Stashing Ashes

My mother-in-law, Nan, treated me with respect, kindness and tremendous love; something she never felt as a daughter-in-law herself. She said she'd never let me feel the way she did, an outsider in the family. And I didn't. Ever.

In the summer, we lived together for long stretches of time at the lake. Nan and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye but we shared common thoughts and feelings about family and friends, a love of books but most importantly we shared laughter. We would laugh so hard sometimes she thought she'd pee her pants. As funny as she could be, she was also intensely proper. It was such an amusing dichotomy. She was one classy lady!

I loved her.

Sadly, she passed away 8 years ago in August from cancer complicated by diabetes. If there was a bright side to her suffering, it was Alzheimer’s, which she had been diagnosed with many years before.

The opportunity to perform the final task, casting her remaining ashes into the lake, didn’t occur until the following summer. The lake is a wonderfully peaceful place full of heartwarming memories of our life with her. It’s also the resting place of a lot of ashes belonging to a century and a half of beloved “lakers” including furry friends.

As planned, my father-in-law, Nan’s children and the “out-law” (me) motored out to the middle of the water at her favorite time of the day, sunset, in our old Nautique ski boat. We shared our thoughts and reflections as we spread Nan’s last ashes. We thanked God that her suffering ended. We relished in the thought of a heavenly bridge game played with some of her closest friends, and we toasted an amazing woman whom we all loved.

Yet something during this boat ride and memorial didn’t ring true to me. Our words seemed to be lacking in a way, almost not emotional enough. It wasn’t what I expected but I chalked it up to being almost a year since she left us.

The following summer we were still adjusting to lake life without the family matriarch and my father-in-law was soon to be married. That same summer we decided to sell the old ski boat, which we all wished we'd kept in hindsight. 

An hour before trading in the “old girl” for a newer, faster, spiffier model, I thought to check the storage pockets and compartments of the boat because years ago, when I was young, my family almost included my high school class ring and retainer in the sale of our boat.

Reaching deep down in the pocket behind the driver's seat, I felt a small bag. Pulling it out into the sunlight, it looked really familiar! I realized what it was as soon as I peeked inside the blue velvet pouch.

It was Nan!

She didn't get completely sprinkled!

The rest of the family would've sold the boat, and Nan, without checking for personal belongings but I knew better. Something didn't jibe for me the day her ashes were disbursed.

Gathering everything I could into a trash bag except her, I walked up the pier to the house. A couple of friends were standing in the yard. 

As I passed Jay, I said “Would you please hold Nan while I take this to the trash?” 

I placed the pouch in his open hand. The look on his face was priceless. He’s incredibly squeamish. 

Chuck, our curious friend, said, “Let me see her.” as he peeked inside. He’s in the medical field. 

They've both loved her since childhood.

Possession is 9/10^th of the law, or so they say. I have her. The family knows I have her. From that day on, she’s resided in my underwear drawer. That’s not against the law, is it? Is that gross?

I figured it was the perfect place because I’m in that drawer daily come summertime, or should be, and when I open it I can say “Hey!” or “You’ll never guess what Bozo thing your son did today.” Stuff like that.

And sometimes I just want to think about her.

Last winter when I changed rooms and dressers with my daughter, she found the velvet pouch containing her grandmother as she was putting her underwear in the drawer. 

"What's in here?" she asked swinging the pouch.

"It's Nano, honey." I replied. She was speechless and all but threw it to me. I took Nan to my room and replaced her in her spot, my drawer.

I had a chance to visit with her this weekend and we had a lovely chat. I filled her in on the four of us. I told her I missed her every single day.

I also realized it’s not about having her but remembering her and reminding my kids about her. Memories fade easily if you let them. 

As life's been busier, I’ve appreciated reminders. For me, all it takes is a look at my dresser and I have my friend.

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This is my favorite picture of her as she enjoys her younger days on the lake. It is way before I knew her but it's how I "saw" her. She was a vibrant, loving and incredibly funny woman. 

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A Lesson In Kissing

His name was Micah. I always loved that name because it was so different.

And so was he from me.

We grew up in the same Chicago suburb which was rather large but neighborhoods were small. The kids you’d run into on the street were the ones you’d likely run into the next day, if you really wanted to, because 6 blocks isn’t far away, especially not on a bike. And that’s how four 15 year old girls, heading into sophomore year, met a large group of 16 year old boys from another high school.

The boys went to Timothy Christian, a Christian Reform school, in our neighborhood. The families generally kept to themselves so even though we lived within close range, our paths never crossed since we went to different grade schools. Growing up, I truly believed we were considered "taboo" to the TC kids.

Well, there’s no way to stop teenage boys and girls from meeting when they have their minds set on this. Straddling our bikes on a street corner, we talked. Cops would come by and kindly ask us to scatter. So we’d move to a different one.

One sure thing was the girls longed to kiss the boys and so did they. I’m not certain which side was more inexperienced; us or them.

Being late bloomers, the girls had heard plenty of stories about kissing. Experienced girls warned us that some boys kissed like Hoover vacuums and others so sloppy they didn’t know what to do with all the spit. None of this sounded appealing however, one by one, my girlfriends began to pop their kissing cherries.

Micah and I were still just talking but knew deep down we’d do this together. Everyone’s ready at different times.

In the fall and back to our respective high schools, weekends remained the same. The group got together because the other girls were “hooked up”.

It was just before Halloween when we gathered in George’s garage; his parents allowed boy/girl get togethers, and Micah asked if I wanted to go inside. Before we’d only been alone rather by default. This time, he was asking me to be ALONE.

Liking him, a lot, I went. Sitting closer than I ever had to a boy on a couch, he asked what I’d like to do. Having only one thing on my mind, I blurted, “Let’s make out.” Instantaneously, his lips pressed softly against mine; his breath smelled so sweet. Kissing for what seemed like an hour, he suddenly asked, “Can we French kiss?”

I was so far into the moment to say anything other than “OK”.

It was the first “real” kiss either of us experienced. I was 15 and he, 16. And it was completely opposite of hoover-like or sloppy with spit.

It was one of the sweetest, most gently intense feelings I have ever experienced in my life.

To this day, I credit Micah for my immense love of kissing someone special.

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