A Firm Promise (9)

A Firm Promise

[American troops come ashore in N. Africa, Nov. 1942, from assault landing
craft manned by Canadians in RCNVR and Combined Operations. IWM*]

Many of us know of friends or family members who made a significant mistake in the past that shapes or haunts them to this day. 'Such is life' my father would say. I made one while building a simple birdhouse in my basement that ultimately lead me to make a promise to my father. Fulfilling that promise opened doors I am passing through to this day, and, if I'm honest, and even live until I'm 105, I may look back on the mistake as one of the most remarkable, colourful events in my life.

It came 'right out of the blue. Sea blue. Navy blue'.

Not long after my father passed away I decided to build a box for his ashes (the size of a birdhouse, like one of the scores he once made himself) from century-old lumber used to construct the barn that stood behind my parents' house in Norwich. 'Rescued old lumber' is a more fitting term because the barn was partially torn down when I was notified and later arrived on the scene in my family's home town. That being said, I selected several significant boards, removed dozens of nails, then hand-sawed and painted six pieces in the basement of my house in London. In some pieces the whittled initials of my mother and siblings were present. (The initials I didn't find I carved myself to complete the 'family set').

[The barn that stood behind my family's house in Norwich]

I think Dad would have appreciated the home-grown features of the box for his remains, especially the addition of one of his own small paintings of a cardinal on the front. And, once the paint was dry, I'm sure I turned the completed project over in my hands a dozen times to admire its overall appearance before I began the last job, that is, filling it with his ashes.

I opened the tightly-sealed container from the funeral home with the help of a chisel and pulled out a heavy plastic bag of deep gray ash. I opened it gingerly, took a very curious look at its contents, lifted it slowly, tilted an open edge toward my bird box and began to pour. Within seconds I knew I was in trouble. There was far more ash in the bag than space inside the box.

And though initially I felt embarrassed by my mistake ("Gordie, did you measure and compare the volume of each container?" "No, I just guessed"), the feeling quickly passed. I was overwhelmed by another realization, one that felt completely perfect in nature.

I blurted a few words aloud. "Well, I guess you're going to get buried at sea after all, Dad."

I didn't know then how his wish would be fulfilled but I knew my words had been more than a reaction. They had formed a firm promise to my father. Somehow I would get his ashes to the sea.

I tightly sealed the painted box with as much of his remains as it would hold. It was ready for burial and looked pretty close to perfect.

And what about the plastic container with the remainder of his ashes? I hid it inside my wife's old canning pot, placed the pot's lid gently on top and returned the ensemble to a basement shelf. There the ashes remained - unknown to the rest of my family - until 'a grand plan' crystalized inside my head.

And for those who are counting, seven years went by.

[At burial site: Jane, Gordon, Dale, Kim, Liane. Spring, 2003]

Wartime Companions in Combined Operations

End of Duty, Esquimalt, Vancouver Island, Summer of 1945

Back, L-R. Don Westbrook, Chuck Rose, Joe Spencer

Front, L-R. Joe Watson, Doug Harrison, Art Warrick

Link to Faint Footsteps, WW2 (8)

*Photo credit Imperial War Museum, UK

Unattributed Photos by GH