The funeral

My dad didn’t want a funeral.  He didn’t want a viewing, a visitation, or any other formal gathering that would bring people together to mourn him.  Although he respected the ceremony of funerals in general and certainly attended many in his life, it was no secret that this was not something he wanted for himself.  Further, my dad did not want to be buried or to have a headstone or other placeholder to mark his existence.  One cremation please, and that’ll be everything, thanks. 

It’s a big decision, a bold gesture, although it is becoming the new trend in deaths, apparently.  Despite this, I can tell you that it makes it very hard on the people left behind who may not have the closure that it turns out is critical to moving on. 

I respected my father’s wishes and upheld them as best I could.  I kept a brave face and made the arrangements with the funeral home to carry out my father’s instructions.  I drove home with the box of my father’s ashes in my car, sealed in a plastic box and protected in a fabric bag, not unlike the old Crown Royal bags (my father would have loved this). 

My dad never specified anything past the cremation part, so I made up the rest according to what I thought he would have wanted.  So, James and I bundled ourselves and 3-year old Madeleine into the car and we headed up north (way up north) to scatter his ashes.  Quick aside – you know how carefully you drive with your children in the car?  That’s nothing compared to how carefully you drive with your parent's ashes in the car.  

The three (four?) of us made stops in Coldwater, Sault Ste. Marie, Old Woman Bay, Wawa, Chapleau and Timmins, leaving some of my dad’s ashes in each place.  Our time at Old Woman Bay was especially poignant, as I have many memories of my family picnicking and playing on the beach there over the years.  There is nothing that illuminates the importance of living in the moment more than imagining your children scattering your ashes in the place where you are playing with them. 

Although it was early April, we drove through a blizzard between Wawa and Timmins, which closed the highways leading out of the city in all directions.  We lost visibility of the highway a few times and as we passed “closed for the season” signs on the fly-in fishing places along the desolate highway, I like to picture my Dad watching us, wondering where he went wrong to raise a daughter who would attempt such a crazy trip, “Sure kid, take my ashes north, but maybe wait until the summer?” 

So 18 months later, with 9-month old Stella along for the ride this time, we drove up to Cochrane and went just a little further to Wade Lake, where I spent many summers with my parents in a trailer by the lake while my dad worked.  This was the place that was the most special to my dad, and it truly is a journey to get there.  We couldn’t find it on a map (it comes up as “Wade Lake, Cochrane, Unorganized, North Part, ON”) and since we’d been without cell service for several hundred kilometres, we stopped into the local Canadian Tire, where someone drew us a little sketch with directions to Wade Lake (taking customer service to a whole new dimension). 

In this beautiful setting, I laid the last of my dad’s ashes to rest in a sunny spot among the trees, with an unparalleled view of the lake.  I was surprised to find that I finally was able to feel the closure that I needed, knowing that although I have no headstone to visit and no funeral card to hold, I have these beautiful places where my dad’s ashes are scattered that bring me peace. 

I did my best to make my dad proud.  There have been a few times when I questioned whether I did the right thing, whether I should have allowed our family and friends to come together to grieve my father.  Then I hear my dad’s voice at various points in my life jokingly threatening to go live the rest of his days “out in a shack in the bush”, and I am reminded that that truly would have been the last thing he would have wanted. 

My dad spent his adult life in the bush, working for Forestry Canada.  When I was little I used to tell people that my dad “fixed trees”, which I guess he did, if you think in more global terms.  He put his heart and spirit into his work, and was truly never happier than when he was in the middle of nowhere, collecting samples, analyzing results, making predictions and of course, hanging out with the trees.  We would drive up the highway to Wade Lake, and every now and then he would point out to a random tree (I swear, literally in the middle of nowhere) and say “See that tree?” and proceed to tell you a story about its history and its impact on his work. 

It’s been three years since I last saw you Dad, in that time I’ve learned more about you through photographs and the people and things you left behind.  I am proud to be your daughter.  You lived an incredibly vibrant life and I can only hope that I leave the kind of impression on my children that you did on me.  I think about you every day and although it’s getting a little easier to talk about you without tearing up, I still miss you so much.  I am sure the trees miss you too.  I believe that your spirit is somewhere out in a little shack in the bush, where your heart always was.