The Scattering

Duck blind six is the favored spot on the pond.  On a straw mound in sunken cement blinds, they sit bundled in waders and down jackets.  Eye level with smooth black water, they wait for dawn to hit the horizon.  It’s dead flat calm—bluebird weather—not a duck day.  He turns to his childhood friend of forty-nine years, “When I go, don’t let them put me anywhere else.  Make sure they leave me right here.”

Sunrise, pale orange, lights a narrow watery path toward them.  The widening swath of orange shivers a ripple as a breeze picks up.  North wind?  Somewhere a mud hen squawks, lifting in flight.  Two black labs sniff the gust, then quiver and whine softly.  One friend intuitively turns facing south, the other north.  Back-to-back, they hide their ruddy cheeks and bright eyes under camo caps while scanning the sky in tandem.  “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll make sure.”

When he did go, after a long courageous battle, he got what he wanted.  To be laid to rest at the place of family heritage he loved best, by the people he loved most: his wife of thirty-six years, our boys, his mother, and his lifelong buddy.  Their grandfathers hunted that club together in 1914.  He hadn’t missed an opening day of duck season since he went to Army flight school during the Vietnam War thirty-five years ago.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust.  I’ve never before held the weight of a person reduced to pebbles and sand.  No one in my family will look inside the green box, an old wooden fly-fishing box with a rainbow trout painted on top.  I like having it on my desk where I can open it and pat the plastic pouch.  I am loath to part with these remaining molecules.

I don’t know anyone who has scattered ashes—none of us do, but the agreed upon time has come so we make plans, acting as if we know what to do, making it up as we go.  I’m searching for guidance and inexplicably, I call my mortician, the skinny guy in the silver suit with lips as thin as garter snakes that twist and kink as he enunciates each carefully formed word.  “Say, yes to everything” was his advice when I’d met him exactly one time in my life at the mortuary.  I can’t help from watching his lips. “When someone wants to help you out after your loss, offer you a casserole or mow your lawn, say yes.  And call me anytime.”

So I do.  “Oh yes, I remember you.  You came in with the fishing tackle box to place your husband’s remains.”  “Actually it’s a fly box” I set him right then ask about scattering protocol.  “Well, mainly don’t scatter into the wind, for obvious reasons.  Scattering over water is nice, as the remains dissipate, which seems more appropriate.  First remove the metal ID tag in the plastic pouch, which can sometimes be disconcerting.  You might ask if others would like to say something, or recite bible passages and have a moment of silence.  Some people bring the departed’s favorite music and a boom-box, others release doves.”  Releasing doves doesn’t seem particularly appropriate since we’re at a bird hunting club and our hunting dog will be along.

“Yes, but how do we actually do the scattering,” I ask, “Physically, I mean.  Is it O.K. to touch the ashes?”  He explains how some boxes come with release holes in the bottom; other people just pour the contents into the water.  “Just remember what I said about the wind because it can get, well, messy.”  But he never actually addresses the touching of the ashes.

 I hang up the phone drifting backwards.  Thoughts come in slow motion, like recalling a dream early in the morning, at first unfocused, it clarifies then solidifies until your hair stands on end.  After the first horrific month someone said, “Well, at least July is past us.”  But I don’t want July to be past us.  I want it to still be June.

The day before the scattering, just before Opening Day of duck season, the boys are bickering bitterly.  I get a phone call from the youngest, “I’m through with him.  He never does his share of work at the duck club.  Never shows up.  I’ve had it”

“Well,” I defend him, “He did just have eye surgery.  Maybe he’s not supposed to lift heavy things, or get a fox tail in his eye.”

The oldest calls.  “He never told me about the work party.  No one tells me anything.  Why do we need new windows anyway, the decoys need replacing, the dock fixed.  I’m sick of the whole thing.”

Now I defend the other.  “He said he emailed you about the work party a month ago.  He’s under a lot of pressure overseeing the ponds, levees, clubhouse, everything Dad used to do--plus he has a new baby.”  How’s your eye?”

“I am now legally blind in that eye.  The doctor took the bandage off and I couldn’t even see the E at the top of the chart.  My doctor goes, ‘Oh that’s unusual.’  No shit, doc.  Then one of the stitches didn’t dissolve and scratched the hell out of my eye. And don’t give me that excuse about a new baby.  I have two under three.” 

We’ve agreed to invite the lifelong friend, who is honored to rearrange his work schedule.  A daughter-in-law calls saying Nana, my Mother-in law, is worried.  Is there a plan for the scattering?  Who will speak?  What will they say?  Nana’s not sure if she wants to keep some of the ashes.  Is this all too rushed?

More acrimonious calls come in from the boys.  My girlfriend, having four brothers, thinks my husband would be furious.  “Cancel it until everyone gets their act together. If the boys won’t meet this afternoon and talk it out, then cancel it.  You’re in charge now.”

I phone the boys at work.  “Mom, we’re fine.  We don’t need to meet today,” says one.  “You can’t do this.  Dad hasn’t missed an Opening Day since the Vietnam War and he’s not missing this one.  We’re doing it tomorrow,” says the other.

“You can meet in the City after work, you can meet here, or at the Roundup tonight, otherwise I’m calling Nana and Dad’s buddy and canceling.”  All toll, nine bitter phone calls circulate through to my house.  So I cancel, then stop answering the phone. 

By morning I’m getting sweet patronizing calls.  “We talked.”

“Did you meet?”

“No but we talked on the phone.” Since I stopped answering they have no one else.  “We’re fine.  Everything’s fine.”

“Well fine then,” I huff, “If you want to do it, you call Nana and everyone, you plan the damn thing.  You lead it.”

 “OK, Mom, I will”, my youngest child sounds relieved.  His wife calls saying they don’t want me to drive alone.  They’re leaving at 2 p.m., could I meet them and drive together?

“No thank you.  I’ll drive myself.”  Now I’m acting immature.

I arrive fifteen minutes late for our three o’clock boat crossing to Van Sickle Island in the Delta.  A hot sticky October breeze adds to my rush, confusion, rising panic and guilt for holding up two carloads of people at the dock.  I feel scattered.

My youngest has brought his wife, infant daughter, Nana and his hunting dog.  My oldest has brought his wife, his one and three-year-old daughters, his hunting dog and my husband’s best friend.  Thankfully the friend has left his hunting dog at home.  My Labrador wags the length of her black body and smiles showing teeth.  I can’t imagine how we’ll fit the ten of us, and three high-strung dogs into our 19-foot speedboat.  I expected seven people, one dog and zero children.  Hopefully my oldest has prepared his three-year-old child for this.  I wonder if they’ll leave the children in the clubhouse with the mothers.  We all hug, yet nobody says much as my oldest starts the engine.  The old family speedboat, Delta Bear, sputters and spits, resentful for being left idle so long in the harbor.

“Grammy, what’s that?”  The three-year-old blurts out with wide eyes, pointing to the green wooden box with the rainbow trout painted on top.  “What’s that box in your lap?”  I look to my son, as he backs us from the berth.  He shrugs.  So I stall until someone tells this child what we are doing here today.

“It’s a fish box.”

“What’s in it?”  I look at the parents again but no one wants to jump in here.  I am responsible for orchestrating this scattering of my husband, which I have no idea exactly how to do, nor do I want to.  Now I have to explain it to my granddaughter?  This means I can tell her anything I please, which in turn, is liberating.

“Ashes,” I say simply.

“What are they for?”  No one says a word as we idle out of the harbor toward the San Joaquin River.  All eyes are on me and I think fast.

“We’re going to scatter them out by Grandpa’s favorite duck blind.”

“Why Grammy?” she climbs nimbly into my lap, caressing my skin with her warm bare arms and legs. “Why are we going to scatter them?”

I began to feel more grounded than I have all day. There is always an opportunity for personal growth, which is usually painful. “To remember Grandpa—you remember Grandpa, don’t you?”

Her brown eyes narrow and look directly into mine.  She nods slowly, thoughtfully.  “Can I see the ashes?”  No one breathes as I unhook the clasp and reveal the plastic bag of sand and pebbles that is her grandfather.  She tenderly pats the bag and leans her head against my chest, so close to my heart, “Can I please help scatter the ashes, Grammy?” 

“Of course you can, sweetheart.”

Arriving at the island, after crossing the white chop of the San Joaquin River, we veer into smooth green Steamboat Slough.  The dogs pace, sniff the air, jockey for position.  My dog leaps onto our dock while still two feet away.  The boys’ dogs leap simultaneously, the plump black Lab heavy, the young blond Lab clumsy, both barely clearing the water as the boys shout in unison, “No Shane, stay.  Sage, sit down—no.”  Why do they waste their breath?  We walk the rutted dirt path to the duck club, holding 85-year-old Nana by both arms.  Between gusts of warm wind swirling the dirt, heat radiates visibly.  At the turn, the green prickly pear cactus sprouts hot pink babies from its elephantine leaves.  My husband taught me how to carve and eat the succulent fruit but still, I got stickers in my gums.  Wild asparagus hides beneath the earth, waiting for spring.  He showed me how to find the lanky stalks under familiar clumps of lacy fern.  I’d memorized each secret spot, knowing it would be important later.

We unlock the door to the clubhouse and the buddy steps in first, then turns on his heel.  “Hold up a minute while I take care of something.”  Evidently the mousetrap on the kitchen floor has done its job.  So much for leaving the moms and the babies behind in the clubhouse.  We will all be going to the scattering. 

Once inside my boys and the buddy pull on waders.  “Do I need waders?  There’s a small pair in here somewhere that fit me.”  I fumble through my husband’s locker.  His soft flannel shirt brushes my cheek.  I smell him.  I want to climb in and close the door behind me.

“Naw, we’ll drop you right at the blind,” the buddy assures me.  But I like wearing those waders.  I look down at my shorts, flip flops and my beloved periwinkle blue blouse, the one I wore to his memorial service.  I’d kind of planned on wearing waders.

The man made slough out to the blinds is four-feet-wide lined with four foot high walls of river tule.  Stepping down into the precarious rowboat with the outboard motor and pull-chord starter, I sit on a plank seat behind Nana and the buddy.  Two dogs ride the bow.  My oldest revs the engine, navigating from the stern, resembling my husband—Mario Andretti.  Like a Disneyland E ride. Ahead of us, in another outboard powered rowboat, are two wives, two little girls and a tiny newborn girlchild.  It’s only four feet deep but still, I don’t see any lifejackets on those babies.  My youngest drives the precious cargo as his lab puppy jumps from one seat to another.  Murky brown hull water douses all clean bright clothing and the one-year-old squeals with joy.

Both boys drive way too fast along the skinny slough.  “Suppose something large has fallen into this trough and is lurking under the waterline?”  The motor whines too loud for anyone to hear my own.  Instinctively I duck as we speed under the gnarled burnt-out railroad trestle, clearing it by inches.  The moms expertly duck their children’s heads.  Dogs stand proud, front paws splayed on the bow, ears flying, noses at work.  Just like always.

Here we turn, slowing abruptly into the now invisible path of water toward the pond, parting the tules as we go.  But the puppy in the lead boat can’t wait.  Into the water she leaps as my youngest yells commands.  Chain reaction—my dog is next, making a great splash.  Then I feel a thump, thump, thump under our boat.  “We’re running over her,” I scream.  “The outboard will chop her to pieces.”

“She’ll move” my oldest knows.  His stout dog, the water chicken, stays put, not particularly anxious to get wet before actual hunting season begins with real ducks.

Up pops a dog head between the tules.  We idle and the buddy grabs my 75 pound wet mudball by the scruff and manhandles her into the boat.  Dripping she shakes in slow motion, head first, shoulders, hips, down to the tip of her sleek tail.  Nana’s canary yellow pantsuit is now polka-dotted.  She’s a good sport, being a duck club Matriarch, although she always had miniature poodles. 

The puppy, safely back in the lead boat, is scolded.  Mothers and children are now fully splattered.  Lucky we love those sweet dogs.  Muddy water splashes over my flip-flops and I wish again that I had insisted on waders.  We forge ahead as I choke hold my dog by the neck.  Out goes the puppy again, paddling valiantly alongside the boat.  “Let her swim there” my youngest gives up.

A long minute later we pull up to blind six and I step onto the straw covered islet.  Levees, tules, cattails and ponds are all I can see in every direction. Wildlife chirps, quacks, flaps and croaks.  Decoys bob.  Must I do this?

 The duck club isn’t even my kind of place with those rattraps snapping at 3 a.m., twice rebuilding after the underground peat fire and the levee flood, your inebriated duck hunter friends snoring in our bunkroom or playing poker until 2 a.m.  Well, maybe I like that sometimes when I’m winning.  In spite of your 6 a.m. gift of sweetened thermos coffee, your stolen kiss stretched to reach my lips on the top bunk, when your heavy booted coffee fueled duck hunters charge out into the icy morning dark, I remove my earplugs and mercifully sink deeper into my sleeping bag.  Despite birdsong streaming through my open window as the silent burst of solitary sunrise warms my face; it’s mostly not my kinda place.

Everyone unloads except a mom and infant daughter who needs nursing.  Seems fitting, as a mother nourishes his granddaughter, his ashes nourish the land of his grandfather.  I walk out to the lead point of the blind, the boys behind, the buddy with his arms encircling Nana, one wife takes two little girls by the hand and silence falls over us.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice.  “We are here to honor the life of Gregory.  After a long and courageous journey you have finally come to rest in your favorite place.  It was your wish to be laid to rest in this place of family heritage.  It is our wish to one day be reunited with you. Until then, returning here will be our solace.  The afterlife, for the living, consists of memories that last forever in the lives of those encouraged by your kindness and in the hearts of those who loved you.”   I turn and ask if anyone else would like to speak.  “Then let us have a moment of silence . . . and now we leave Greg to his final resting place.  We the people he loved so much, commit him to the place he loved best.  Let us say good-bye to Greg.”

I walk out to the tip of the blind and wade into the pond.  Reaching into the plastic bag, I take a handful of ashes and fling. The ashes drift with the ripples, encircling us on the blind.  Holding us together, then letting go. 

There are a lot of ashes here to fling.  This could take a while.  I fling to the left, fling straight ahead, to the right.  Everyone watches in stone silence.  “Would anyone else like to scatter some?”  I turn toward the group huddled against one another on the blind.  Their faces shell-shocked--ashen.  They tighten their huddle as I look into each face, eyes avoiding mine, heads down, watching the rapidly disappearing pieces of Greg.

The three-year-old steps out boldly and unfurls her arm, “I do.  I want to throw some.”  There is a collective intake of breath.  I hold the bag out to our three-year-old keeper of the flame, hopelessly in love for life.  She reaches in with her perfect little hand and pulls out a huge messy fistful; ashes seep between her fingers onto the ground.  Then she fills the other hand and bounds to the end of the blind.  On her tiptoes she flings with a grand overhand toss, both arms in unison, lifting her off her feet.  Everyone cheers and rushes forward to get a handful.  A mother dips her infant daughter’s fingers into the bag—one last touch.  The dogs bark and jump around in a frenzy.  Everybody scatters ashes at once. 

For a moment it looks like exploding fireworks in the setting sun.  Colorless ashes take on the gold, orange and pink of the sky.  Whirling streaks fly through the air.  Ashes fall onto the dogs, our hair, our clothes, into my eyes.  He surrounds us. 

When the bag is nearly empty, I pause to ask if anyone would like to keep some.  Nana shakes her head.  The oldest steps forward, hand outstretched as his daughter had.  “I do,” he says gently.  I hand him the bag and everyone quiets.  The dogs sit, never once taking their eyes off him.  He holds the bag to his bib waders, slowly paces to the end of the blind, water lapping his boots.  Knee-deep he stares out.  He takes several minutes to decide.  Then reaching out, he gives the rest of his father’s ashes to the Delta waters, in all honor and respect.

A soft breeze lifts my hair, cools my damp forehead, dries my cheeks.  I wrap my arms around myself and watch some mallards soar.  A daughter-in-law steps up and hands my infant granddaughter to me, earnest in her pink bonnet.  Cradled in my arms I rock her gratefully.  With arms aflutter she chirps and peeps, still speaking to nature.  I laugh and lift her to the sky.  Amazing, her name is Grace.