I never imagined my cousin, Lucy, would become a ghost. To my mind, ghosts were troubled souls, but Lucy cast a lively yet gentle light with her ukulele always at hand, ready to strike up a song. In my precarious childhood, Lucy and her husband, Kenji, were my legal guardians, my safety net. They gave me precious bedrock stability.
Last spring, Lucy began to falter. Frail and forgetful at ninety years old, her sense of humor and love of family shone bright as ever. I enjoyed heartfelt visits with her all year. In the late spring, Lucy strummed her ukulele for the last time.
Lucy didn’t want a memorial service; but she asked that a few words be spoken about her at our annual family reunion. Our family picnic had been an ongoing tradition since my great-grandparents emigrated from England in the 1880s and pioneered in the Olympic Peninsula rain forest. For the past forty years, we have gathered at my uncle’s fishing cabin beside the large Sol Duc river near Forks, Washington, surrounded by 50 acres of rain forest, with giant fir and cedar, deer and elk on the shores. Generations of children, myself included, grew up swimming in the river; the deep fishing hole surrounding a large boulder that sat in the middle of the 75-foot wide stream drew kids and fish alike to it.
At noon, the eldest relative, my 85-year-old cousin Tommy in his wheelchair, rung a large metal bell set atop a pole, calling everyone to lunch. Last year, Lucy had rung the bell. All the family, 150 assorted blood relations, in-laws and outlaws (as we like to say) gathered around the pole to hear Kenji and his daughter, Jill, say a few words about Lucy. Their dry humor and down-to-earth tenderness seemed to embody Lucy herself.
Several hours after our potluck picnic, I spotted Kenji, Jill and her 18-year-old daughter, Matty, walking toward the river. I remembered Lucy had asked to have some of her ashes strewn on the Sol Duc river. They motioned me and my college-aged son, Jon, over to join them. Silently, Kenji handed Jon a glass jam-jar filled with a white grainy substance. “Don’t drop it,” he said.
A six-foot three athlete, Jon’s hand sagged and shook for a moment. I leaned over and gave the jar a big kiss while I squeezed Jon’s arm. “I love you, Lucy,” I said. Tears seeped from my eyes. Jon gripped the jar with both hands and we walked on the single-file path to the river. We faced the deep swimming hole where Jill’s 13-year-old son, George paced atop the boulder.
As a dry person on land, it seemed to me that a wet person – George – should deliver the ashes to the middle of the river. Kenji, a wiry 80-year-old with a loud voice, must have had the same thought, for he called to George to get off the rock and come throw his grandmother’s ashes in the water. “Sure,” George said, his voice cracking. A gawky boy with peach fuzz on his chin, George seemed unable to focus on anything other than gathering the courage to leap off the 20-foot boulder, just as generations of us before him had done. Suddenly on center stage, he seemed more undecided than ever. He walked back and forth, his grandfather yelled and the rest of us called encouragement. I imagined Lucy laughing.
As I watched George’s display of nerves, I saw him as a symbol for all of us trying to make the transition from the love of a living Lucy into the harder life without her; perhaps, along with George, we all made preparations to jump from our own emotional ledges.
George finally lurched off and we clapped. But George had forgotten his flip-flops atop the boulder, so he crawled up again, strode around the rock and prepared for another try. All of this took place in slow motion while Kenji continued to holler; but it gave me time to visualize my generation lining up, one by one, for our trip to the top of the protruding stone and our jolt into the unknown. After all, a family reunion is a time when we remember our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles.
At last, George made his second leap, but lost his flip-flops which careened down the river in the rapid current. By this time, we all screamed directions at him on how and when to grab the floating sandals.
It had been a decade or two since I had swum in the river and I had forgotten how slippery the river rocks were. But I swiftly remembered as I watched George slowly totter, tripping and sliding towards us, foot-ware in hand. Kenji yelled at him to “Hurry up” several more times. Then he added, “George, I’m not going to let you spread MY ashes on the river.” In the general hullaballoo, we howled at this new absurdity.
But George gamely slithered towards us, took the jam-jar from Jon and a packet of rose petals from his Mom. He made his way to the center of the river, upstream from the boulder and fishing hole, looking like a drunk. But he didn’t drop the jar. We cheered him on. Our family spread ashes like others rooted for soccer tournaments. I’m not sure whether intoning prayers would have made the moment any more sacred.
Each of us added to the din. Jill, Matty (big sister) and Kenji yelled directions on how to remove the lid and where to spread the ashes and flowers. I called, over and over, “I love you, Lucy. I miss you,” as I clung to Jon. Although he smiled at the family’s antics, his green eyes glinted with tears.
With an odd grace, George gently spread the ashes into the current and dropped the rose petals on top. And Lucy appeared. My eyes popped as the white ashes congealed in the water until the force of the flow spread the bright mass into a human-sized length with a lovely female curve; a ghost of Lucy greeting us from the water. She stayed in her form for long minutes, slowly moving, until she reached the fishing hole. I held my breath in the sudden silence of the family. Lucy swirled once around the rock and finally dispersed below it.
When I recovered from my shock, I saw an undaunted George stagger back to the behemoth. He called to his Mom, “Hey, could you get a picture of me jumping for my Facebook page?” While Jill fiddled with her camera and George made his lengthy arrangements for yet another leap, the rest of us silently padded up the sandy path leading back to the picnic. At a future family picnic, it would be my turn to travel downstream.
A whole day passed before I spoke aloud about Lucy’s ghostly appearance. Finally, I asked my son if he had seen Lucy’s shape in the water. “Yeah, Mom, I did. Pretty awesome.” I agreed with him.
Real Life – Real Laughs:
Humor When You Need It Most
Cate Burns’ thirty-eight non-fiction stories of heartfelt humor explore society’s foibles and personal snafus with insightful zingers that will delight readers. Burns casts an unstinting, cock-eyed look at personal change, friendship, sanity and courage.
“Absolutely LOVE the descriptions in this work. Very, very, very clever and, dare I say it? -unique. This is refreshing, funny, inventive and delightful.” -Sharon Whitehill, Ph. D.
