The Perfect Sendoff

When we left the Island earlier this year our friend Jo was on the final leg of her journey. She knew it, welcomed it. And we knew that we would not see her beautiful face, hear her delightful southern speech, feel her warm love when we returned. Her parting words were," I do not know what is beyond... but wherever you are, my spirit will be around you." Connie wept until we hit the mainland, primarily out of gratitude that life had placed this person in our path. Jo breathed her last breath on June 12th, in the early dawn, the morning after our daughter 's wedding....in the arms of her daughter, Tara.

Jo was very much about structure... that is, she would instruct those around her as to her specific preferences and desires... this is about as gently as I can state that, like many mothers, she wished to control the events and the people in her life. I found myself involved in events in which I would never have previously participated, things like poetry readings...and tea parties... because Jo requested it. Whenever she called upon me for assistance, whether it was to repair an appliance or fix her computer or attend a gathering on her front deck on the dunes of East Beach, I gladly complied. Perhaps it was because I so missed my own mother's mothering. Perhaps it was because she would tell me how "brilliant" I was when I changed a battery in a clock or reset a tripped breaker on her garbage disposal. "You are a genius!" she would gush with her southern charm... and I would believe her.

David was also caught in the web of her charm. His love and kindness toward Jo and his incredible support allowed Jo to orchestrate her own end days, remaining in her beach house, saying her final good-byes, attending to her final wishes... describing him as a "good friend" is the ultimate understatement. She gave him her last instructions... no memorial service... scatter her ashes across the beach and in the ocean in front of the cottage where she loved to walk, where her husband Bill's ashes had been scattered. Knowing David as well as she did, she must have realized that her limited, though pointed, instructions left him maximum flexibility in execution. And the wheels began to turn...

I was driving a 45 foot box truck hauling 10 tons of lobster bait down the Orr's Island peninsula when David called toward the end of a long summer in Maine. He had hatched a plan and was seeking a fellow conspirator. The date was to be 11/11/11, the day of his 60th birthday. The place was to be among the dunes at Jo's beach house. The time was to be shortly after sunset. My part was to stop in South Carolina on our way South and purchase a sleeve of fireworks, specifically mortars. These were to be the delivery system by which David intended to fulfill Jo's final request. Would Jo have approved? Well... she hadn't specifically detailed the method of "spreading her ashes"... and she so enjoyed an outrageous, joyous approach to life... Yeah, I'm in David.

We were approaching the South Carolina-Georgia border when I pulled off the highway and into the truck stop. The fireworks shop looked like a bunker; spartan, square, windowless. Inside the single front door, the room was packed with all manner of exotic explosives. It was deserted of people with the exception of the man behind the counter. He sported a polished, petrified wood bolo tie around his neck, and gaudy gold rings on his fingers. "Can I help yew?" he drawled. Yup, we were back.

I explained what we were about and, without missing a beat ,he directed me to the shelf with the largest commercially available mortars in the state. It included a fiberglass mortar tube and six fused, elongated charges around the size of my fist. The clerk offered,"Sorry about yer friend. These should work jes fine... You wouldn't be military would you? We offer a discount." No. unfortunately... "Are you a truck driver?" I grinned and produced my CDL, "Why, yes I am." I spoke proudly and pocketed the cash discount.

This was not the first time David had messed with high explosives. Still, I chose to not be present for the deconstruction and reconstruction of the mortar shells, adding the ashes in the space around the explosive charges. As Kenny Rogers sings "Gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em..."

We gathered in Jo's cottage, sat on the floor, and told Jo stories. Her spirit was palpable in this place. Outside, a butterfly landed on Connie's outstretched fingers. She was "around us" indeed. The full moon was casting a shimmering highway of light across the ocean as David dug the four plastic PVC mortars into the sand. All four were connected with a common fuse, which David carefully lit and hastily retreated to a safe place to watch Jo's earthly remain soar into the starry sky. Four streaks of flame blasted into the heavens over the beach and exploded in reds and greens and blues in echoing roars of thunder.

We stood stunned by both the pyrotechnics display and the ensuing quiet and by the descending cloud drifting out to sea. As it passed through the moon-glow, a million silver rays of light erupted, but for an instant, and then it was gone, leaving us wondering if we had really seen what we had seen. It was the perfect sendoff...

The Island is not the same without her presence. Some of it's charm is gone. But there is no sadness in the place where she was. Only gratitude...