It was an average late spring day and I was up in the birch trees in the middle of my land. The fairly new big Jonsered chain saw was running good. I had recently purchased the saw at a friends hardware store in the 40 acre musician neighborhood down in the cities.

I had washed dishes with him and we listened to incredible folk, jazz and bluegrass music with our hands in the sinks.

So, with the new saw, I was cutting light firewood for the new wood stove to go with the old farmhouse. City boy, railroad gandy dancer swinging that big saw around with muscles from the railroad track gangs.

Spotting the mail get delivered about a quarter mile away, I set the saw down and walked the hypotenuse of the field and got the mail. There was an official death notice of my father in California in the mail. I hadn’t heard from Dad since he and his third wife went to her home town in Tanzania.

Dad had sent me a a postcard when he remarried. That postcard had a picture of his “new family”. Most of them were working for Jacques Custou exploring the ocean or were involved with climbing Everest and getting their PHD’s in research of some kind. I felt a little out of it with Dad’s new family. Railroad Track worker on 30 acres seemed of at the other end of the success spectrum. I had no idea what had happened and did not get an invite to the funeral or the reading of the will for that matter. I went back and picked up the chain saw, walked or staggered back to the house and dialed the old black wall phone in the kitchen, I knew only one number in California, Dad’s, and got my uncle on the line!

The will had already been taken care of and my uncle now lived in Dad’s ritzy home in Rancho Bernardo, near San Diego. “He told me I was to be the executor of his will!”I shouted into the old Bakelite wall phone. I was puzzled until I realized my uncle has the exact same name as I do. “What did he leave me?” Was the somewhat broken question.”Nothing but we will send you some pictures he took and his camera too.”

Staggered by the theft, I could only say one thing, “I want his ashes, I know what he wanted me to do with them” Uncle and Cousin sent the ashes of my father and photos/camera and as a bonus, a metal box with fly fishing hand made flies. It was a small box in the mail box at the end of my driveway. Dad wanted his ashes put into a trout stream. They fished together back in the days before the family imploded when I was in high school

At a folk music gig way up the coast of Lake Superior, I noticed a small stream next to the lodge and in the morning, took Dad’s ashes down to the stream and tossed them in a hand full at a time. There was a surprising swirl of man sized ‘smoke’ over the waters each time! I took the identifying metal dog tag and skipped it out in the lake at the mouth of the river. Just like a flat stone would skip. I got a triple splash before the metal tag plunged into the water. It was a tough goodbye without knowing the story of the death and not even knowing he was ill. The tears fell into the small stream at the loss and shock of a ruined family coming home in yet another surprising way. Coming back to be burned down again.

I went back home after telling that pleasant man that owned the lodge the story. It was a nice place to stay and the owner was an acquaintance of my Berkeley house mate, Charley, who played with me the night before at the lodge. Good music to get lost in. Old country blues with a 12 string and my 6 string D28.

About a week later, got a call on the old black wall phone from the lodge owner. “Hey, just wanted to tell you I caught a really nice Rainbow just up stream from the lodge” The owner knew the story. It felt right, It was a trout stream, a good one and I still remember those man size swirls of ash from the ceremony beside that stream. I tossed the box, but not into the stream. It was a perfectly done task for my Father.

So, there was no inheritance from Dad’s money but my cousin did get to send his kids to college with the estate. I asked him when my boys were grown, decades later, if now he could help sponsor their expenses for college. “Nah, I’ll pass” was his response. My other cousin refers to him as ‘Rotten Rodney” Seems to fit.

The memory of that funeral by the river still lingers long afterwards.. It was the perfect and right thing to do. The stream’s name is the Cross River, way up shore of Superior, and later in my life, Jesus became the center of my life. I found the eternal truth about the Cross and the money I lost means nothing now. The honor that the Lord set forth for me is on that steam is the real treasure.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

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