In the 1980s, after deciding to be buried at sea, he let his family know about it and suffered the consequences, i.e., his wife Edith’s feelings were sorely hurt.
["Dad was affected by his service upon SS Silver Walnut and WWll: photos GH]
But later in life, after he reversed his decision and agreed it would be a good idea to be buried alongside his wife in our family’s hometown of Norwich, he never mentioned being buried at sea again, (link to Pt. 4) or shared any residual feelings about the matter.
A few short years after burying his wife’s remains in the presence of his children and remaining family members, he passed away himself, February 6, 2003.
Before the day of his burial arrived, I sad to my four siblings that I would build a receptacle for his ashes, something that would appear fitting for the man.
["Dad - back row, between men in hats - was used to cramped quarters"]
Since he’d built scores of birdhouses over the years specifically for bluebirds (160 was one man’s estimate), I decided to build one for him.
["The family barn. Chicken coop on left side. Bent tree - my fault": watercolour by Edith H.]
I used wood taken from the inside walls of the barn that rested on his in-town property (just days before the barn was demolished). On four of the six sides I used pieces that bore the carved initials of four of his six closest family members. I carved the initials of his two oldest daughters on two other sides to complete the set.
["Dad's pocket watch, on shelf made from lumber rescued from the barn and initialed in 1877. Birdhouse photos to follow, when I can find them"]
Once assembled I purchased a metal container to permanently hold his ashes and that fit snuggly inside the birdhouse.
And one day, a week or two before dad’s burial, I stood at my workshop bench and undertook the task of filling the birdhouse with his ashes.
I remember the scene as if it was yesterday.
I popped off the lid of the plastic container from the crematorium and began to fill the metal container sitting atop my workbench.
A couple of thoughts immediately sprang to mind.
The plastic container held a lot of ash. I’d been fooled by its light weight.
The birdhouse was about the same size as the plastic container, but the metal container was a bit smaller.
I’m going to run out of room for dad’s ashes in about three seco... right now.
Shit.
But, no more than 2 seconds after sensing great disappointment, and seconds before swearing again and exclaiming ‘what do I do now,’ I knew exactly what to do.
I said aloud, “I guess you’re going to get buried at sea after all.”
And I had a very hearty laugh.
Yes, Dad, you are, I thought to myself.
And in that moment and in my heart I knew I’d made a promise to my father.
And though it feels like yesterday, here I am, seven years later.
***
A Promise to Fulfill - Please click here to read Part 1.
Please click here to link to Part 6.
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