“She must know Rick ‘The Model’ Martel… probably Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine, too.”
At least that’s what I figured.
After all, when my sister would put me in the Boston Crab or the Figure Four Leglock when we were younger, she would apply it with excellence of execution.
She had to have known them. Faced them. Won. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had been trained by Stu Hart out in Alberta.
Probably not New Jack, though.
We had standards. Our childhood submission matches never drifted into flaming table territory.
Early this summer, my sister passed away… and I still retain the hairline fractures on my shins and knees.
After my sister “went home” (as we commonly say), our family and friends gathered at her house on her birthday for a celebration of life. A barbecue grill fired up. Beautiful photographs on huge canvases captured the arc of her life, bringing peace to hearts who cared.
Then, there was the turtle pond.
When you read the last sentence, read it again with a slight pause after “was,” with emphasis on “pond.”
You see, a medium-sized turtle pond was a place where my sister found calm and peace. It was a one-minute walk from her front door, contained numerous baby turtles she would name each summer, and was a natural place for folks to gather to pay their respects and articulate our love.
Now, this is where the story takes a turn.
This late-morning/early-afternoon gathering took place on a very hot day. Yep, one of those intensely hot days, with zero breeze, from the July we just weathered. My sister chose to be cremated, and I was told that my brother-in-law, my oldest sister, our Mom and I were being asked to scatter her ashes around the turtle pond, her special place where she found peace for many years.
When the number of visitors, relatives, and friends gathered hit maybe 40 or 50, everyone was called out to the pond.
Many reminisced.
Many lowered their heads and kept a silent prayer.
It was equal parts solemn and supportive. Flowers were put into the turtle pond by some. It felt like something out of a dream.
Now, I don’t know who brought it around to us four, but someone stepped forward with a small box, opened it, and I froze.
In that moment, I realized I had never seen ashes before.
Outside, calm. Inside, panic.
If yoga breathing exercises came in handy elsewhere, surely they could help in that moment.
We each reached our hands in and held about a quarter of the ashes to place by and in the pond, as an expression of love and tribute. As I was frozen, I watched the other three to make sure I was doing this correctly.
After watching what was expected, I got as close to the water’s edge as I could. Really focusing (because about 40 or more were now watching), I was extra careful not to suddenly fall into the pond like some cut reel from CKY: Landspeed.
I was extra careful, but the universe seemed to have something else in mind.
My brother-in-law asked if I wanted to scatter more of her. I said sure. I reached out my hand with some of the ashes I carried, and the very second my hand released the ashes, the wind kicked up.
Not a gradual increase in breeze.
In a split second, the wind suddenly just was.
With trigonometry and calculus discoverable in the Warren Commission decades earlier, the ashes seemed to fall, fall upwards in reverse, rev non-existent NASCAR tires while stationary, and fly forward as a wall of dust.
Not forward into the pond. Forward into me.
The sudden breeze (or was it the blast-wave pressure from a test in the Nevada Desert?) had just blown my sister’s ashes all over me.
I either had been inhaling or was in between blinks, but all I remember is not being able to see (as if diamond dust fell into my ocular cavities) nor breathe (as suddenly my sinuses, esophagus and lungs were scratchy).
This quick, sudden wind shear blew my sister into my eyes, nose and mouth. Then the breeze was gone.
I couldn’t see, but I could hear. Muffled, controlled laughter on multiple sides of the turtle pond. I couldn’t see who they were, but I could hear them. One of my uncles let out a very noticeable laugh.
Internally, I panicked, with thoughts going a million miles per hour. Had I just botched my sister’s memorial?
To (sort of) remove myself from the situation (without really removing myself from the situation), I started walking clockwise around the turtle pond. Well, not really. I was trying to back away from the water’s edge, but I couldn’t see, so backwards became moving left.
Another handful, yes. This will bring things back to the sacred.
As I released this handful, guess what happened again? The blast of wind found me.
Ashes down, then up, and then back with the force of a fire extinguisher. Eyes. Sinuses. Lungs. Mouth.
I started hearing sniggers from different places, but couldn’t see them. How about a distraction?
I continued moving left around the pond. The gathering said sacred while my movements screamed DARE drunk-goggles. Through the dust behind my eyelids, I saw my cousins, and I offered the box’s contents. They seemed to understand. They took some of her ashes and put them out.
Yes! Involvement! This can start turning the page from what just happened. I kept moving clockwise, and somewhere along the line, the kids in the family must have thought this was akin to a parade and the box must have candy. One by one, they started showing up, grabbing a handful of ashes, and throwing ash towards the pond.
Reality kept slipping and kept jumping the tracks.
One by one, little hands kept tossing ash.
I was torn. Do I tell them no and make the parents standing behind them mad because I’m not involving them too? Do I let them take ashes if the parents are horrified they are reaching into human remains?
I don’t know, but I had to keep moving.
I see my uncle. One handful to go.
He tossed the last handful of ash towards the pond, and the wind arrived for a second. It didn’t blow into him. It blew into me! Across my face.
We made our way closer to the house, where a barbecue was fired up. Walking next to my little cousin, she said, “Rob! Look at yourself!”
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was covered in ash. It looked like I had walked out from some controlled demolition dust cloud circa 2000s Detroit deconstruction. Hair looked grey. Aviators tan. Eyes—bloodshot.
There we sat. Enjoying barbecued burgers. Trying to ignore what just happened. My uncle sent a text: “Looks like his sister was picking on him one last time haha.”
On the drive back to Fort Frances, I found calm and peace in the thought that maybe our relatives on the other side get involved to help others move from grief to head-shaking laughter.
A Boston Crab submission was not to be had, so the circus would have to involve wind shear, ashes, and confusion.
I love you, sis. Well played.
Robert Horton is an educator, author, orator and linguist. He is a member of Rainy River First Nations.
