ma's Ashes

Ma’s Ashes

            Ma, which is what we, my siblings and I, called my mother. Maybe that’s because her family called their mother Ma. Also known as Esther, Ma was born and lived most of her life in Chicago within about 10 square miles.  She talked (she was a great talker) and walked (almost every day of her life) danced (Charleston, swing) in the roaring twenties and on through her golden years. She got up and did the Charleston with the Little People, a dance group on her 90^th birthday. She was married twice and raised four children in the thirties and then had my little brother, Harry, in the 50s.            

            My mother always tried to do the right thing by her kids.  I can still hear her saying: “Let your conscience be your guide” and “If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t say anything.”

            Ma died in May 2007, a month after her 100^th birthday . I have a portion of her ashes in a nice little wooden cigar box on a nightstand in my bedroom. And it was with some reluctance that my kids finally talked me into disposing of her remains somewhere over Puget Sound where we often took Ma on cruises in our old wooden boat.

            I am reluctant to let her ashes go because I still talk to my mother on a weekly basis.  But I guess I can continue to do that sans ashes. You might be surprised at what my mother tells me.  However, if I shut the box and turn off the light I think it gives her a little time to wind up for her next conversation.  After all, at her age she needs her beauty sleep.

            I was thinking about how I might approach the subject with my kids. Charlie once told me, “Take the box out on the boat in the middle of the bay.  One flush ought to do it.” (Those were the days before holding tanks and a slew of strict rules about pumping them out all nice and proper-like.)

            However, I don’t think flipping Ma’s Ashes over the side would shut her up completely. We couldn’t shut her up when she was alive, what makes us believe scattering her ashes from Port Orchard to Blake Island could turn off that constant chatter that was my mother?

            Maybe we could pay for a ride on one of those big cruise ships that moor in Seattle and dump her somewhere on the way to Alaska.  But then that would defeat the whole purpose of having Ma cremated in the first place so’s we could do it on the cheap. On the other hand, what would my mother think about the plan?

            Ma always wanted to take an ocean cruise and get dolled up for the Captain’s dinner. What a wonderful tribute that would be to a gal who not only loved to party, she could kick her heels up in the fox trot and shimmy ‘til the cows came home back in the day. Of course it loses something in ash mode. (More like kitty litter on rock and roll.)

            Okay, we’re standing on the aft deck the breeze going away from the ship and I am ready to sprinkle Ma’s Ashes into eternity.

            “Hold on there, Missy” a voice drifts upward from the cigar box.  “You aren’t going to just fling me overboard like so much garbage, are you. Shouldn’t there be a little ceremony here?  Maybe a drum roll?”

            “After all, I am—was—your mother!”

            “Gee.  You’re right Ma. We should make this a special time for you because this will probably be the last time we will be as close as we are now. You are thinking of maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing a rousing rendition of Amazing Grace?”

            “That would be nice! Better still: Harry Connick,Jr., singing “Only You. That young man is such a hunk!

            “Now let’s talk about refreshments.” Ma says. Food being her favorite subject!  “I’m, thinking some of those little Greek meatballs in the little grape leaves.  And how about the little wienies wrapped in pastry that June used to call pigs-in-the-blanket, only they really weren’t!”

            I paused for a moment, pen in mid air.  “What are you doing? “ she asks. “Are you writing this down?

            “Okay, now I get it!  You are writing in your blog about your dear departed mother! What did I always tell you when you kids were growing up: ‘If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t …!’ Well…?”

            Okay, she had me there. I am writing about my mother in my blog.  But not all the time, and not without great respect.  After all she is (was) my Mom. 

            The plans are in place for a great send off for Ma’s ashes.  I think she might like the attention and having a whiskey sour on a little table nearby would be a nice touch.  For ceremonial purposes only, of course.  See Ma? That was something nice, wasn’t it?

            Happy Mother’s Day, Ma! I hope there are some hunky angels in heaven.