At the end of June just before the Fourth of July weekend Cynthia came over to Marquette from the Soo and we headed up to the Club to bury my mother’s ashes on the beach near Huron Point which was her request. I had told Cynthia most of the story on the phone but she seemed not to want to know specific details.
“I didn’t want him to outlive mother. He made it only by five days,” she said.
There was a new gatekeeper at the Club and we were momentarily stymied when he said that our father had let his membership lapse, but then Cynthia gave my mother’s maiden name and explained our mission. Her relatives were still active members and we were waved through.
It was nearly a mile to the Huron Point from our parking place on the log road. I didn’t have bug dope for the mosquitoes and blackflies. Cynthia was lucky because she could still run like the wind and I couldn’t do much more than a fast trot. It would have been nice if it had been a beautiful day but it wasn’t. There was a cool north wind and Lake Superior was rumpled with whitecaps. We knelt and dug a hole with our hands. We opened the urn and poured in the ashes with their small bone fragments. Water from the lake quickly seeped through the sand into the hole and we paused to watch as if we were still children. Of course as with anyone else there was still some of the child in our souls if not our bodies.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Amy Gibbs and also Professor Richard Eathorne of Northern Michigan University for their research help and advice.
I would also like to thank Joseph Bednarik for his perceptive efforts on behalf of this novel.
Jim Harrison, True North
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