When my mother died nearly thirty years ago, there were not as many crematoriums as there are now and there was a back log of "clients". She had always asked for cremation so that her ashes could be transported to Little Peconic Bay on Long Island. She might have lived in Texas but she was damned if she was going to be dead in Texas. She had extracted a promise from me 25 years before when I was very young and of course I agreed. It sounded romantic and fitting to fulfill my mother's last wish. There was a three week delay so I was back in California when my sisters made the arrangements. They told the person they dealt with that because her ashes were to be scattered there was no need for any sort of fancy container, they paid for the cremation and the shipping charges, and I waited in California.
Since the probable time frame was set I wasn't surprised when the mail carrier parked in front and walked up to the door. I was surprised by how heavy the box, labeled in red Human Remains, was and I bobbled it slightly while trying to also grasp the clipboard she held out. She yelled, "Oh, don't drop it!," to which I responded, "I won't. It's my mother." She said, "You knew she was coming?" And I said of course I did. Then she said that everyone at the post office had given her a hard time when she got to work, joking that she was going to have company on her route.
Once inside I got a serrated knife to cut the tape on the box. Now remember that my sisters had said that a fancy container wasn't necessary. Well there's fancy and then there's the paint can that my mother's ashes were in. Not a used paint encrusted one but still one of those empty cans you can get at the home store. I put the can on the mantel and went about my day. When my sons got home from school their eyes were drawn like magnets to the can and they yelled into the next room, "Can we see what it looks like?" Not having a good reason why they couldn't and knowing that my mother, the consummate scientist, would have no objections were she able to talk I said okay but that I wasn't quite ready to see them myself. So they took a beer can opener and pried open the lid. "Hey, Mom, it looks just like kitty litter!"
That was the start of my months long saga with my mother in a can. My husband and I couldn't take off right away and there certainly wasn't any rush. But there were many embarrassing and amusing moments between September and April when we finally flew to New York. Like the time one of the teachers at my sons' elementary school asked me where I had put my mother in front of my youngest son's new teacher. When I answered, "In the hall closet," the poor woman almost fainted. Remember that this was a dented paint can, not an attractive urn so keeping it on the mantel for months where almost anything could happen wasn't an option for me.
We finally made all the arrangements to leave our sons at home and fly east. My husband's brother lived in northern NJ at the time so we were going to stay with him for a couple of days, drive out to Long Island one of those days, then fly back to California. Assuming that everything that I had in mind was illegal, I tried to figure out the best way to accomplish this mission. Since I didn't want to have to explain to anyone why I was carrying a dented paint can around with me, I picked luggage that was big enough to hold the can and the few clothes I would need. Even in the days before 9/11 that might have caused problems. For the same reason I checked the bag but I tapped the top with a hammer before packing.
Well there were no problems on the trip. My brother in law picked us up and we drove to his house. I took my suitcase into the room we would sleep in to unpack. Everyone knows baggage handlers are tough on luggage but I really wasn't prepared for what greeted me when I unzipped the hard side bag. My mother was everywhere. She was in my shoes, my underwear, my pants. You get the picture. I will never know if I got all of her back in the can--I am pretty sure that some got washed in the laundry when I asked my sister in law if I could use her washer.
My mother's family used to own an estate out near Montauk on Little Peconic Bay but I hadn't been there since my grandfather died when I was nine. Once again I was pretty sure that my actions were illegal but I also thought they were pretty harmless. In New York, the shoreline is public so accessing the beach wasn't a big problem but finding it was a little tricky. Since I didn't drive at nine, road directions didn't make much sense and this was way before Google Maps. But getting out to Laurel was pretty simple. Once there I told my husband to find the local post office. I had always volunteered to pick up the mail back in the summers we spent and figured I could find my way back to the house even after all these years. Sure enough, before too long we were at the farm. Now this was always more of a summer residence than a year round one and I hoped this was still true. Getting to the beach was legal but I didn't want to answer any questions. It was April so too early for too many people and I walked down the public stairs and across the beach. With my husband standing right at the high water mark, I walked in to the surf and took out the beer can opener. With tears streaming down my face, I popped the can and started to strew the ashes into the surf. Before I could even say, "Goodbye, Mom," several swans swooped down and ate my mother.
This was a long time ago. I am even more jaded now than I was then but there was very little romantic in fulfilling my mother's last wish. For sure I broke many laws and it was only luck that kept me from ending up in jail.
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