Paying homage to Angela’s ashes

I rarely write about things I haven’t lived through myself. It’s too easy to get the facts wrong when relating the experiences of others, and when I get facts wrong, I like it to be on purpose.

But every so often I’ll hear a story so good I just have to share it. Like the one I received yesterday in an email from my nephew, Justin.

Justin’s a good kid and an honest one. I yelled at him once when he was making a fuss at a movie theater, but that was over 25 years ago, when he was six or seven, and I’m sure he’s forgiven me for that by now. So I think I can trust in the veracity of his tale.

I’m changing the names and a few locations, to – as Jack Webb might say – protect the innocent.

Everyone was sad when Grandma Angela died two years ago. She had been a great mother, grandmother and friend to many. It was generally agreed upon that she would be missed. The funeral was held, family mourned, people moved on.

Angela’s ashes were left in the care of her eldest daughter, Nadine. Nadine knew Angela’s wishes were that her ashes be scattered around the family’s lakefront property near Marquette in the Upper Peninsula, but as it was late October and the property over eight hours north, Nadine figured she would take care of that detail when the weather warmed.

The months went by; winter turned to spring, spring to summer, then autumn, then winter again. Meanwhile, Angela’s ashes maintained their place on the mantle over the fireplace.

When summer finally rolled around again, the family decided it was time to honor grandma’s wishes. A trip to the property up north was planned and everyone got in on the act. Uncles, cousins, sons and daughters; everyone wanted to be a part of Angela’s final farewell.

Someone came up with the idea of a memorial garden. Angela’s ashes would be tilled into the fertile soil, flowers planted, some sort of engraving installed. It would be a fitting testament to a woman who had touched so many lives.

The excitement grew as trip day neared. This would not be a solemn occasion only, but a chance for Angela’s friends and family to gather together and enjoy one another’s company; to raise a toast to kinsfolk, lineage, and the tenacity of familial blood. It would be a reunion, vacation and memorial all rolled into one.

Trip day came and the clan gathered at Nadine’s house. Everyone in attendance brought gardening equipment and a careful inventory was taken; spades, rakes, hoes? Check, check, check. Flower seeds? Check. Watering cans, fertilizer, nutrient-rich topsoil? Check, check and check.

The caravan moving north consisted of two mini-vans, a jeep, two sedans and a rusted pickup loaded down with gardening supplies.

Lakeside, family members dug, hoed and raked, breaking only once, around noon, for a family picnic. The tilling then continued into the afternoon, until, near dusk, the time finally came to lay Angela’s ashes to rest.

It was at this point that Nadine noticed one family member had not made the trip as planned.

Angela.

Grandma was still sitting on the mantle back home.

Maybe next summer.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273

Escalation happens naturally in yard wars

I fear I have made a powerful enemy. Well, maybe not all that powerful, but since I’m not particularly powerful myself, even a wimpy enemy is one more than I need. Also, my enemy lives next door, so it’ll be hard to avoid him as the summer drags on.

The only statement I can make in my defense is the same one I gave Sister Sulpichia when she caught me fighting on the playground back in fourth grade: He started it.

He did, too.

It was a week ago. My neighbor, who until this point seemed like a nice enough fella, yanked up a bunch of vines growing on MY side of the fence, the one that allegedly separates our two properties. Adding insult to injury, he tossed the debris back into my yard.

I have no idea why my neighbor did this. I know it’s not because he’s too lazy to clean it up himself. His own yard is clipped tighter and with more precision than a Marine recruit’s first military haircut. Every hedge is trimmed to a geometrical perfection that would bring tears to the eyes of Euclid. All he does all day, every day, is work in his yard, and it shows. His yard is a showcase.

I had liked the vines and was hoping they would prosper. Now, here they were lying in a tangled clump in my back yard.

At this point, I was faced with several choices. I could gather the debris and toss it in a yard waste bag; I could go next door and calmly ask why he had done such a thing; I could mow over the dying vines, pretend nothing had happened, and live out my days quietly and free of the aggravation a confrontation would almost certainly create. There were, in fact, many ways I could handle the problem like a mature, intelligent adult.

Fat chance.

I threw the crippled vines over the fence again, back onto my neighbor’s immaculate grass. Then I stomped back into my apartment to await developments.

I hadn’t long to wait. The next morning, the vines were back in my yard, a little deader now, brown leaves dropping away from the desiccated branches.

I considered hurtling them over the fence again, but, for once, I decided to think things through first. Throughout the day, I considered alternatives. Maybe I could leave the vines on my neighbor’s front porch. But wouldn’t he just put them back on MY porch? 

What would I do then? How far was I willing to take this?

I thought about bundling the vines together, setting them on fire, and tossing them through his front window. That’s probably against the law, but I plan to check, just to be sure.

I have seen the Godfather movies, “Scarface,” and several episodes of “The Sopranos.” So I’m obviously nobody to be trifled with, an expert on the manly art of conflict resolution.

If my neighbor’s not careful, he may wake one morning to find those vines in bed with him along with the head of a race horse. Or I may invite him to “say hello to my little friend.” In this case, my “little friend” is my son’s old paintball gun, but still, those things can sting! Or they would if I could figure out how to hook up the little compressed air tank thingy.

I could dig up one of my neighbor’s rose bushes and leave the deflowered corpse on the deck of his pontoon by the lake, just to show him what I’m capable of.

But I worry about how he would retaliate. Like I said, he seems nice enough. He seems reasonable. He seems friendly. Then again, so do I until someone throws yard waste on my lawn.

If this continues, how long will it be before we’re dousing each other’s oak trees in kerosene and setting them aflame? Do I really want both our yards looking like a demilitarized zone come September?

Well, no, I don’t. The sensible thing would be to take the high road, make amends, be mature, shake hands and forget about it.

But, well, he started it.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273

Say what you want to about Romney and Donnie and Marie, but I have a soft spot for Mormons

I read an article the other day, one of about 600,000 thus far written on the topic, regarding presidential candidate Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith; will it work against him or for him; will voters accept a Mormon president; will this, will that, blah, blah, blah. Who cares?

I know some folks live and die by this stuff, but personally, I feel about politics the same way I feel about “American Idol”; I know it exists, but the less I have to hear about it the better I like it. That goes double for the private lives of the politicians running; I just don’t care.

If this disinterest makes me a bad American, I can live with that.

The only reason the Mormon issue is of any interest at all to me is that I used to know some. Mormons, I mean. They weren’t Utah-Donnie-and-Marie-Temple-marrying Mormons, but rather members of the Reorganized Latter Day Saints church, an offshoot of the “regular” Mormons. (Though, if you ask an RLDS congregant, they’ll tell you the regular Mormons are an offshoot of them. Again, I could not possibly care less, even if doing so resulted in a lifetime supply of free beer.)

I don’t know much about Mitt Romney, but because of my previous experience with Mormons, I’m inclined to like him.

My Mormon encounter took place the summer following my 17th birthday. I was hitchhiking — with my parents’ permission, which now seems to me utterly insane and irresponsible — from Grand Rapids to Phoenix, Arizona. 

The entire trip wound up taking over two months, but I was only on my third or fourth day of travel when on a sunny Sunday morning I rolled into Independence, Missouri, home to the third largest pipe organ in the world and Galactic Central Point for the RLDS church.

Independence is a nice, little town, or was at the time; very Mayberry-esque; white-spired churches, neatly-trimmed lawns, litter-free avenues bereft of traffic jams. It seemed a friendly place.

No cops came running when I leaned my backpack against a small tree in the town square and set up my little camp stove to make lunch, Lipton Cup-a-Soup. It was all I had with me.

Water had begun to boil in my undersized aluminum sauce pan when church bells rang and, on the other side of the avenue, Mormons streamed out through the front door of a modest chapel. I made eye contact with a young, ginger-haired boy, maybe nine years old. I waved. He waved back, smiling lopsidedly from ear-to-ear.

A quick word to his mother and he shot across the street at full gallop.

“Hi,” he said, panting to a stop in front of my makeshift kitchen. “Are you camping?”

“Just fixing lunch,” I said.

“Y’wanna have lunch with us?” he asked.

Now, I had been on the road only four or five days by this time, but it was the height of summer and I hadn’t had a shower in nearly a week. No one would mistake me for a rose.

“Mmm…maybe you’d better ask your mom first,” I said, assuming the invitation would be rescinded by the management.

It wasn’t. Instead the whole Smith family (not related to the church’s founder, Joseph Smith) came over to my campsite and insisted I join them at their home for Sunday dinner.

Mom, it turned out, had grown up in England and was quite possibly the worst cook in the civilized world. Despite this, I wound up staying at their home for over a week. 

I wanted to leave, and tried to every morning. And every morning the Smiths would convince me to stay just one day longer. I helped Rory, their red-headed, Huckleberry Finn son, with his paper route every afternoon. I mowed the yard. But mostly, I just hung around Independence, taking in the sites, enjoying the hospitality.

By the time the Smiths finally decided to let me mosey on down the road, we were like family. Mrs. Smith filled my backpack with food, Mr. Smith snuck a couple twenties into my wallet and they drove me a hundred miles further along toward Phoenix.

Mrs. Smith cried when they dropped me off, saying she would worry for me every day until I arrived safely home. I wasn’t sure whether she was talking about my home in Grand Rapids, or the Smith residence.

I have no idea if the Smiths were typical Mormons, but I can’t help but think more fondly of Mitt Romney because of his affiliation. Maybe if he’s elected, he’ll let me stay at the White House next time I’m hitching through Washington.

I hope the First Lady can cook.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 548-8273