Pretty Places

 Pretty Places

By Noel Laflin

May 17, 2010

           

     “This is the tree,” Tom said, as we stopped our walk one warm August afternoon and stood beneath a majestic old oak.  “I want my ashes here, right here.”

     I glanced down at the ground and noticed that there was not much barren earth beneath this behemoth.  As it stood in the middle of this quaint old park, the oak had become a focal point of the grounds and concrete terracing now boxed in the massive roots, surrounding the tree on all four sides.  It looked to be a fine resting spot for dewy-eyed lovers, old folks wanting to take a load off or maybe for children at play. The terracing was meant to sit, jump or stretch out upon. It did not look conducive for scattering ashes, however.

     “We’ve got a lot of cement here, Tommy,” I said.  “Where exactly do we put you … between the cracks?”  I continued, “You know, this place is full of magnificent old trees; how about one a little more off the beaten path; one with some decent soil beneath it?”  I gestured in several directions to beautiful canopies all about us.

     Tom scanned the park and then placed his left hand on the trunk of his chosen shade.  “No,” he replied.  “This is the spot. I have been here many times and the feeling is always the same. This tree is calling me.  Will you make it happen?”

     I moved over to stand next to my young friend placing one hand on the tree and with the other pulled Tom close.  “Yes,” I said quietly.  “We’ll do it here … I promise.”

     Tom died four months later on Christmas Eve.  He was thirty-five years old.

     Six of us gathered outside the park on an unusually warm Saturday morning in February of the following year.  Tom’s brother, Bob, and mother, Joyce, had brought the ashes.  I had made the long drive up to Ojai with my good friend, Larry.  Two other friends of Tom had also joined us.  I had never met them before but they had gotten to know him during the last year of his life, when he had started an AIDS advocacy group in Camarillo, the first of its kind for the conservative area.  They both looked upon Tom as their fallen friend and leader and wanted to pay homage today.  After introductions and hugs all around, brother Bob reached into his car and withdrew a small brown cardboard box. 

     “Lead on,” he said.

     I steered our small contingency across the park to the appointed oak.  Our party gathered in close.

     “This is the tree,” I whispered aloud.

     The others stopped to look up and admire the gnarled old lady.  It looked like it had just been pulled from a Tolkien novel, something straight out of Rivendell perhaps, and placed here in Ojai.  I half expected to see elves sitting in the branches above.  We all took in its height and breadth of trunk. We followed the immense base to where it disappeared into the flat of cement surrounding it.  We then looked around at the numerous folks strolling about the park on this beautiful sunny morning. 

     “Are you sure this is the right tree?” someone inquired.  “This looks to be a pretty popular spot … for an illegal burial.”

     “Just where are we supposed to spread the ashes?” someone else asked in a hushed tone smiling at a couple strolling past us arm-in-arm.  “There’s no dirt around the damn thing,” they whispered.   “What’s up with all this cement anyway?”

     “Look,” I said, “I did not choose the place.  You know Tom; he said this tree called to him.  Although I did suggest otherwise, he was quite adamant about wanting to be here … right here, he said.  I gave him my word that I would honor that request.”

     We were suddenly a grim group.

     “Well,” Joyce said, “if that’s what my boy wanted then that’s what he gets.  Let’s start digging.”  And with that, we scurried about for twigs and small branches …anything that might scrape some dirt from between the cracks of the cement.  I dug out a small pocket knife, casually sat myself down on the edge of the concrete and got to work.  It was slow going. 

     The six of us must have looked a bit strange to passersby as we scattered about the old oak scratching dirt out of the cracks of the terracing.  We tried to be nonchalant but I have my doubts as to how that really must have looked.  But, no one stopped to stare, let alone inquire as to what we were doing.  Thus, we labored away.

     By the end of twenty minutes, we gathered to discuss our progress.

     “At this rate,” brother Bob said, “we’ll be here till Tuesday.” 

     “I’m getting a blister,” chimed in one of Tom’s two other pals.

     “You know,” someone said, “even if we get the ashes into these cracks, they are going to stick out like a sore thumb; the color difference and all.  We just can’t dig deep enough to properly bury them.  And if we just sweep them around this cement there is no place for them to go really.”

     We all had been thinking similar thoughts.

     “I’m getting pretty thirsty,” Joyce lamented. 

     “Let’s take a break,” I suggested.  “There’s a coffee place across the street.  We’ll get something to drink and enjoy it back here while we figure out plan B.”  So, off we traipsed in search of sustenance; hot and iced coffees, tea, lemonade and latte.

     By the time we returned with beverages in hand, a plan had surfaced. 

     We would all take small fistfuls of Tom’s remains from the brown box, go back to our tiny trenches and dissolve each handful with the help of our drinks being poured sparingly down each narrow crack.  We would then cover the muddy ash with the thin soil we had dislodged in the first place.  Brilliant! 

     And so we started round two, casually strolling over to brother Bob and the box, reaching in and returning with bits of Tom. When no park goers were nearby we once again took up various locations beneath the tree and let free from our hands small amounts of granululated ash and bone into the crevices.   We must have then looked quite mad as we proceeded to pour small amounts of coffee, tea, lemonade and latte into those narrow lanes.   We then followed that with the brushing of any convenient dirt or handy leaf over the muddy evidence.  Within thirty minutes we had parted with only about a quarter of Tom.

     Brother Bob hefted the box in one hand. 

     “We still have a ways to go,” he said.

     We dusted our hands against our trousers as we pondered our situation.

     “I think Tom would be happy with what we have accomplished so far,” I said.  “And we have kept our promise that he would rest under this tree,” I continued.  “But you know, Tommy had other favorite haunts in this world too.  I think he might be pleased if we left him in some other pretty places; say the Arboretum or the Huntington or even in my garden, a place he originally designed.  These are all beautiful locations and were dear to him.”  I let the thought linger there.

     Larry was the first to comment:  “I will take him to the first two.  I don’t live that far from either one.  I will find someplace nice to let him rest.”

     “And I will put my portion of Tom beneath the big rock in my yard.  Tom and I spent an entire evening moving it there ten years ago.  He always referred to it as Spirit Rock.  He said it ‘called to him’, much as this tree did apparently.   What do you guys say?”

     “Well, I’m all for it,” said Joyce. 

     “I think he’d take the deal if he were here,” concluded brother Bob.

     The two newest friends nodded in agreement.

     And with that, we carefully divided the remaining contents of the small brown cardboard box into three equal portions. 

     “I say we refresh our drinks and actually consume them this time,” Joyce proposed.  We nonchalantly gave one last glace about, making sure we had concealed our doings properly, picked up our empty cups along with the remains of the day and strolled across the park once more.  We toasted Tom one last time before we drove our separate ways.

     Much later that evening, as the sun was quickly setting, I dug my hand beneath the giant rock in my garden and pulled forth rich dark soil.  I took the plastic bag from my coat pocket and gently poured the few handfuls of ash into my hand and placed it far into the tunnel I had dug under the boulder.  The old cat, Zane, whom I had given to Tom one Christmas when the grey feline was but a kitten, bore witness to my labor of love.  I patted the soil back into place and gave Zane a scratch to the ear.  He lowered his head and purred his approval.

     Some weeks later, Larry called to inform me that he had seen to his end of the bargain also.   He had taken his two toddlers and wandered the grounds of two very lovely locations.  At one beautiful garden, beneath a smiling stone Buddha, he quietly took out a small plastic bag and shook the contents about the base of the statue and into the foliage.  He then moved on to another of Tom’s favorite hangouts and did likewise with the shaking of another small plastic bag.  This final resting spot was flanked by a beautiful waterfall.  Larry then strolled about the grounds, with kids in tow, taking in the beauty of the flowers, trees and rocks along with the recent memory of some other very pretty places.

                                                                           

Tom Pistulka - circa early 60's