Full Circle

I never met her.  And yet here I was carrying a container with her ashes to their final resting place.  So bittersweet.  But go ahead and accentuate that sweet part -  she was finally coming home with the love of her life to the place where they’d spent some of their happiest moments - Coney Island, where they courted in the 1940’s as high school sweethearts. Rae had died fourteen years previously, two months to the day after 9/11, long before we’d had a chance to meet.  Her husband of almost 50 years, Ray, had wanted to bring her back to the beach they’d played on so long ago, but had worried that with the increased security measures in the wake of the September tragedy, his mission would be highly suspect, and could easily go awry.  So her remains remained.  In the living room of his small mobile home.  And then sadly, 6 months before he would have turned ninety three, he too was translated to ash, and we began to make plans to fulfill his dream of returning them both to the place where their young love had kindled.

Making the arrangements to transport the containers from the mortuary was just one of those details, one of those red tape matters society increasingly imposes.  Timing is everything and the regulations on our airline had just tightened that Fall, dovetailing with our reservations.  But Paul crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s and we figured it was virtually handled.  Still, the State had yet to return the final official forms to the mortuary the day before we were scheduled to leave.  That night Paul was philosophical, “We’ll just have to get out to New York another time down the road.”   How would we be able to afford that? I was crushed.  I had such a romantic vision of this whole operation and strongly felt that the time was now, they’d waited long enough and were so ready for this final journey.

The next morning Paul called from his office with great news.  Before he could share it, I had some preemptive news of my own - I had just discovered when I tried to check in online that actually our flight had already left at one minute before midnight the night before. Guess who got confused on the dates?  Just like that, I'd punctured his balloon toute de suite.  Dark clouds thundered deep inside me.  It seemed ironic that he had just gone over and picked up the last minute paperwork from the mortuary so we could take our exceptional cargo on a plane that had already left!  I was a basket case.

And in that condition I left to get to a Dr.’s appointment.  I was so rattled I drove to a couple other Dr. offices in town first and was unforgivably late.  It was a surprise to me that they still could fit me into their busy schedule.  By the time I was in the examining room I warned the nurse that because of my situation my blood pressure would be off the charts, yet she was extremely reassuring and emphatically stressed that everything happens for a reason. I did calm down some.  Some.  The Dr. came in and gave me medical clearance for the surgical procedure I was scheduled to have in New York. Which was great, except how was I supposed to get to New York at this point?  It would be prohibitively expensive to try and buy new tickets for the same day, and planes are usually full anyway, particularly this close to Christmas.  

NYU Langone Hospital had called the day before to switch the schedule from Saturday to Monday, so a couple days’ grace, but still.  It was Thursday, and it would be a cross country 5 day drive, a bridge too far.  When it rains…. Sometimes there are rainbows, in fact had we been on the right flight I would have been in NYC already and missed my Vegas Doc appointment that I needed to clear me for the surgery in New York. There just hadn't been an earlier appointment available when I made it, so I took it in the hopes of the Universe conspiring to be on the list in case of a fortuitous cancellation. But the Universe tends to get out of whack when conspiring, so no cancellation and instead this flair for the dramatic.

Things happen for a reason, I tried to repeat that silently as a mantra while I was dialing Jet Blue customer service.  Let it go.  Let the chips fall.  I felt I had nothing more to lose, so I was calm as I explained a bit of the situation to the agent.  She listened.  She really listened. And she cared enough to work some magic with the help of her supervisor.  I was on hold for several minutes while she was waving her sparkly wand around, and when she came back on the line, she told me that we were booked to leave that night at one minute before midnight...same exact flight, 24 hours later.  And I was only charged the change fee! Bonus upgrade thrown in, how generous, Jet Blue!  How were there even two seats together for us at the last minute?  On a full flight?  Do things really happen for a reason?

Well the plot thickened once again. Midnight came and went. 1, 2, 3, 4 came and went. No explanation in the semi deserted airport. Finally, as we were at long last able to board, we got an explanation. There'd been a brawl that broke out in the less than friendly skies that night among some good ole Irish hockey fans enroute to Vegas for a match  The plane was turned back around midair to JFK so the authorities could referee that situation in a more up close and personal manner. Meaning that we didn't leave the McCarran Airport till closer to 4 am, and our poor flight crew was even groggier than we were, having supersized their shift of duty.  At long last though, we took off into the starry starry night.  Or what little there remained of it.  Isn't life pretty much an obstacle course?

So we got to New York.  Eventually.  And got on the Subway from Manhattan to Coney Island that Saturday.  Soon we would realize our vision of returning Rae and Ray to the deserted desolate beach that had once been Coney Island, an attraction for throngs. Those were the days, long gone now, and with Hurricane Sandy slamming through here only a couple years ago, we envisioned not much left, not even debris. A place of raw, poetic solitude.  It would be cold and forlorn and we would be figures enveloped in a mist of fog, fulfilling a sacred mission.  I clutched Rae’s container close to me, haunted not by a ghost, but by the thought that with my track record, I conceivably could mess up something so eternally important by inadvertently leaving her on the subway.  I held on tight the entire way.

Other unbidden ghosts flooded my reality then.  I remembered how per my own mother’s dying request, I’d asked to scatter her ashes on my father’s grave rather than in her own plot, thinking it a simple matter.  But it enraged the cemetery manager who made all sorts of threats, having cameras installed in the trees, etc. Seriously.  I’d had to do so surreptitiously. So I had some baggage, a tad of apprehension, for who knew what was legal/illegal in such matters in another state?  Better not to know at this point.  After all. doesn’t that axiom about it being easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission hold sway at certain pivotal times?  It's possible a smattering of trepidation can be useful. What better basis for a little needed discretion?

And so an hour later we disembarked and started for the Boardwalk, or more likely, where the Boardwalk used to be.  Soon we saw old shops on the main street, a couple of blocks from the beach.  They were all closed for the season, and looked like they had materialized from an old Kodak photograph.  And behind them, behind tall fences, the roller coasters and ferris wheels and tilt a whirls and rides from another era. Spectacular!  What ambiance!  Who would have expected such a bonanza?  Wouldn’t our charges feel right at home now?    

Then soon enough there we were, on the Boardwalk.  It was still there!  Incongrouously, so were the people!  OK, some people, maybe not the exact same ones of yesteryear, perhaps their kids or grandkids even.  Great grandkids?  It wasn't wall to wall humans like in the old postcards.  Still, there were dozens and dozens milling around in the aberrational December warmth.  We weren't expecting extras in this personal documentary/drama. So guess they didn't get the memo, and our vision of the lonely poignant send off was obviously going to have some major revisions.  We needed some time to edit that script, and so Paul, The Director, ever hungry, was more than happy when he noticed that the little diner on the corner was open. Turns out that Tom's Coney Island first opened circa 1934, making it the quintessential hangout for that era's teenagers.  Maybe we were even sitting in the same booth Rae and Ray once had.  Anything seemed possible.  And overshadowed with meaning.  Or were we just more open to it?

What needed to open up next though was a new vision- where and how exactly to inconspicuously, yet with suitable dignity, return them here, what with all the activity around. I found a bench to warm with Rae & Ray while Paul went to scout for the perfect spot.  He came back feeling inclined to head down the beach toward the pier.  As our feet first met the sand, there was rhythmic drumming coming from the pier, which seemed strange.  Then as we turned to the ocean, ready to scatter the ashes, Paul remarked, “You know, neither of them were very good swimmers at all.” What?  So how would that be in their comfort zone?  

“So let's bury them in the sand then, “ I volunteered.  “How?” he queried.  And right that second he saw a small crater in the sand ahead, much closer to the Boardwalk than the water. Obviously someone had conveniently hollowed out this little pit for this very purpose. We went and sat down.  It wasn’t very deep, maybe 8 inches deep and a couple feet wide, but it was a start.  I improvised and took Rae’s ashes from the container, which were secure in a heavy plastic bag, and I used the empty container to dig deeper and deeper. The cool, damp sand was cathartic, it helped me ignore all the passersby who were hopefully ignoring us, and the cadenced drumming in the distance seemed ceremonial, appropriate.   We were being clandestine in intent, but paradoxically more hidden in plain sight.

It was soothing to just keep digging and digging.  But the sky was darkening, and Paul thought it was more than deep enough, and so even though it wasn’t even a full two feet deep and maybe two feet long, there was ample room for them both.  So the time had come.  Still, it seemed like a certain je ne sais quoi  would be in order as we placed the ashes into the sand.  They weren’t religious at all, so I couldn’t very well offer a prayer. I don't do short prayers anyway, and Paul is a man of few words.  I couldn’t sing, and he wouldn’t, so I was stymied.  I was grasping for something. Ceremony? Ritual?  In a flash it came to me.  “Time out!  You’re Dad was a veteran, Paul, a Purple Heart Veteran, for heaven’s sake!  Do you realize we can have your Dad along with your Mom interred for free in a beautiful Military Cemetery, with a 21 gun salute and all?  It’s a tremendous honor, so moving.  You even get to keep the flag they use as a permanent memorial."  I felt like I was pleading.  "We’ve not even considered this, and maybe we should.   Are you sure you want to trade all that for this casual-in-the-extreme, less solemn rite?  Is this maybe a huge mistake?"

Just then we saw the seagull walking deliberately towards us across the sand.  No mistake. We locked eyes with him and he trumpeted a few notes.  “Ray,” I said, “ you’re here.”  There was no more room for doubt.   I was overwhelmed, and Paul choked up.  We gently started scattering the ashes into the trench. Peripheral vision revealed another seagull approaching; she hung back just a little and didn’t come as close as Ray, but her eyes were on us the whole time, and we well knew who she was.  They stayed until we finished replenishing the piles of sand back on top, and then took off.  It was all so very, very good. A phenomenal and very personal experience.

RIP @ Coney Island, Ray & Rae.  May beachcombers and young lovers, moonlight and stars, sunsets and storms keep you company at times, and bring you full circle.

O Holy Night

Our first Christmas in Bavaria (Southern Germany) was different.  You were two months old and we had just moved there two weeks before to join a certain young soldier who had been stationed there since you were 3 days old.  We were poor, and lived in an apartment a block from the Blue Danube, above a teenage discotheque, next to a couple of prostitutes, Frederika and Eva.  It was all we could do to get oil for the heater to keep warm, and when we would get the oil, it would explode all over, and I would have to clean black soot from the walls.  I had to boil water on the stove to be able to wash cloth diapers in the bathtub. Every other day for dinner we had a 15 cent package of macaroni and cheese to share, along with a small package of frozen peas.  Those were the good days.  I lost 30 pounds in 2 months and got down to 95!

So obviously we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree.  But then. On the 23rd we went to a Christmas tree lot and they gave us one of the trees that hadn’t been sold.  Maybe it wasn’t breathtaking, and yet to us, it absolutely was.  I strung popcorn and made garlands out of paper chains.  What could be more beautiful?  The downside was that even though we were together for our first family Christmas, our Soldier Boy had volunteered to take on someone else’s guard duty Christmas Eve night and into Christmas Day because we really needed the money. Here we were next door to the Black Forest and the Land of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and our reality was less fairy tale with a tiny side of grim. So the new momma and baby spent some more quality alone time and we celebrated a little when he got back that night. All's well that ends well.

Our second Christmas in Germany was a little more involved than our first rudimentary one on many counts. Another year, another new baby, another Christmas tree. But it was different in the respect that Dad was able to be home with us this time. That was our extravagance. I was excited to be able to have our little family together for the Holiday, but I started remembering the year before, how it was to miss him, and to think of how lonely and cold it had to have been for him to spend the night in the cramped, cold guardhouse. This year we were so abundantly blessed. To have him not be in Viet Nam. To have him home with us. How lucky can you get? I felt so spoiled this time.

And that made me think of the guardhouse, and who would be spending that special night there this year. Or was it Dad remembering that rather unique experience he'd had the year before?  Of course, it wasn't on my mind until it actually was Christmas Eve, so we jumped at this sudden inspiration and got into action spontaneously. Better late than never. I spent the evening making cookies for the soldiers who would be huddled in the tiny guard booths throughout the base. It took a while. We packed our babies into the ancient VW Beetle, and took off at midnight to make our rounds. Once we were on our way, we did have just a second to wonder if these guys with guns would mistake us for Santa...or Russian spies.

We were in the middle of the Cold War, and you never knew. Deep breath. We pressed on. It was cold and dark (imagine that) and it felt amazing to surprise these guys who were alone, and probably a tad homesick, on Christmas Eve, and see how grateful they were for a such a bit of unexpected thoughtfulness. Off the wall.  Hardly Bob Hope and the USO, but still.... Probably most of the soldiers on duty were single, missing loved ones far, far away. I'm sure it just seemed that way, but the stars appeared so much brighter to me right then. Dazzling.

You know, it was such a simple thing to remember the lonely that night, but that experience will always remain one of my all time favorite Christmas memories. I learned all over again how a little kindness goes an awfully long way, and I was always grateful that over the years our whole family enjoyed nothing more than our tradition of Ding Dong Ditching when leaving goodies as Family Home Evening Phantoms. Who knows, maybe those seeds were planted way back when one holy night.    

HO HO HO!

Cucumbers

After my Dad had a heart attack and the subsequent bypass surgery left him totally incapacitated from a stroke suffered during that procedure, a black cloud descended on my Mother. It was more than apparent that she could not cope with the possibility of taking care of someone on the level he might need.  It was a palpable darkness, you could see it on her face, feel it in the air around her.  I knew I would have to, need to, want to move back home to take care of this man I so dearly loved.  I told my husband, not sure at all what he would say, how he would feel about the prospect of leaving it all behind to go far away and willingly sacrifice his wife to serve her parents.  Was it too much to ask?

He never hesitated for a moment.  "Of course," he replied, "when do you want to leave?"  He knew full well that would mean leaving all his business contacts and trading in an office for an apron.  This from a man who fed the kids cucumbers, and only cucumbers, for dinner when I was in the hospital with the latest newborn.  Who evidently didn't know how to load the dishwasher.  Who that same day threw the dirty cloth diapers in the washer without first rinsing them and had to buy a new washer immediately.  And furthermore spread bug spray sufficiently around that night, so that the next morning the kids were violently ill when they came to the hospital to pick us up.  Before we even could take the new baby home, we had to make a pit stop at the Doc's office.  Not a great track record.  His Mr. Mom skills might need a little polishing.  But he didn't balk.

I was so happy, and grateful.  We would be able to make a difference in the life of the man I had so loved and admired all my life.  I was not unaware that this circumstance would change the lives of my children.  That it would be hurtful and life changing for them, some more than others.  Leaving friends, changing schools and more.  We had been around the block with this before. And it was obvious our economic well being might become even more precarious.  Sacrifice does entail real costs. But paramount in my mind and heart and soul was the quality of life of my Dad; it overrode all other considerations.  Decision made.

And yet, it never happened.  Dad never left the hospital and died there three months later.  Sadly, we never got to the point of planning his home care and rehabilitation.  A few trips - for a weekend or couple weeks - holding his hand at the hospital during that time was it.  (Leaving Mr. Mom in charge back at the ranch, expecting they all could survive.  Possibly.)  Still stings.

Looking back all these years later, I am comforted by the realization that we truly wanted to be there for him, and would have made it happen.   And I know that's the genuine article.  Love.  Wanting to help someone.  And following through if you're granted the privilege.  If only. Would it have been easy?  Or a good experience for everyone involved?  Obviously not.  And talk is cheap, maybe the overwhelm would have had us rue the day.  I have no doubt we would have stumbled.  A lot.  Maybe I would have made a mistake that would catapult Dad's health downwards, making things worse, not better.  Torturous thought. My Mom could have ended up resenting us, I usually tried her patience.  Our kids could have run with the opportunities and challenges, or run for cover.  We'll never know. But I do know the depth of love I felt for my Dad in his hour of need, and I do know the depth of gratitude I have for my kids' Dad in supporting me supporting him.  That covers a multitude of cucumbers.