Last night, I sat in a lawn chair in the shop, hiding my sobbing from the world as I listened to Pearl Jam's "Man of the Hour". A simple sappy song made famous by Tim Burton's film, "Big Fish". Somehow I have always found the song to be a recognition to how much I would miss my father someday when he was gone, and the day is every day now. However, little did I know that today would be a new beginning, as with everyday.

Over the years I have developed a wall of obscurity against me and God; the he/she "it" thing that I place the label "God" upon, that controls my actions and ways, in my want to be schizoid terms of life. I drink a lot sometimes, and this helps add to the confusion and strain I put upon facing real issues. However, I have found much peace in my father's passing, with an equal amount of trouble and worry.

Last night I sat in the shop he built. Kind of a hide-away for him from all of his trouble and worry, I always knew it was to reflect the final touch of his dream of having a place large enough to call his own. He was a big man in stature, and needed a place to escape in his own mind and many great men before him have. I sat in the shop knowing that today we would scatter his final portion of his cremains underneath the weeping cherry tree.

Today was a good day for weather, food, family, my dog, and safety. For those wondering, I got over the raisin kick and finally sunk my teeth into some KFC, and potato salad. I even opened a few bottles of the new found family label; a black berry wine that I have had my brain trust looking into now since it was bottled two weeks ago. The wine held a very harsh, tart mouth feel before the bottling, so I decided to add some sugar. Somehow or another, and I have a good idea how, the fermentation had not properly been halted, so with little live and hungry yeast cells still kicking around in the carboy, I was just feeding it a four course meal by adding more sugar. The bad (but also unique discovery), was that the wine has been fermenting in the bottle for two weeks now. The good, higher alcohol content! Somehow, the harshness has left the stuff, but the tart is still there. Shit, I talk about this too much already. Getting back to the real story, I fed it to the straight lipped southern Baptist in the family, and I believe it caused everyone to have an even better time. Mission accomplished, but the battle waged on.

After everyone left, it was time to give my father his last funeral. We gathered around, my mother, sister with family, and I. We scattered the ashes of Bob around the tree, rose trellis, and flowers that surrounded the area. My sister’s kids noticed the excitement and wanted to do it to. They got to do their part around the tire swing my father put up for them just a few weeks before his sudden passing. I took a handful and simply said, “I’ll be back.”

I took off down the steep road leading to the river that surrounds the place, known as the Little Fisher’s. When I reached the bottom of the hill, I noticed how my hand pulsated. I could feel my heart in my hand so to say, with the blood rushing through my palm to fingers, then back up again. The same blood my father helped put there, fueling the flesh and bone which now held onto his remains. Strange I am sure, but also enlightening. I began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven”

The river rushed by with the rain from the night before.

“Hallowed be thy name”

I was passing the pit I had filled with rocks, like my Dad had told me to. The road had not grown too much from the cutting we did last August.

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done”

I was heading down the river trail to the open pasture, or “the bottom” as my Dad called it.

“On earth as it is in heaven”

I wanted the memory of my father to forever grace the few acres.

“Give us this day our daily bread”

A rabbit began to stir in my movement and showed itself to me as it hopped away gently. “Must be the Easter bunny” I thought to myself.

“And forgive us our trespasses…”

Something moved as I scattered the ashes along the fallen tree my father and I took half a day to cut up. A cotton-mouth slithered and turned, exposing no sign of kindness towards me. I hollered “Oh Jesus”, and increased the pace count.

“As we forgive those that trespass against us”

I really wanted a cigarette after seeing the snake.

“And lead us not to temptation”

But I had to get there before the dead little water booger’s brothers and sisters came wiggling between my toes, replacing my blood with their vile poison.

“But deliver us from evil”

Carefully watching my steps and muttering a few side prayers in tongues not known to be written (even by myself!), I continued on. Snakes are a great cause of fear and stress to me. I have always been afraid of being killed by one.

“For thine is the kingdom, and the glory forever. “



I made it. The field was even more beautiful than I had seen it early that day when I was collecting soil samples for my vine planting preparations. I opened my arms and commenced to saying a few words of thanks and let the ashes fly up in the air to meet the wind. I felt my father so close to me, and relieved to know that he was now at peace. I went to the river to wash the remaining cremations off of my hands, and felt as though all of the angst and aggression flowed away at the river’s current. I then soiled my hands with the dirt of the field, silent and humbled by all I had just witnessed.

I continued my trek back to the house to meet the family to regroup in the shop, where we were to give thanks and raise glasses in my father’s honor and all that he was and did. The trip still left one more surprise for me. As I walked up the short road I deemed the “Red Road”, and thought of how now it was my humble task to now soil my hands often with the ground that my father was now a part of, I heard a noise coming from draw to my left. “Am I going to see a deer on the ridge?” I wondered. No deer. “A squirrel maybe, putting on the usual show of chatter, making it seem as though he was three times his size” I again pondered. No. Then a spot of white caught my eye. “Is that my dog?” I called out? “YO!” This was not my dog at all. It was the white turkey! An omen to a hunter, as I have been told, the wild white turkey is not to be looked upon as dinner, but as a sign of good luck.

How is that for mysticism? A smile was across my face as I returned to the chaos of my sister’s kids, and the support of a nice cold bottle of champagne, the thought of my father finally at home on the farm fresh in my mind.