They were very kind to me at airport security. I reported I had both a death certificate and "human remains" that I was carrying onboard. I also had some homeopathic medicines that could not go through the x-ray machine-incidental and ordinary compared to my never, ever in my life having carried a person's ashes on a plane after they had been stored in my closet for 6 weeks, hidden away from sight where I wouldn't be reminded what they really were.
I was escorted to a special area where I showed the box to the TSA officer. He read the label, "certified to be the remains of Kenneth H. Jones, died on 3/30/10 and cremated on 4/13/10." He took no further steps to examine the box and didn't require me to give him the death certificate either. He wished me well and sent me on my way. The rules say you must carry human remains onboard, you cannot stow them in your check-on bags. Well this made my carry-on bag so heavy I could not lift it to the compartment above my seat. Some nice person helped me both outgoing and landing.
Just like Lincoln's funeral train bearing the president's body from town to town, we bore my husband Kenny's ashes and picture albums, letters from and to Kenny's parents and sisters, memorabilia from their beloved Island House and a gallon of tears from Los Angeles to Basking Ridge to Bay Head, to West Point Island where they were finally released into Barnegat Bay. We were to make many stops so friends, his family and mine and admirers could hear the stories, look at his history in pictures, say their own prayers, and celebrate his life and how much he was loved by so many.
Ken's sister Genia, met me at baggage claim and took me to her house where I spent the night. The next day we drove to her summer home on the Jersey shore where her two sisters and their families had already been resting and preparing for the memorial which would be just one day later. We were going to set sail on the family's beloved sneakbox sailboat called the Frisky, spread his ashes out over the bay and head back to the yacht club where we would gather to go back to Genia's house for more stories, good food, and more stories and more good food.
There was no wind that morning when we awoke. This could be a problem with four women in a little twelve foot, flat-bottomed sailboat. However by the time we reached the yacht club and Genia gathered us under the flagpole and Gordon delivered the poignant poem about how "I am not here, don't mourn my body," the wind had kicked up a bit. This was good news. However in the time it took us to walk out to the very end of the dock where the Frisky was tied, the wind was all but howling. We got in the boat anyway, stowed the box of ashes under the stern and my job was to sit tight with my life vest on and only do exactly what I was told to do by any of Kenny's three lovely sisters who were the Frisky's crew.
Trouble brewed when we backed out of the slip and almost capsized. With a couple of swift moves, the girls had righted the boat and corrected a little too much, causing some gallons of water to rush over the side into the boat. Genia exclaimed at this point that we're not going to make it. With another maneuver the boat sideswiped another boat whose motor had been lifted out of the water such that it dragged across the Frisky's newly refinished deck causing a nice gash in the varnished surface. At this point, it was all we could do to point the boat back into the slip and get ourselves and the box of ashes off the Frisky and onto dry land again. As we each were given a hand or two to hoist ourselves onto the dock, dear and sweet long-time neighbor, Sal Toucci offered his dock -- why don't we release the ashes from his dock?
Here comes the rub. No one in the family wanted to go anywhere near what was their beloved Island House property (next to dear and sweet, longtime neighbor, Sal Toucci's dock). Having been in the family for seventy-five years where the entire Jones/Newman family spent every summer of their lives, it was sold in 2006 upon the death of their dear father, and demolished by the new owners to make way for a giant summer home that spanned both lots from side to side and almost back to front. But we knew releasing Kenny's ashes from Sal Toucci's dock was the closest to Kenny's wishes-he had wanted his ashes spread over the bay behind the Island House-an impossibility-but Sal's-that was entirely doable. We laughed and sensed that Kenny was orchestrating the whole day to come as close to the outcome he wanted as possible.
His sisters and I walked out to the end of the dock, sat down and began taking the box out of the woven bag in which I was carrying it. But the bag, having gotten wet, was now shrinking around the box making it really difficult to handle. We managed to free the box but I just couldn't open it. I began to cry. I asked if we could say a few words before letting the ashes go-seemed so unceremonious to just pour them out into the water. So I think it was Debbie who began reciting the 23rd Psalm. This tender and plaintiff prayer to God, this exclamation of peace and love and acceptance and knowing God's presence and protection made me hold on to the box even more tightly and sob even more loudly. I could hear us all breaking. I felt their hands on my hands and one on my back. I was comforted by their presence, knowing we all missed him and loved him and laughed with him and were carrying out his wishes whether we planned to or not. Finally I opened the box and there was yet another step inside-to cut open the tie that held the inner plastic bag shut. Bill came close with his pocket knife to cut open the tie and we held the bag close to the water and let the ashes go downwind. Surprisingly they dissolved into the water instantly.
Somehow this was meaningful to me. They disappeared in a flash, just like his last breath did.
We all took a moment to walk over to the new house, take a look at it and admire it. Sal said they were nice people, only there from June to September-nice people. So Kenny's plan not only honored their once-beloved Island House, but if I dare interpret the intention of the day, it also included making some kind of peace with it being gone and a new era opening up for family and friends in ways yet to be revealed. And this stop on the funeral train was complete. It was time to move on to the celebration.
For more heartwarming stories about Ken's journey through melanoma cancer and his final days of experiencing the joy of knowing he was going to his true home, Carol's accounts of the miracles of caring for a spouse nearing death, and the days and months of honoring his life after he passed, visit http://www.kennethhjones.wordpress.com