Turtle Pots

I didn’t really expect to be blogging tonight (I guess technically this morning).  I had a full, productive day.  Got some stuff done around the house, including organizing more of Ron’s belongings and getting guest rooms in order.  Dustin and Carrie came over.  We did some work on the house.  We ate and walked dogs.  Then we all went for a swim in Gull Lake while the skies clouded over.  Came home and watched some shows together and then they left.  I figured I’d be tired, but I was wide awake and busy in my head.

I have a big day planned for when I wake up.  I will make my first trip to Camp Gordonwood, where Ron attended as a participant and later worked as a camp counselor each summer for many years.  Some of his happiest memories were of Gordonwood.  Even more than the memories, he treasured the lasting friendships he made there.  Some of his Gordonwood friends have become my friends.  They are good folks and from all that I have heard, it was a special, even magical, place.

Ron told me early on that he wanted most of his ashes to stay with me and some to go to Gordonwood.  Specifically, they were to go to Turtle Pond.  I am trying to think of whether he told me this even before we knew he was sick and dying.  It may have just been one of those conversations you have in a relationship, ‘So, honey, what do you want done with your body after you die?’  Whenever the conversation originated, he put his wish in writing in his Five Wishes document four months before he died.  Tomorrow (technically today), I carry out this wish for him.  I will meet his siblings and some camp friends and we will honor his memory together.

A couple hours earlier, I was convened in the back bedroom with the four turtles.  ‘The four turtles?’ you wonder.  Yes, the four turtles.

 The turtles are ceramic pots that I had made by Rita Shields, an artist in Grand Rapids.  Ron and I met Rita at Wheatland Festival.  We frequented her booth together each year for the past three years.  Last year, we almost bought a pot with a turtle perched on a branch on the lid.  The turtle was smiling ever so slightly.  We saw it and imagined it would make a perfect container for his cremated remains because it was such a reflection of his character.  As the festival went on, we decided against purchasing it, hoping instead that he would be around again another year and we could delay plans for his imminent death for a little longer.  Instead, we bought mugs from Rita, beetles on the sides of Ron’s, flowers on the sides of mine.

 When Ron passed away, I knew I needed to get a hold of Rita to see if she could help me out.  His mother wondered what I was going to do with the portion of his ashes that I was keeping and I told her about Rita and the turtle pot.  His mother and siblings expressed that they also wanted turtle pots.  So, when I called Rita, I asked her if she could make four small-ish pots.  I told her about Ron, about his nickname being Turtle, about his personality and spirit, about how much he loved Wheatland, about how he loved the beetle mug she made, and about what a nice guy he was and how much I loved him.  She listened and agreed to help us out.

Several weeks passed and Rita called to say the pots were done and texted me a picture of her creations.  Last weekend, I met her at her studio and picked up the pots.  Rita was very sensitive and has been absolutely wonderful to work with.  She told me that she could feel Ron with her while she was making the pots and that this is not something that usually happens to her.  I think she gave me a very generous deal on some very special, unique art.  The extra care she put into this project is so greatly appreciated. 

Rita - in the studio with the turtles

 So, I earlier mentioned meeting in the back bedroom (where Ron spent most of his time last fall and early winter) with the four turtles.  I should also mention that Ron was there . . . in a bag inside a small, black, plastic, rectangular box with his name printed on the top.  (It is strange how a person can become so small and yet so big all at the same time.)  I had already dipped into the bag once, for the memorial tree.  Tonight was the divvying out of the ashes to get them to where they need to go.

 I did not expect to be as moved by this experience as I was.  I guess I thought I would be completely in my logical brain, merely completing another task at hand.  Instead, as soon as I saw the creamains, I began to tear up.  Separating Ron was hard.  Some of him will stay with me, some will go to Turtle Pond, some will go to his mother and father, some will go to his brother, and some will go to his sister.  I used a scoop (Rita’s recommendation) and poured inside small, zip-lock bags, which I then placed inside the turtle pots.  I also put a little bit of him into a medicine bottle to take to Gordonwood.  When I finished, I bubble-wrapped the pots for his family and put them in boxes, ready to go.  I put my turtle pot on the mantle behind the wood stove, next to some other Ron mementos. 

The ash dust on the scoop . . . I didn’t want to waste any of him when I rinsed it out, so I used my fingers to wipe it off and I brushed it on my skin . . . a fine powder of Ron to coat and protect me.  I think I cried the most at this . . . thinking about particles and where parts of Ron exist in this house, the dead skin cells that linger, the bits of him that have not yet succumb to my vacuuming or to his shirts being laundered, the particulate matter that may have floated into that bedroom or into my lungs tonight while I divided him.  I cried at the thought that there could ever be a day when the particles are gone . . . when there is no more tangible evidence, no matter how trace, that he was here.  ‘This is why people keep ashes,’ I thought . . . to preserve these traces, this proof of living matter, proof of existence. 

As if there could ever be a doubt that Ron existed.  Proof of his life is left in everyone who knew him . . . in the stories they share and memories they hold.  He touched people’s hearts and lives.  He left his imprint on this world and it was a positive one.  I know the proof for me is that the experience of knowing and loving him has changed me.  I don’t need ashes in a pot to attest to that . . . although I am glad to have them, just as I am glad to have such a lovely, handcrafted vessel in which to store them.