Dad in a Sock

My stepmother has relented and is allowing me to take some of Dad's ashes up to the High Sierras with me - to scatter around the mountain lakes and streams he loved all his life.

It is a strange business, this scattering of ashes. Not something you come across everyday so there are no set rules or regulations for decorum or anything. I've never come across any articles about it in Good Housekeeping or Ladies Home Journal.

I was home alone when the Strange Box that contains all of my Dad's earthly remains arrived. They didn't come in the mail or by Federal Express - which he might have appreciated. They were hand delivered by a guy in a fancy suit, driving a non-descript car, who approached my front door carrying a simple cardboard box. It wasn't until he opened the box on my dining room table that I saw the actual box itself - blond oak with bits of brass hardware. Inside THAT box was another box - a heavy brass contraption that separated the holder from the actual remains by about 5 pounds of heavy metal.

During our brief discussion, after I "signed" for Dad, the guy told me that if I ever wanted these ashes scattered, they could handle those arrangements. "It is illegal in California," he said somberly, "to scatter cremated remains without a permit."

I hated to ask what all THAT entailed but I couldn't imagine some strange suited-up funeral home dude following me up some remote mountain trail, schlepping my dad's ashes in a backpack.

And yet - this is precisely what I shall do sometime within the next week - shlep my what little bit of my father I possess in a physical form up a mountain trail or down by a rushing creek, or along the edge of a mountain lake.

I am am gathering from my life's experiences that there are no "cremation police" lurking in the bushes of the Sierra Nevada, waiting for people like me to begin scattering ashes without a permit. So I am going to be a scofflaw and do this the way I want to do it, which is the way it should be since I don't intend to involve outsiders anymore than I already have during this very difficult time.

The first time I rememeber being in the Sierras with my Dad was a time we were camping with my grandfather and my sister was about 2 years old. She wasn't steady on her feet yet and despite the sturdy white shoes that my father called "clodhoppers," she tripped and fell about every 2.5 minutes. Every tumble involved crying and carrying on, which annoyed the heck out my 7-year old self, who wanted to explore and cross the creek and collect pinecones in peace. There I was, 7 years old, craving mountain peace.

I remember my father picking her up after a fall and telling my grandfather that Susan was "tripping over every single little rock that protrudes even an INCH off the ground." This he said with a huge smile and evoked great laughter from everyone around the campsite.

At some point, Susan managed to manuever herself over to the creek, plopping herself down next to me. I was on my belly, peering deep into the water, which was rushing past us at almost lightning speed. At the bottom of a clear pool was a small wood-grain pocketknife, lost by somebody and just out of reach. I wanted to reach in and get it - but there was no way I could do so without getting wet - and getting wet was not something I could do and stay out of trouble. So, I stared longingly at that knife. At some point, Susan began reaching for the water and I sat up and pulled her backwards, under the armpits, afraid she would fall in. This didn't deter her and I had to keep repeating the manuever again and again, while telling her that she would fall in if she didn't stop. I did not want her falling in.

She didn't fall in and I never retrieved that pocket knife. And that was one of many trips up North over the course of my childhood.

When my stepmother told me she would let me scatter some of his ashes in the Sierras, I was satisfied but disconcerted. Did I have an appropriate container for such an endeavor? Just exactly does one use?

I am going to guess she used a small screwdriver or Allen wrench to open the heavy brass box - because when she handed me the jar, there they were - ashes.

"Don't tell me you've got him in a Ziploc bag," I said, taking the glass jar from her hands and peering inside at what looked like a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag.

"Yes... I didn't know what else to put him in," she said. "Is that alright?"

Now what to say? What IS appropriate? An urn? A crystal bowl? A leather satchel? What? A medieval medicine pouch?

"I guess you should put that in something," she said, realizing that anyone peering in closely enough might figure out the contents and call the Funeral Police or Cremation Cops, or whoever one called when an unauthorized person is seen carrying human remains in a Ziplock bag around.

After a moment's thought, she went to his dresser and began rummaging around. "How about a pair of your Dad's socks?" She asked a bit brightly. "Hmm.. yeah, these. These were his favorite fishing socks."

She retrieved a pair of rather bedraggled looking wool socks he no doubt used on many trips to the Sierras. I slipped the jar inside one of them and told her the socks would be fine.

My hiking partner on these mountain trips is my sister, Susan, who is now called Sue and no longer trips over little rocks that protrude an inch or more off the ground. Telling her about this little task seemed the appropriate and courteous thing to do, since pulling out a sock in the middle of hike and saying, "By the way, I've got Dad here..." might take her by surprise. After all, he was her father too and it's only fair.

And my father, of all people, would be highly amused at the thought of his daughters carrying some of his ashes on a hike - in one of his socks. It would have been a story he would tell to his friends, with an intake of breath just before laughing out loud at the absurdity and lack of dignity - which somehow suits him just right. Like an old pair of fishing socks.

So I called Susan.

"We're taking some of Dad with us," I said over the phone. "I don't know which part, since I only have about a handful."

She didn't miss a beat. I guess Sue does not surprise that easily.

"We are," she replied with an air of nonchalance and acceptance. "Great."

She paused.

"Where is he?"

"In my pack," I said. "So I don't forget and leave him on the couch or something."

"Ah." There was a pause. "Just don't tell me you have him in a Ziplock bag," she said.

"Well. Yeah. In a jar. In a sock."

"You have Dad. In a sock."

"Yeah. In a Ziplock bag, in a jar, in a wool sock. In by hiking pack. The new one."

Sue exhaled. "OKAY," she said, which much emphasis on the "oh" part. I suppose this wasn't the sort of conversation she thought we would be having either. That made two of us.

Thinking she might be a bit disconcerted by the whole thing, I offered, "I guess we could just dig a hole by a creek. I can dig the hole...."

"No," she interrupted, "We'll scatter him. We should scatter him."

"Okay."

Then she said, with just a tinge of somber excitement, "You have a NEW pack?"

I told her all about the new pack and then we ended the conversation.

So sometime within the next week, my sister and I will hike to a place and scatter my dad's small amount of ashes around the places he loved. We will take turns dipping our fingers into the Ziplock bag and doing whatever it is we are supposed to do - following no protocols or set rules since this is never anything we ever thought about doing.

At some point, we will have to cross a creek on a rickety bridge way too high for comfort and she will help me across as she always does.

She does this wearing her "clodhopper" hiking boots, grabbing me anywhere she deems appropriate, steadying my journey.

She keeps me from falling in - always.

:-)K