Spreading Ashes
Recently, I had a weird dream about life and death after a friend passed away.
For the record, I was an adult before I ever heard of cremation. Every funeral I ever attended had the body in an open casket so that friends could look in for one last time and mumble: “He looks just like he is sleeping.”
In the South, the casket was often in the family room and remained open 24/7 for visitation. It was the role of the men in the family to “sit up with the dead.” I can remember early 1961 when my Paw Paw Bradford’s body was in our living room while my brother and I slept in the adjoining room. Our 2-bedroom house had walls so thin, you could hear a mouse peeing on a cotton ball in the next room.
We could hear our granddad’s brothers sitting and smoking “roll your owns” around the casket all night long. Neither Bob nor me got a wink of sleep. Each sound sent us hiding under the covers and pillows.
It was later that we learned that some families chose cremation over embalming and what we called a “normal” funeral where our loved ones spent eternity at cemetaries at Blackground, Glendale, Shady Grove or Colbert Memorial Gardens. It just didn’t seem “normal” when visiting with Aunt Clezelle that she would take Uncle Willie’s ashes down from the mantle. Or sit them in the middle of the dining table, right next to the Tabasco and pepper sauce. The thought of accidentally using Uncle Willie instead of the sugar to sweeten the tea, made us drink it unsweetened.
I later learned that the ashes were often spread in places which were meaningful to the deceased. I have been associated with some of these “spreadings” and must admit that it’s often pretty emotional.
On a related subject, Coach Pat Dye chose to be buried in a shroud on his farm outside of Auburn in a grave, under his beloved oaks. It was his wish for his body to return to the soil and be part of the oaks like the ones at Toomer’s Corner in downtown Auburn.
This got me to thinking: where would You want your ashes spread? Some of this is serious while others are with tongue planted firmly in cheek.
For me, divide it up and spread a few ashes as follows:
Put a few behind our old house across from Colbert County High School in the area where I stuck a 20-penny nail in my eye. From this accident, I learned humility and thankfulness for my eyesight. While in that area of Leighton, put a few in the old rock gym, the Barn, where I came to love the game of basketball. Next, go out back and put a few on the old tennis courts where we played pick-up basketball til it turned dark each night.
Go across to the Bradford-Newman baseball field named after my Dad. Spread a few where the second baseman plays. It was there that I could see Heaven as well as my daddy sitting on the team bench, drenched in sweat and coaching his heart out for young guys who would run through a wall for him.
This next request would be a little unusual: leave a few on the home sideline at CT Manley football stadium. This is where I stood as a sub, more than as a starter. But, put more in the old locker room. Why? Because a football locker-room is where teams and friendships are made, especially when things aren’t perfect. I would like my ashes to float around in the dust inside those cinderblock walls forever.
Whoever is in charge, make sure my former players at Tanner High School carry out my desire for a few ashes be spread on the east goal line at Rip Swanner Field. My players and Rattler alumni will know the importance of that goalline. It has to do with 19 wins in 2 years, and our first playoff win ever. These were probably my favorite 2 years of coaching since it was my first head coaching job.
Go to Tuscaloosa and leave some in the courtyard at Bryant Hall athletic dorm where I oversaw 132 student-athletes in 1984-85. While on campus, sneak in and spread a few on the turf at Bryant-Denny. Play 4 songs while there: “Yea Alabama,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” “Dixieland Delight,” and finish it up with “Rammer Jammer.” Sing that last one til the cows come home.
Don’t inform Churchill Downs about this but at the next Kentucky Derby, when they start the parade to post and the U of L band cranks up “My Old Kentucky Home,” let a few fly over the track, right in front of section 112. Toast it all with a mint julep in one hand and a Cohiba in the other.
At the next St. Jude Trail Ride, spread a few in front of the stage as Dr. Jimmy Gardiner announces a record fund raising. Hopefully, I will live long enough to see the end of childhood cancer through the research at St. Jude. No child deserves to die in the dawn of their life.
If there are any left at this point, go behind the Boathouse Oyster Bar where my Destin Family gathers. Sing a gospel medley as loud as you can led by some of the greatest local musicians anywhere.
There were other considerations: at the next gathering of the “good ole boys” of Leighton at Sawgrass Plantation. Find a good jam session under a tree at a bluegrass festival. Put a few on the graves of Barbara, Mother and Daddy. Rub some on Dan, my Tennessee Walking horse.
By then I hope to be singing with the Angel Band.
“Amazing Grace How Sweet the Sound.”
I said it was a weird dream.