for your beautiful, thoughtful comments.
“He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was my dad.”
That’s it exactly. Strange how their bodies become dust, but their spirits still exist so strongly.
I’m so glad you visit my blog, and I’m truly sorry about the loss of your dad.
gypsy-heart said,
January 21, 2008 at 6:40 pm
He most certainly would have approved!!