Halifax and Another Hard Promise

Heart of the Matter

 ["A century-old barn once stood behind my parents' house in Norwich"]

Part 2 - A Promise is Made

- Spring 2003

My father Doug died in Parkwood Hospital, London on February 6, 2003, 26 months after my mother Edith passed away, and before he died the matter concerning where he would be buried had been settled. He decided, perhaps with the help of some gentle encouragement from me, to have his ashes interred in Norwich next to his wife and not thrown upon a distant wave in the Atlantic Ocean where none of his children would ever go to visit, to remember him.

How my father reached that decision is a lengthy story in itself and would include the workings of several conversations he and I had while driving along country roads between Parkwood Hospital and, e.g., Long Point in the time shortly after mother's death, the decisions he likely made with the help of - or while thinking of - all his children regarding where mother should be buried, and the type of grave stone, and whether she would be buried alone or with him, according to her wish. Father's story would include the workings of his, at times, troubled mind and deep matters about his love for the sea and the life-long companions he'd made (as a very young man) while serving upon barges during World War 2.

["Doug, front and centre. Esquimalt, Vancouver Island, 1945, w mates, RCNVR"]

A lengthy story, indeed, for another time.

For now just allow me to say he got his heart-felt wish to be buried at sea after all, but under unusual circumstances, out of the blue. Navy blue.

["Dad had a unique chicken coop inside the barn"]

Not long after my father passed away I decided to build a box for his ashes (the size of a birdhouse, like one of the scores he had made himself) out of lumber from his century-old barn. 'Rescued lumber' is a more fitting term because the barn was partially torn down by the time I was notified and later arrived on the scene. I selected several significant boards, removed dozens of nails, then (once back home in London) hand-sawed and painted six pieces in the basement of my house. In some pieces the whittled initials of his wife and children were present. (The initials I didn't find I carved myself to complete the 'family set').

While I worked I felt Dad would appreciate the hands-on and home-grown features of the box for his remains, especially the addition of one of his own small paintings on the front. And, once the paint was dry, I'm sure I turned the completed project over in my hands a dozen times to admire its overall appearance before I began the last job, filling it with his ashes.

I opened the tightly-sealed container from the funeral home with the help of a chisel and pulled out a heavy plastic bag of deep gray ash. I opened it gingerly, took a very curious look at its contents, lifted it slowly, tilted an open edge toward my bird box and began to pour. Within seconds I knew I was in trouble. There was far more ash in the bag than space inside the box. And though initially I felt embarrassed by my mistake (Gordie, did you measure the volume of each container? No, I just guessed) the feeling quickly passed. I was overwhelmed by another realization, one that felt completely perfect in nature.

I blurted a few words aloud. "Well, I guess you're going to get buried at sea after all, Dad."

I didn't know then how his wish would be fulfilled but I knew my words had been more than a reaction, they had formed a firm promise to my father. Somehow I would get his ashes to the sea.

I tightly sealed the painted box with as much of his remains as it would hold. It was ready for burial and looked pretty close to perfect.

["Doug and Edith are buried down the road

from the site of a significant old house"]

["Dad's note on the back of brother Kim's painting"]

["I say a few words, with no mention

of my goof up with Dad's ashes"]

["Tick tock, tick tock. Lots of hours on the clock"]

But what about the plastic container with the remainder of his ashes? I hid it inside my wife's old canning pot, placed the pot's lid gently on top and returned the ensemble to a basement shelf. There the ashes remained - unknown to the rest of my family - until 'the grand plan' crystalized inside my head.

And for those who are counting, seven years went by.

More to follow.

Link to Halifax and Another Hard Promise

Photos GH