[img]396|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img]I have a collection of ashes; that is to say, the cremated remains of my mother, my grandmother and my father. They’re all at my brother’s apartment, and we don’t know what to do with them.
When my mother died, I think it was my maternal grandmother who announced that in our family, people were cremated, not buried. I was twenty-one; I didn’t know from cremation. Grammy’s directions were carried out, and Mom’s ashes were sent to my father’s office. Every day I would ask my dad if he could bring Mom home. After a few weeks of this, one day he blurted out, “Alex, say Mom’s ASHES!” He brought the ashes home soon afterwards. They arrived in a golden canister that resembled something you’d see in your grandmother’s kitchen for holding flour, coffee, or tea. When I moved into my own place, I kept the canister in my kitchen cabinet. When my friends would ask me what it was, I’d say, “That’s my mom.” I brought it over to my dad’s place when I moved to Japan, because it’s illegal to bring ashes overseas.
When my dad’s mother died thirteen years later, she was cremated too, and her ashes came in a bright green plastic container. If it had had a crank, you would have thought it was a Jack-in-the-Box. Up it went on the mantle, next to my mom’s. It seemed that with each passing, the containers got a little lower in quality. Poor Dad. When he died two years ago, his ashes arrived in a white cardboard box with handles that looked eerily similar to a Happy Meal. This would not do. A golden flour vessel is one thing; a box that one could decorate with markers was another.
My brother, sister-in-law and I went shopping for something to put Dad’s ashes in. We knew we didn’t want a typical urn like a vase. We’d all seen the movies where the urn falls and ashes get spilled everywhere. Where could we get a container with a lid? We headed to the first place we thought of: Zabar’s, the gourmet kitchen and food store across the street.
The first containers we came across were ice buckets. My brother J and I immediately scoped them out, laughing hysterically about the possibility of Dad’s ashes being contained in a bucket with tongs. Dad was a drinker; wouldn’t be much of a stretch. My sister-in-law, K, who is Japanese, looked shocked. At one point it seemed as though she was saying a prayer in Japanese to offset the disrespect J and I were showing to the dead. Peals of laughter could be heard from me as I moved over to the section of soup tureens.
We decided to leave Zabar’s and head over to one of my dad’s favorite haunts: the Salvation Army. Dad used to get his opera outfits there, as well as dresses for his dates, in case they didn’t have suitable clothing for The Met. K and I walked in and headed directly for the back of the store where the furniture was kept, and there it was—a silver plated receptacle with a lid. It was as if it called to us. It was the only thing of its kind around, and the store was about to close, so we had to make a decision. J wasn’t sure; it was tarnished, and as it turned out, it was an ice bucket! He pointed out the part sticking out where the tongs went. Dad seemed destined to rest in a place that was close to his heart. We bought it, and I stopped at the hardware store to get some silver polish. When I cleaned it up, it looked downright elegant.
With all three ash holders on the mantle, it began to look like some morbid collection. I mentioned to my brother that Dad had wanted his ashes mixed with Mom’s when he died. J replied, “What about Grandma?” Indeed, what about Grandma? What were we supposed to do? Have a mixing party? I don’t know if you’ve ever seen cremated remains, but they’re not like cigarette ashes. It’s not some black powder you can just blow away. They have substance, and there’s volume. Times three, we’d have to get a pretty big parcel to contain them all in, and then what?
Recently I read about a woman in England who did an art installation in which she took cremated remains and turned them into pencils. What a fabulous idea! It’s environmentally friendly, it’s functional, it’s the gift that keeps on giving! I’d use Mom pencils for sketching, Dad pencils for those Mensa puzzles that are in the back of airline magazines, and Grandma pencils for crosswords. When I tell people, “I write with my family,” they’ll know you’re close, and you can tell them how “sharp” your family members are. Puns and practicality abound! The only problem is, ashes aren’t allowed overseas. But flour, a Jack-in-the-Box, and a Happy Meal are, right? Wink, wink.
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at campbellalexandra@hotmail.com
