When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurly-burly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
—William
Shakespeare (1564–1616),
Macbeth, act 1, sc. 1,
l. 1-4 (1623). (I
attempted this quote
after spreading Joann’s
ashes. It refers to the
three Musketeers of Snug
Harbor: Joann, Bill and
I.)
David, Joann’s son, and Michael arrived today at about 2:30 in the afternoon,
ending several hours of anticipatory waiting. Actually, they were right on time,
my edginess was more about the upcoming trip to Bixby Creek Bridge and the
spreading of Joann’s ashes than any real frustration with David or Michael. I
was just being impatient, a worrywart and my usual
"control-the-universe-by-force-of-will" thingy. Just a measure of how much I
wanted this event to come off, needed it to be real, realizing somewhere
in the recesses of my head that this could be the defining turning point
of the last eight months.
When they arrived, we went up to the Front Desk and I checked them in. They
had had a long trip from Sacramento and it had been raining, I figured they
needed a moment or three to take a break, and I was right. Half an hour later,
after I changed into something fancier than my usual jeans and Hawaiian shirt,
the four of us (David, Michael, Bill, and I) were on the road to Bixby Bridge.
The rain held off, though there were drizzles, and the driving was easier
than it would be coming back. I have not been down to Big Sur for several years
and somehow I had it in my head that the bridge was only a few minutes south of
Carmel. Actually, the drive took half an hour, though it seemed far longer. Must
have been the anticipation thingy again. I idled my time stroking Joann’s urn
and taking in the sweeping vistas of gorgeous coastline and windswept sea.
Goodbye, My Love
Bill, having been through this once before with his friend Bernie, knew the
exact place. David did as well, because he grew up around Big Sur. Michael and
I, well, we relied on their guidance and trusted that they knew what they were
doing.
The place of ashes, so to speak, is a promontory overlooking the Bixby Creek
Bridge and the sea. Once there, and without a consensus plan, everything sort of
fell into place. I knew that David and I needed to do this together. For this to
work, for us to be set free, we both needed to spread Joann’s ashes.
I went first, the wind lulled a bit, and I gently fed Joann’s ashes into the
weakening blow. It wasn’t a strong wind and several clumps of ash fell to the
ground, leaving three small splashes of ash on the deep-red soil overlooking the
bridge.
David went next; grabbing the bottom of the plastic bag half-filled with ash
and flung them out of the bag high over the creek chasm. As he started that
motion, a great hurling effort, the wind picked up and not one of his mother’s
ashes touched the ground.
David and I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next or maybe just
savoring the moment that we set Joann free. We both needed to speak, speak about
and to Joann. I had started spreading her ashes; it was only fitting that David
should speak to his mother first. He spoke a beautiful poem, like a prayer and
snug to the moment, into the wind that had suddenly picked up to near tropical
storm strength. I went next, speaking the first lines of Macbeth, harking back
to the days that the three of us, Joann, Bill and I, moved into Snug Harbor, and
the promise that we three would be together again, in time.
Into the gale, looking toward the sea that Joann loved, I said, "I love you,
Joann," David said "Goodbye Mom." I would say goodbye later.
David and I were the main actors in this little drama, Bill and Michael our
seconds. Joann, one with the world once again, the four of us piled back into
the car. David wanted to go a little further down the road to the River Inn, for
memory’s sake and that sounded like a good idea.
Rain started drizzling, the wind was at our backs and all was right with the
world as we set out through the old-growth redwoods standing sentinel.
Rocky Point
By the time we left the River Inn and headed north to the Rocky Point
Restaurant and dinner, rain was coming down in angry fistfuls, ground fog
reflected the car’s headlights like a white sheet. Michael, who had never driven
the Big Sur highway under these conditions, discovered that this was a
white-knuckle challenge. All of the car’s windows fogged except for the front
and rear, Bill and I in the back seat could only peer myopically at the road
ahead of us as we scouted for errant deer. Lucky for us, deer, as it happens,
have better sense; they do come in from the rain.
The four of us were early for our reservation, but the weather kept people
away and we did not have a problem being seated. I had never been to the Rocky
Point Restaurant before, so this was a new experience, regardless of our reason
for being there. That it was dark outside in no way diminished the wonder of it
for me, a spectacular piece of Big Sur history that I have read about but never
visited.
David ordered the prime rib, Michael the petit fillet, Bill the trout and I
the lamb chops. The food was excellent, but the most striking feature turned out
to be the baked potatoes. They were simply huge. These tubers occupied half the
plate. I don’t think I have ever seen potatoes as large as these anywhere,
certainly not in a supermarket, and not in a restaurant either, that I can
remember.
There was little talk, David spun out a few memories of growing up in Bug Sur
for Michael’s benefit, Bill and I mainly listened. Yet, there was a comfortable
camaraderie amongst the four of us, a silent but tacit knowledge of having taken
a hefty personal step forward.
Once, when I went outside to smoke and visit with the rain, I reflected on
how the downpour was taking the three splashes of ashes down to Joann’s beloved
sea. It was, I thought, fitting, and all was well with the universe once again.
Searching Through the Remains
The drive home was far less treacherous, the rain had abated somewhat and
ground fog came only in infrequent patches. The Monterey Peninsula, Michael
called it on the road back "civilization," but to those of us who truly know the
place, the civilized work in corporations and the uncivilized write books and
paint pictures. We like it that way.
Once back at the motel, David and Michael retired to their room, as Bill and
I did to our respective abodes. We all needed a breather before the next step in
the cosmic play of making Joann, and ourselves, whole.
Alone, I could finally say "Goodbye, sweetie."
An hour later, David and Michael came back to my apartment (somehow, no
longer Joann’s and my apartment) to begin the dissection of Joann’s remaining
belongings. I figured that I could leave Bill to nap a little longer before I
called him, and that decision worked out well. Bill didn’t need to be there
while David made his choices, but Michael needed to be there for David’s moral
support.
I placed all of Joann’s remaining belongings by "her" side of the bed; I
think that made it easier to have everything in one place. Turns out that many
of her belongings were things that David had no real attachment to. However, he
did take the pictures that were on her memorial because they were of his
grandparents, and the purple quilt off my bed that his (great?) grandmother
made. There were also some CD’s of hers that he liked, as well as her gold
cross. He left the clothing for me to recycle, which would mean into the
Dumpster.
After the "picking," I called Bill because it was obvious that time was
running short. Everyone was tired, I had more work to do and I must give Bill
the chance to serve his freshly baked mince pie. We shared some conversation; I
got David’s address so I can mail him a Christmas card. I also told David that I
would put all of the pictures I took of Joann across the three years we lived
together on a CD and ship it along with the card.
Hugs all around, and David and Michael were gone. Time for themselves, space
for David. They will leave before I get up tomorrow and that is okay, by dawn,
this place will probably not resemble the place they knew. Bill stayed around
for a while, lending his own moral support to me for the next phase.
Cleaning Up
Immediately after David and Michael headed for their room, I got busy
deconstructing, reconstructing, saying my goodbyes to the other two ghosts of
Snug Harbor.
Deconstruction came first—the soft, clothing items I wanted to save of
Joann’s after David’s picks went into a large, plastic storage box. In the same
box went the teddy bears surrounding her urn memorial, the Pink Pantheress I
bought her for Valentine’s Day (the day she came home from the hospital for the
last time) and stood sentinel on her urn for the last eight months. Also, her
Christmas ornaments that adorned her memorial for the season; I removed the
batteries from her sleeping teddy angel (snoring thingy) and it went into the
box as well. Her urn, empty now, went into the storage box first (although I’m
not sure why) along with her favorite sweater and woven red blanket she curled
up on the couch with throughout my years with her. Her costume jewelry was
carefully laid on top, mementos, not to be viewed, but to be kept as a loving
reminder. Box closed, until further notice. Deconstruction done, plastic storage
box went under the table with its fellows, beneath the Christmas tree, a present
not to be opened soon.
Continuing my whirlwind, Reconstruction came next. The lilac bed comforter
and pillows of the same stripe were bundled. Clothing from her suitcase and
other, non-recyclable, leftovers of her went into the same bundle, carried with
great haste to the Dumpster. Her desk and portable typewriter remain, furniture
that I can use in future, or give to David when he has space and if he wants
them. Until then, I will keep them, the typewriter because I used such a machine
in the hoary old days of the Sixties, the desk because I like it. In a final act
of reclaiming my space, I put a motel bedcover over the sheets I sleep on,
solidifying the concept that I sleep alone now. I’m okay with that.
Last, but not least, it was time to confront the other two ghosts in my
house. The portrait of John Woodruff that hung over the memorial of Joann’s urn,
came down and a painting by Bill took its place. John and I didn’t have a
conversation, I merely told him that it was time he went his own way, as I have
to go mine. The portrait photo of Mildred, Joann’s mother, which hung over my
desk, received the same treatment, an explanation, a promise of a continuing
place in my heart, and an assertion that it was time to move on. They were both
important parts of my life, a segment of living that is now consigned to the
pages of books I write, not to be carried on my back for the rest of my life.
Empty Nest
Bill is snug in his bed across the way. I have no tears left that haven’t
been shed over the last eight months. There are no more ghosts hanging on my
walls and when I mutter to myself, I’m talking to me again, not a memory.
There is a feeling that I have not had for three-and-a-half years, a distinct
sense of aloneness, a solitary note finely pitched with sadness, but a whole
note, neither wailing nor dirge.
Tomorrow will be a different day, and I’m looking forward to it.
