I found myself unexpectedly taking a trip with Dad for the first time since my childhood. Back then, Mom, Dad and we four kids piled into the sedan for two-week action-packed road trips.
This time, though, Dad and I set out alone. And under starkly different conditions. You see, he traveled in my pocket. His ashes, that is.
A lot of people get queasy about subjects like this. Believe me, I used to, too. But traveling with Dad changed all that.
His decision to be cremated took me by surprise. As a United Methodist minister, my father conducted more funerals than most hearts could bear. Perhaps that's why every time he returned home from a cemetery he reminded me that he wanted to be buried in a lustrous, cherry wood casket with plush silk lining.
He changed his mind, though, when he toured the tombs of ancient Egypt's great pharaohs. Having one's lifeless body take up space in our populous world suddenly seemed irresponsible to him. As soon as he got home, he revised his will stating he wanted to be cremated.
When he died, we four daughters fulfilled his wish but faced the quandary of what to do with his ashes. That was the one instruction he failed to stipulate.
Initially we thought of dividing up the ashes into four urns — one for each of us. But as the conversation ensued, our true feelings came out. My oldest sister, Suzanne, really didn't want any of the ashes. And neither did I.
My memories of Dad were held in my heart and mind: my childhood eagerness to keep pace with his long-legged strides when we walked together; my pride when he decided at age 62 to become a stockbroker and succeeded; my joy when he married my husband and me on a beach in Florida.
During his final days, I spent loving last moments with him. We had already said good-bye.
"I'll take the ashes," my sister, Bonnie, who lives in Switzerland offered. She'd scatter them on Lake Geneva where Dad had spent countless happy hours riding from shore to shore on excursion boats.
Then my younger sister, Debby, chimed in that she'd like to take some to bury in their bountiful garden.
Settled. Half would go to Switzerland and half to Louisiana.
A year later, Bonnie surprised me with a trans-Atlantic call three weeks before my trip to China.
"You know how Dad loved to travel," she began in that voice that set off warning bells in my mind. As the conversation progressed, she revealed that his ashes were still in the urn.
"If I sent you some of his ashes, would you scatter them at the Great Wall?" she asked.
My silence filled the sound waves.
"He'd love that, wouldn't he?" she added. My heart told me yes, but my mind held me back.
Grasping for anything that might convince her that it couldn't be done, I replied, "Chinese customs will think I'm smuggling cocaine! You don't want me jailed in one of their prisons, do you?"
"There's nothing to worry about," she tried to assure me. "If they ask any questions, just tell them it's your ancestor. They'll understand that."
Knowing that Bonnie would have a priceless response to every objection, my mind joined my heart and said yes.
A week before my departure, she called again — this time to tell me that she was just then mailing a packet of ashes and was concerned it wouldn't get to me in time. Would I ask Debby to send ashes from her urn?
Bewildered, I asked, "You mean she still has hers, too?"
The package from Debby arrived the day before my flight to Beijing.
Four days and half a globe later, I charged up the steps of the Great Wall of China as quickly as the altitude and steep grade would let me. Where, I wondered, could I scatter Dad's ashes with reverence and privacy? People were everywhere. Scores of tourists scaled ramps and stairs. Elderly Chinese vendors rasped "post cards!" Children climbed atop camels for photos.
By the time I reached the end of the reconstructed wall, my quick pace had distanced me from the crowds. Here's an appropriate spot, I thought. The ruins stretched as far as I could see. "Strolling" the wall's 2,000 miles, Dad would be able to visit some of the most remote parts of China.
After wishing him a delightful journey, I tossed a palmful of his remains over the wall only to have a breeze whip them back into my face. Bits of ashes clouded my eyes, lodged between my teeth and clogged my nostrils. Powdery flecks dusted my forest green turtleneck. Was Dad teasing me?
I turned a different direction and again tried to scatter some ashes. Again they coated me.
One palmful remained. As I threw the ashes skyward, they tickled my face but then danced away in the breeze without turning back. I blew a bon voyage kiss to Dad, thanking him for his companionship on this last trip together.
When I arrived home, a brown padded envelope covered with Swiss stamps poked out of the stack of accumulated mail. Inside were several Ziplock bags of Dad's ashes.
Where would you like to go this time, Dad?
