By Dr. Sandra Howlett
January 2004
A red, late model pick-up pulled in the driveway and a young man slid out of the driver's seat holding a box. I walked outside to meet him, assuming he was bringing more food to join the parade that had been arriving over the past two days. He asked "Is this the family of Doris Howlett?" "Yes," I said, and he handed me the box --an 8x12 inch cardboard box that seemed heavy for its size. It was my Mother's ashes.
Mom's funeral had been the evening before and I knew her cremation was this morning. I had been told we would receive her "cremains" later in the day -- but somehow, this hadn't prepared me for the shock waves I felt as I signed to accept the box with a shaky hand. I thanked the young man, and slowly sank to the cold, snow-covered ground, unable to move. I embraced my Mother in my arms. The box was so small. How could all of my beloved Mother fit in such a box?
After a time, I went in the house where my aunts were cleaning the kitchen. "Who was that? What's in the box?" they asked.
"Mom" was all I could say before bursting into tears. "He was delivering Mom."
I gently placed the box on the kitchen table. None of us had ever seen the results of a cremation and had no idea how big or small it would be. So we just stared. They left the kitchen and I carefully opened the cardboard box to find a black plastic container inside. There were no markings, no labels, and no identifying marks. I placed the box on the kitchen table and stared. 'Could this possibly be my Mom?'
An hour or so later the men of the family returned from some distracting, easily forgotten mission, ready to eat again. My uncle Barry, Mom’s brother, noticed the black plastic container on the table and picked it up. "Hey, what's this?"
"It's Mom," I answered.
He looked confused for a moment and then his face turned ashen. He quickly put it back on the table. "Oh" was all he could muster. The rest of the returning warriors gathered to look at the box but only the youngest of the group had the curiosity to touch it and ask a few questions.
So Mom 'sat' at the kitchen table while we stood around the counter and grazed on the banquet of home-cooked food that had been delivered. Knowing Mom, nothing could have been more fitting or pleased her more than to be in the middle of the kitchen without being the center of attention.
Later in the day I was preparing to return to Mom's house, a 2-hour drive. My uncle wanted to know what we were going to do with "Mom."
"Take her home, I guess." She had no concern whatsoever about what was to become of her ashes, suggesting that we spread them in the woods behind her home, a place she loved so much.
"You can't do that," my uncle said. "You have to leave her here so we can visit her!"
"Visit her?"
"Yes. We need to have a place we can go to visit her. We have to bury her."
I hadn't thought of that before. Mom had a headstone beside her husband and it was engraved with her name and birth date. So yes, I suppose we could bury her there, at least some of her. So, the decision was made. We would bury Mom today after all.
With the short days of winter coming to a close, we needed to hurry. What can we put her in? Looking around the house, I saw an antique Ball jar, the blue glass kind with the glass lid and metal clamp. That would work perfectly and Mom would love it. My uncle was honored that we were using one of his jars, a gift to him from his mother, my Mother's mother. Granny would have loved this one! She had collected these jars for years and was always trying to find new ways to use them.
We called the local funeral home to see if there was any concern about us "burying" Mom in the plot she had purchased many years earlier. No problem as long as we let the cemetery owners know and "register her." That was easy as my uncle is a trustee for the cemetery so we knew he would take care of that.
The minister had offered to preside over a graveside service should we decide to have one so we called him to see if he could meet us at the cemetery. We got his answering machine. "Looks like we are on our own for the interment, Mom." Not one heavy on religious formalities, it was as if Mom were choreographing this afternoon.
Next came the 'dividing' process. My uncle headed to the basement.
"Why are we going down here?" I asked.
"We don't want to upset people," he said. By people, he meant the women.
"Don't you think they know what we are doing?" I asked. But I didn't have the energy to resist, so I followed the men to the basement -- two uncles, my brother, my nephew and a cousin. I carried Mom. Although this was deemed a 'men only' job, I was the token female.
My brother Alan opened the hard plastic box to find a clear plastic bag, filled with super fine, light gray ash. We all paused; none of us had ever seen human ashes before. It was a sobering experience.
Placing the jar on the worktable, Alan carefully poured Mom's ashes in, being very careful not to spill any of the contents. My uncle put a new rubber seal on the jar and clamped the wire over the lid, sealing it forever. I carried the glass jar upstairs and my brother carried the remaining ashes in the box. I thought we were ready to go but my uncle said "we can't just put the jar in the ground. It has to be protected for all time."
"Protected for all time? So what do you think would work for that?" I asked. This was becoming humorous but I thought it best not to laugh right then. Exhaustion was setting in for me but I also knew it was important to meet the needs the rest of the family had. It had been very difficult for them to accept Mom's desire to be cremated. There was no precedent in our family or this rural southern community for anything other than standard burial.
We were in the kitchen and Uncle Barry saw a roll of aluminum foil. "This will be perfect!" he exclaimed. "Heavy Duty Reynolds Wrap!" So my uncle went about the delicate task of wrapping Mom's Ball jar-encased ashes in several layers of shiny, heavy-duty aluminum foil. "There, that should do it!" my uncle said when his work was done. "Now, we're ready to go."
"Not quite," a cousin said as he handed me a yellow bow to attach to the well-wrapped, shiny jar. "Now we are ready."
As we were getting into our cars, some cousins arrived and wanted to come along. This would not have been my first choice; I preferred keeping this to the very immediate family. But they were there with their kids and twilight was closing in so off we went to Wilkerson Cemetery – with Mom, a post-hole digger and some flowers from the service.
I drove while my brother held Mom on his lap. My nephew Nick, Mom's only and most beloved 13-year-old grandson, sat in the back seat with my big black dog, Bunny. On the way to the cemetery, we listened to the song Seasons of Love -- "525,600 minutes in a year. How do you measure a year? A life? 525,600 moments to love…." We played it at the close of Mom's service the night before and it matched our feelings as we drove.
Mom's intimate funeral entourage consisted of four cars and a pick-up truck. No police escort. No headlights or hold ups at the town's only traffic signal.
I carried Mom to her gravesite -- beside her husband and just behind her beloved Mother’s grave. Four generations of family and a black dog gathered on a blustery February afternoon to say 'goodbye.' Mom's two brothers began digging the small hole but were soon too overwhelmed with emotion to continue. The cousin who had joined our entourage silently took the post-hole digger from my uncle's hands and finished the task. I was filled with gratitude for his presence and caring.
With all of us gathered around, I placed the yellow beribboned, shiny jar carefully into the cold, damp earth. "Goodbye, Mom. I love you forever." I put the first handful of dirt in the hole and each family member followed in turn. We said a short prayer and my cousin began filling the hole with the soft earth. We watched in silence. I remember his gentleness, and the way he used his hands at the end to smooth the soil and replace the sod.
It was bitter cold and dark. After more goodbyes, we returned to my uncle's where we had gathered earlier. Soon I was back on the road, returning to Mom's house -- the black box in the seat beside me, my black dog in the back seat. My dog, Bunny, and I would take the remaining ashes to other places Mom loved and dreamed of. The woods behind her home. The Pacific Ocean. The Grand Canyon. But not this day.
This day was over and what a long day it had been. In the end, everyone's needs were met. Mom had her cremation and her brothers and sister had their burial service. Ashes to ashes. I felt relieved. Dust to dust. I had stayed the course. I had fulfilled her last request.
Sandra Howlett, Ed.D. is a facilitator, speaker and writer who lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her 13 year old Black Lab. She is an engaging storyteller who recognizes significance in the small and large events of daily living.
© 2004. American Hospice Foundation. All Rights Reserved.
