Dad loved to play golf. He picked it up late in life, at around the age of 50. He spent both weekend days getting up early to make the tee time, and filled the rest of each day in front of the television watching the pros do it for a living. I always promised him that if his ability ever became televisable, I’d caddy for him. At his age, I thought it was a safe bet.
We decided to scatter his ashes at his favourite golf course.
This was a decision that we did not arrive at easily. We grew up with Dad always telling us that when he went, we were to just put him in a box and leave him by the roadside. He wanted no special treatment or elaborate expense after his demise.
Now that he was gone, the decision on just what to do was left to his wife and kids. Certainly, we should honour his wishes, but some of us selfishly thought about ourselves. In his later years, he decided on cremation, and this we agreed to, but the decision of what to do with the ashes underwent a heated debate.
The prevailing thought was to scatter his ashes, but some of us didn’t like the fact that doing so would seem to truly erase his presence on this earth. One of us wanted to bury or entomb his remains, and another suggested that we “share” his ashes and do with them what we wanted. This last thought was quickly voted down. The majority ruled, and off we went to the golf course.
Father’s Day was fast approaching and we thought that that would be most appropriate for the last day we would ever spend with Dad. However, we wanted to share this with others who knew Dad, and feared that we might interfere with others’ plans. But then we thought “so what?”
We also felt that a few words spoken would be appropriate, but none of us knew what to say or had the nerve to say anything. We sought the minister who officiated at Dad’s funeral, and he agreed to take himself away from his family to spend it with ours on Father’s Day. I still haven’t gotten over this incredible act of kindness.
None of us, including the minister, had ever experienced a scattering before, and we didn’t know how to proceed. The only thing I was concerned with was that I wanted to partake in the actual scattering -- I felt that it was my duty to show my respect for Dad in this way. Fortunately, the night before Father’s Day, Mom called to say that the ashes arrived and what was she to do with them? I was surprised that she called me first. I thought she’d consult her eldest son, or the son who lives nearest her. This allowed me to take the lead, and ensured that I’d be involved. I told her to leave everything to me.
We all met at the golf course.
The golf course easily gave their consent, and even notified other golfers that this event was to take place. We gathered to one side of the course, away from any fairways, and began with the minister saying a few words. Moments later, it was time. I stepped forward and turned to everyone to ask if anyone wanted to share in this final act of kindness to my Dad. No one answered. I understood that, like me, people just didn’t know how to do it, and they probably felt that it was a bit icky, but I was hit with a sudden feeling of disappointment that none of my siblings wanted to partake in their final duty to Dad.
The ashes were contained in a clear, plastic bag, in a hard, plastic box, in a velvet bag. I felt that it would seem kind of cheap to simply pour from the plastic bag, and that holding all three containers together would be far too cumbersome. So I decided to try to hold the plastic bag in the box as I poured. Practically, this was not an easy thing to do as the bag was very long and needed a whole hand itself to hold. My other hand somehow managed to hold the box and bag within it. I wanted it to appear as though I was pouring from something more than just a plastic bag.
After ensuring that everyone was standing upwind, I began pouring. My goal was to stand still and pour slowly, allowing the wind to take the ashes away, but just as I began to pour, the wind died. I almost stopped pouring and called out “WIND!”, but then I thought that the continuity of the pouring should not be broken. I also didn’t want to make a little mound of ashes in one spot, so I began walking towards the edge of the golf course and some bushes.
As I walked along, my main thought was “Am I doing this right? Is there a ‘proper’ way to do this? Is there some other way in which this could be done to show the utmost respect to my Dad?” Another thought that came to me was “Gee, there sure are a lot of ashes here. When will it end?”
I felt like I had been walking a great distance when the bag was nearing emptiness, and then it was finally over. It was at this point that it hit me that Dad was truly, finally gone. I paused and thought “Bye, Dad”, but didn’t say it. I’ve always regretted not saying it out loud. Sorry, Dad — I really meant to say it.
The bag was empty and I felt that I shouldn’t just crumple it up. I gently folded it and placed — not dropped — it into the box. I then did something completely stupid and unnecessary. Normally, after handling something, I’d brush my hands together to rid them of any residue that may have lingered from what I was doing. But in this case, I was very careful and there was absolutely no need to make this gesture, but I reflexively did — another regret. I hope I didn’t make anyone feel that they were shaking more than just my hand afterwards.
I carried the box back to the others, the minister said a few more kind words, and then we all slowly went home.
Bye, Dad.