October 2023

Our last big trip came right after my dad’s death in December 2022. Like bookends, our next big trip has begun shortly after his memorial, wake, and ash spreading.

It was a full weekend of events from Friday to Monday of the last weekend in August. I had a few things to do in preparation, but the bulk of the planning fell squarely on my big brother’s shoulders.

My father was quite possibly the most organized person on earth, and he made it look easy. He didn’t just shove things into boxes and file cabinets, he had a system.

We were on the phone once, for example, when I casually asked if he had gotten a Yellow Fever shot before visiting Africa. Never mind that this trip had taken place some 50 odd years earlier.

Dad merely replied, “Let me see.” He put the phone down, and returned in less than two minutes to say that not only had he and my mom gotten Yellow Fever shots, but he knew the exact date because he was holding their vaccine info in his hands after quickly retrieving it from his file cabinets.

Dad’s organization gene was passed along to each of his three kids, although it manifests in each of us differently. My bro, a retired Air Force Colonel, is a master of spread sheets and pdf files. My sister, on the other hand, relies on Day Planners and handwritten lists.

Meanwhile, I’m an odd combo of digital and analog. Not only do I keep a digital journal, but I have a handwritten one, too. (There’s something about writing by hand that I find quite grounding.)

Since my brother handled the memorial weekend, it ran with the efficiency of a military operation and featured spreadsheets with key info highlighted on printed copies. He did an amazing job.

The weekend officially started on Friday, when the closest relatives met for lunch at the Black Cat in Bellingham. Some of my cousins came all the way from South Carolina and Alaska. (Dad’s estate paid for everyone’s travel, which was a very thoughtful touch.)

As we took our seats, my brother handed out updated spreadsheets along with a 40 page memoir that my dad had secretly written. I was so surprised!

When Dad turned 70, I started pestering him to write up a memoir. He was an excellent storyteller and I didn’t want all his stories to die with him.

At one point, Dad told me he’d started a memoir, but as the years passed, I heard less and less about it. After his bout with covid, I quit asking because I didn’t want him to feel burdened. I’m so grateful that he wrote up this memoir. What a fantastic gift to the family.

After a tasty lunch, we took a short drive down to Bellingham’s port where we boarded a ship my brother chartered to take us out to the west side of Lummi Island.

The weather for this sunset cruise could not have been better. What started as a choppy ride transformed into glassy water just in time for the captain to shut the engines and allow us to drift in full view of the house my father designed and built on Lummi Island. (I share a poem about this house in another post here, if you’re interested.)

I’ve spent so many wonderful evenings sitting out on the deck of that house, sipping gin and tonics and nibbling on snacks while watching yet another glorious sun set. I’ve even seen the northern lights from that porch.

This time, however, we were floating out in the sunset, looking back, looking up, remembering.

As the boat slowly drifted, we took turns saying our farewells and dropping bags filled with Dad’s ashes into the water. The bags sank immediately, much to my relief. (I had worried they’d float ashore and be found by random people.)

The bags were made of biodegradable cloth printed with the Cameron plaid, since that’s the Scottish clan my dad’s ancestors belonged to.

Next, we took turns saying our final farewells to Dad while tossing dahlias and roses from my sister’s garden. After he and Mom moved into assisted living and Dad could no longer garden, my sister frequently cheered him with bouquets. It was the perfect finale to our ritual.

I can’t remember exactly what I said in my farewells. I remember thanking Dad for being such a great example, and that I loved him and missed him.

It was a beautiful experience and a perfect send off with close family.
We even saw dolphins at one point.

The trail of flowers gently bobbing as they floated off into the pink and gold water was an enchanting sight.

Once ashore, we checked into our rooms at the Casino. My brother and sister in law invited everyone to their room for gin and tonics, featuring leftover gin from Dad’s abundant liquor cabinet.

This ended up being a challenge because the hotel key cards would only let you visit the floor you were staying on, and our family was scattered all over.

By the time I finally made it to the cocktail party, I really needed a g&t.

After the others went to bed, my sister and I found a nook in the lobby where we could chat. We needed to decompress, and have a few giggles. At one point, she started speaking in a goofy made up language, it was just good old fashioned sister silliness.

The next morning we took the ferry to Lummi Island, the cozy community my parents became part of after they retired in the 90s.

There was time before Dad’s wake for a group of us to see Mom and Dad’s old house for the last time. The new owners weren’t there, so we went out onto the deck with one of the neighbors and peeked in to see how they’d redecorated. Must confess, it looks nice.

After drinking in the view, we posed for a final photo out on the deck. It felt surreal bidding farewell to the house Dad built.

The next day, my dad’s wake was held at the local grange hall on Lummi Island. My brother had name tags for everyone who rsvp’d. I found mine, and started greeting new arrivals.

Dad was well loved so the place was packed. As I introduced myself to yet another couple, I suddenly blurted, “There’s Dad!”

No sooner had the words come out of me than I felt quite embarrassed. The people I was speaking to looked startled, and I felt startled, too. The words had simply come out of me with zero forethought.

In that instant, I actually saw my dad walking into a side entrance. He wore jeans and short sleeve button down shirt that I used to call his graph paper shirt.

He looked to be in his mid 50s, the age he was when he built the house on Lummi. His hair was salt and pepper, he had a deep tan, and both legs.

I quickly scanned the room to see if anyone in that area resembled Dad, but no. There was a chubby lady and a short man in shorts, vest, and ballcap, but no one who I could have mistaken for my dad.

My sister in law was there when I blurted, “There’s Dad!” She said she felt tingly when I said it, and could feel his presence.

All I can say is that from that point on, it felt to me as if Dad was there with us. It swept away my lingering grief and made it easier to speak when my time came.

Aside from the ash bags, my other contributions to the memorial weekend was a slide show of Dad photos and a playlist of songs he loved. (The slideshow played on a loop during the wake, so there was no narration.)

The music played in the background, and was barely heard, alas. It seemed like a good idea in theory, but didn’t really work in practice.

That said, I bawled my eyes out creating the Dad Music Playlist, so it served as a cathartic act for me.

All in all, my dad’s memorial weekend extravaganza was a wonderful tribute to his life.Læs mere