Goose shit, Bones, and Snot

Waupaca, Wisconsin
June 21, 2006

On the edge of this town, population 5000, at the south end of Main Street is South Park. The park wraps itself around the shores of Shadow Lake. On the north shore is a sandy beach where generations have come to recreate. Over the course of several summers spanning my dad’s adolescence, he swam there. It must have been intoxicating after the winter seasons of bitter cold and ice.

On Wednesday night, when Elliot and I arrived at the park at sunset, the air was gentle, warm, moist. Next to the parking lot, a group of guys played volleyball and eyed us with suspicion; we were obviously out-of-towners.

We walked the short distance from the parking lot to the beach and plonked down on a park bench.

At 8PM the lifeguard closed shop and the kids frolicking in the shallows went home. Elliot and I pulled off our shoes and unpacked Dad.

A guy with a metal detector and headphones appeared, “Anybody else with a metal detector been here?” Not that we were aware of. He went to work.

“This Is all I Ask”, a song from the early 20th Century and sung by Harry Nilsson was the music I’d brought for our ritual. Nilsson’s rendition was a bridge between Dad and me. His soulful rendition of these schmaltzy tunes brought hours of mutual enjoyment. There is a passage in “This is All I Ask” that Dad pointed to as sublime – a gentle line of melody moving up that brought him to tears once as he and I listened.



I broke the seal on the plastic container with a swiss army knife – one of many knives from Dad’s collection. Inside, a clear plastic bag held the white, powdery remains. There was a wire twist holding it shut and attached to the twist – a metal disk with a number and name of the cremation company. The surface of the disk showed that it had been with Dad through the fire that had so efficiently turned 180 lbs. of Bob into a 5 lb. sack of Bob. Chunks of bone up to a ½” in length were strewn throughout the dense mixture.

“What does it smell like?” Elliot had read my mind. The answer was “not much.”

Aware that I was about to brake a state law, I poured the entire contents out onto the wet sand. The lake water lapped at the edge of the remains and a milky cloud began to form.

We pushed the powder out and down, mixing it with the loamy soil. Suspended in the mud, decaying plant life and bird waste mixed with the dry flecks. The pungent odor of decay filled our nostrils as we mixed everything with our fingers. I called the muddy brew “goose shit”.

In my imaginings, Bob’s remains would easily disappear into the sand and water, but it was not to be. Powdered Dad stood in vivid contrast to the dark mud. It was Bob Babin’s last “rage against the dying of the light”.

Elliot hung his head and tears gathered about his eyes. His nose ran. I held him and murmured something profound about living a life fully and how facing painful things head-on made the joyful parts even better. “Goose shit, bones and snot”, was his reply.

I felt strong. There were no tears from me this evening. I had done what needed to be done. And the best part was that my son had traveled the road with me. He had done his part with grace and good spirit, quietly embracing this journey with patience and sensitivity. My love and respect for him have grown enormously in the past two days. I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s only that I hadn’t let myself ponder the possibility of this wonderful gift; it had remained a dream unacknowledged.

My only regret is that I won’t be around to watch him navigate my death – to see the fruition of what began on the shores of Shadow Lake on the Summer Solstice of 2006.

We now needed to bring some balance to the weighty moments just passed, “Let’s go check out the Big-Kmart.”.

Elliot’s eyes brightened, “I want to check out the huge Goodwill Store across the street too.”

“Deal.”

“And let’s see if we can rent ‘Annie Hall’, I need to see that movie again.”

By now we’d put our shoes back on, packed away the cameras. We turned back for one last look at the scene. Metal detector guy was methodically sweeping the sand with his wand, listening intently in his headphones for signs of treasure.

“I wonder if he can hear Bob.”

We had no luck renting “Annie Hall”. Thank god Elliot brought “Take the Money and Run” from home. It kept us laughing for the rest of the night.