On The Road - Markham, Ontario

Markham, Ontario

Tuesday, July 20, 2010, 10:30AM

Hi Everyone,

Main Street here is attractive, big, busy and prosperous. Sparklingly diverse turn-of-the-century storefronts share bustling sidewalks with eager shoppers and flower draped vintage cast-iron light posts. It is vital and alive. As we turn into the driveway of 166 Main Street North the change of ambience is noticeable and expected. Elyssa and I are the first guests to arrive, a half hour early, met by a dark-suited attendant who directs us to the Tobias funeral. We enter the simple elegance that is the Dixon-Garland funeral home and are met by Kal's two sons, Kris and Kirk, who embrace us warmly and thank us for making the trip all the way from Michigan.  We reply saying it is the least we could do after their incredible feats of on-the-road engineering to enable a highly immobile Kal to attend Susan's Memorial To Life in March. We stand with Kris and Kirk not knowing what to say beyond that which has already been spoken, sensing their firmness in hiding their personal pain and not wanting to reveal ours, breathing in the kinship of bereavement. Kris and Kirk usher us into the visitation room.

We are unprepared for the sight of Kal's open casket at the far end of the room. His gaunt profile is clearly visible and I instinctively avert my eyes. To our right are folding tables displaying carefully chosen items from Kal's many collections. There is his collection of several hundred bright but tasteful neckties, a small set of South Park Mr. Hankey dolls that he took great delight in showing off, and an incredibly delicate large turned beech burl bowl by an artist he greatly admired. To our left are easels holding posters of family snapshots and framed portraits of Kal arranged on the wall. Centered over an upholstered love-seat is this framed enlargement:

Elyssa and I are stunned. The picture is from Elyssa's wedding. A faint "ooh" passes both our lips. A flood of recognition rises swiftly up our anchored feet, passing directly through a rigid thorax before planting itself squarely in our frontal lobes. The result is immediate, a gush of tears, uncontrolled sobs, gasping for breadth, and knees dangerously close to collapse. We assist each other to the love-seat directly under the picture and continue to bawl uncontrollably. People begin entering the room, but if there is a proper place to unabashedly display one's grief then this must be it. I am inwardly pleased to be able to experience this depth of grief and despair in this place at this time. I am not a fan of the "stiff upper lip" approach to loss, but neither do I experience any satisfaction from being out of control. Here, now, I am divinely comforted in our mutual outpourings. After minutes that seem like hours we are all escorted to the chapel for Kal's service.

There is no reverend or leader to the service. There are no prayers. First Kris, Kal's oldest, talks about his his dad and reads from Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree." He compares his dad to the tree that gives everything to satisfy the needs of the boy that he loves. Then Kirk presents a multimedia powerpoint tribute to his dad in a style he attributes to his dad's considerable influence. Kal's corporate CFO of 18 years speaks next, and she recounts a tireless business warrior whom you could always trust to cover your back. Lastly, it's my turn and I draw from my pocket the following words as I approach the podium.

Hello. My name is Stan Sternberg. I was married to Kal's sister Susan for almost 18 years before she passed away five months ago. Although Susan and I lived in Michigan and Florida, we shared many memorable visits and adventures with Kal, Karen, Kris, Kirk and Wanda.  I am honored to have become a part of the story of Kal's life. I know of Kal's earlier years only from the many tales that Susan shared with me, but I was privileged to become his beloved bro' and friend, and our deepening relationship was treasured by us both.

My voice is harsh and crackly from a bad cold as I fight to stifle a cough. I continue: 

Kal was an ever-changing force of nature. He could be a powerful storm, his indomitable will forcing shifting change on the landscape of those who surrounded him. He could also be a sweet and gentle breeze, calming and smoothing roughness in the emotional terrain with characteristic tenderness and humor. And like the weather, he was constantly changing, at least in the years that I knew him. But he held one principle above all others and it imprinted his entire life, the love and respect he felt for his family. Despite sometimes anguished differences, he always returned to his fundamental truths, the unifying power of familial love and friendship.

Now I'm beginning to experience the impact my words are making. My voice begins to flow more naturally and emotional inflections work their way into my monotone:

The year before we were married, Susan was diagnosed with metastatic renal cell cancer. She dreaded telling her brother that the doctors did not expect her live out the year. Kal would have none of that. He exerted the full force of his incredible will towards Susan's ultimate complete healing. In the face of his sister's challenges, Kal rallied the troops and brought in the cavalry. Kal and Susan forged an indestructible link in the family chain, and it binds them now eternally.

How I was introduced to Kal says much about who he was. Kal and Karen visited Susan in the hospital after her nephrectomy. It was the first time I met them. After presenting Susan with thoughtful gifts, Kal announces that they stopped by a Chinese restaurant and bought some of Susan's favorite egg drop soup. Karen adds that they only had plastic spoons with takeout, so Kal had eased himself up to a dining table and ever so surreptitiously dropped a metal spoon down his pants. Kal now reaches down the front of his trousers, and with a wicked grin produces the glorious gleaming utensil. Everyone convulses in laughter. In that one brief action, Kal infuses the morbid reality of the hospital room with his own brand of sympathy through humor. It marks the start of our lifelong friendship.

There is genuine laughter at Kal's hijinks. Clearly, many of the people seated before me knew Kal as I did. I continue in a more serious tone:

During the dizzying buildup of the dot com bubble, Kal, his son Kirk, myself and a few others founded an internet startup company to cash in on the apparent abundance of opportunity. Things did not go as planned. I found myself staring across the table at Kal and felt the full force of his convictions. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I feared the loss of a brother and friend. But nothing like that occurred. Although the company succumbed, our relationship flourished. Through the distorting optics of strongly divergent views we held to our respectful positions without sacrificing our familial bond. In fact, the bond grew stronger as we recognized in each other our shared compassion in the face of heated competition. And I think those events caused me to come to understand Kal in a way that would have been impossible had we not walked that path together. Kal was tough and unyielding but sensitive and fair. He was sometimes quick to anger but also quick to forgive. He was a dominating business man but he achieved his momentum through his love and commitment to his family and friends. He could be opinionated and obstinate, but he could express his feeling with a humor and gentleness that softened his persona. Above all, Kal was a devoted father, husband, brother, partner and friend.

Kirk's eyes meet mine when I finish the paragraph. I'll remember and cherish his look forever. I read the next paragraph more quickly at an even pace as not to allow pauses where the rising tide of my emotion might come bursting through:

The last two years were extremely difficult. Dealing with Susan's recurrence of renal cell cancer, being diagnosed himself with the same disease, gradually losing his mobility and enduring endless pain, and then, the climactic loss of his dear sister, all took their toll. Although Kal was himself fighting for his own survival, he rallied his energy in unbounded expressions of comfort and consolation for Susan's family. Assisted by Kris, Kirk, Paula and Wanda, Kal endured a harrowing 10 hour motor-home trip to attend Susan's memorial. His presence and extemporaneous expression of love and respect dampened many eyes. In my numerous phone conversations with Kal after Susan's transcendence, Kal supported and comforted me in my grief. He never dwelled on his own issues, but focused intensely on my healing. He was caring and insightful, optimistic but realistic. Kal became a spiritual warrior, fighting the good fight to overcome the seemingly invincible adversary. He prevailed over his afflictions with the same spirit that he had previously prevailed over his competition. He fought to the very end with an unconquerable desire not just to live, but to live with purpose and dignity.

I'm in the home stretch. Good thing. My voice is starting to crack, I'm choking on words, I fight to keep it together to the end:

Today, in the pervasive mists of our heavenly abode, Kal, Karen and Susan embrace and shed the tears of joy that sanctify their reunion. They walk hand in hand through the afterlife of their dreams and chat and joke with unbounded love and enthusiasm. And Karen confides that she's discovered the Mall of the Magnificents, just a short stroll down the primrose path, crammed with incredible shops of priceless antiquities and restaurants to die for. Kal suggests they begin with a well earned scrumptious meal and a bottle of 1986 Chateau Margaux. And in perfect unison Karen and Susan gleefully announce,  "Sounds like a plan, Kal. Sounds like a plan."

My voice cracks on the last line. I choke out the final words. The service has ended. Now, with five other pall-bearers, we are summoned to the back of the chapel, arranging ourselves in two rows along either side of the casket. "Lift with your knees" is cried out, and we all do, carrying Kal's smooth walnut casket out the rear door of the chapel and towards the hearse. And as we align ourselves to glide the casket into the hearse a most unholy fantasy intrudes upon my solemnity. The six pall-bearers arranged in two rows of three are shuffling themselves with Kal into a hearse roller-coaster that proceeds to climb its way steeply up the funeral home driveway and plummets down Main Street, Markham, twisting and rolling its way to the cemetery followed closely behind by the flagged procession of mourner's cars. The actual procession is far less thrilling but satisfyingly short. 

The events at the cemetery are likewise brief. Concealed in my jacket pocket is a Tupperware container of Susan's ashes. It is my intention that they be buried with Kal, but I'm not sure exactly how to pull it off. I approach Wanda, Kal's friend and partner following Karen's passing, for needed guidance and assistance. She is honored and overcome with emotion for she loved Susan so very much. After the casket is lowered into the ground Wanda and I approach the grave.  She removes the top of the container and deliberately pours the ashes over the casket. I look around and am met by nods of approval. Then Wanda does something very unexpected. She throws the empty Tupperware container into the grave. I gasp. That wasn't supposed to happen. I can't jump into the grave to retrieve it. Then my anxiety turns to amusement. Once again, the launch of Susan's ashes is associated with a big surprise. It's happened just about every time. It's Susan's playful way of announcing she still considers herself the guardian of her ashes. The more power to you Susan. May you and Kal cook up many more surprises for those of us who delight in such goings on. For it is through their humor that I can confirm that Kal and Susan have been reunited. Rock on my beloved Bro', rock on.

Wishing you and your loved ones the joys of profound peace and satisfaction in all your endeavors,

Stan

On The Road - Saline, Michigan

Saline, Michigan

Monday, July 12, 2010

Hi Everyone,

Today is a very hot and sticky Michigan July day. Saline streets are empty of pedestrians, people preferring the cooling buzz of their air conditioning to the buzz of the mosquitoes that are swarming around me like a squadron of Red Baron biplanes. But I'm on a mission and nothing the enemy can throw at me will break my will. Today is Susan and my 18th wedding anniversary and I am here at Weller's Carriage House to honor the occasion. The number 18 means life in Cabalistic numerology, and we had planned to make this day a special celebration. So here I am in front of the hall where we celebrated our marriage and lit the candle of family surrounded by a ring of our children. Susan wore a floral wreath on her head. It's been preserved in a cardboard box, but I'm afraid its badly deteriorated condition prevents it from ever being used again. Along with a container of Susan's ashes, it will be released into the Saline River that flows through Weller's ample and peaceful grounds. If all goes well, the wreath will float the length of the Saline River, flowing into the River Raisin before reaching Lake Erie near Monroe, Michigan. At least that's my fantasy. We shall see.

The rear of the carriage house is a vast expanse of fine green lawn dotted by majestic shade trees. Our wedding ceremony was conducted on the lawn under a conveniently erected tent, most fortunate, because in the middle of the ceremony a sudden cloudburst attempted to drown the proceedings. Our guests remained dry, but in accordance with Jewish tradition, Susan and I stood outside the tent under the open sky. What's that they say about your wedding being rained on? But what is this? Where is that fine green grassy plain? I don't remember all these brick walkways, marble statues, alabaster fountains, cement benches, flower gardens, wooden gazeboes, and a massive arched pavilion lined with padded chairs. I don't recognize anything. Have I wondered back into the 18th century? Is King Louie XIV waiting by the miniature waterfall just around the corner? The palace at Versailles has been reproduced in miniature right where our peaceful pasture used to be. Where once there was this simple genuine serene beauty there is now a vast hodge-podge of photo op backdrops. Mosquito Kamikazes are maneuvering through these overblown structures to shield their attack. A black cloud of the enemy suddenly appears from behind a frolicking group of marble cherubs. I run towards the refuge of the river.

The river is just as I remember it, wild and free. I maneuver down the overgrown river bank and get ready to release the ashes. No time for meditation, the mosquito spotters are circling just overhead. Susan's ash flows smoothly into the swiftly flowing water, creating a silky cloud under the surface and joining in its irresistible flow. Now for the floral wreath. Gripping the wreath like a Frisbee I launch it into the river. The moment it strikes the water's surface, a rock, the size of a human head, rises up from the watery depths and crowns itself with the wreath. I kid you not. The rock was not there when I released the wreath. It is a river spirit, revealing itself so it can be coroneted the queen of Sarita's flowing domain. And as the watery ash cloud mingles with the newly crowned queen of the river, the sun breaks through the clouds, spotlighting the aqua drama and chasing away the bloodsucking armies. Now, relaxing for the first time since my arrival here, I contemplate the miracles before me.

May your day be filled with the flow of limitless love and the miracles of unbounded light,

Stan

On The Road - Wilderness State Park

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Hi Everyone,

Wilderness State Park lies at the northernmost tip of Michigan's lower peninsula. It is as wild and remote as its name implies. It is also uncrowded and serenely beautiful, a perfect place for a perfect getaway. A sandy beach runs east to west along the Straits of Mackinaw. There are five log cabins spaced miles apart on the beach for those who are lucky enough to have made their reservations a year ahead. Susan was always lucky that way, and spent many a blissful week here, both before and after she met me. Our time here was peaceful and replenishing. The picture below, taken with the camera's self timer, adequately reflects Susan's and my feelings on being here. For us, a trip to Wilderness was a visit to our personal Shangri-La.

So it is here that we return to scatter Susan's ashes to signify Susan's eternal connection to the people and places she loved. I am here with Peg whom I met on the Condor Express while being entertained and awestruck by the humpback whales off the Channel Islands near Santa Barbara. Peg has read Susan's book "A Year of Miracles" and strongly identifies with Susan's courage and hope in the face of seemingly overwhelming adversity. Peg lives in Petoskey, 30 miles from Wilderness. Her family has a cabin on Lake Paradise, just 10 miles from Wilderness. I asked her if she would spread Susan's ashes with me on this leg of my continued journey of love and remembrance. She said she would be honored. That's her in this picture with Murphy, her sweet and gentle Goldendoodle companion.

The beach at Wilderness offers a spectacular view of water, sand and sky. To our right, facing east, we can barely make out the Mackinac bridge about 5 miles away, beautifully illuminated in the rays of the late afternoon sun. To our left, facing west, is Waugoshance Point, extending far out into Lake Michigan and directing our view towards Beaver Island, another remote island paradise that Susan and I have explored and enjoyed. The views in each direction are so very different. The sun-drenched east is colorful and alive, details of water, rock and vegetation are fully revealed in all their photogenic glory. But to the west, peering in the direction of the setting sun, the landscape is dark and mysterious, punctuated only by tiny specular reflections of sun glinting off water, dancing momentarily, disappearing, then reappearing elsewhere. The east represents the past. It is fully revealed and unchanging, open to our inspection. The west represents the future, it is mostly dark and unknowable, but it hints at things to come by revealing tiny momentary glimmers of light. As we stand at this spot, looking out across the water to the north, the upper peninsula barely visible on the far shore, we are frozen in the present moment. Past and future are but mindful illusions. All we have, all we are, is right here, now. Memories of what once was and dreams of what may be are swept away by the mighty hand of presence. Presence clutches us in its grip and denies us our daydreams. It commands us that we are here for a divine purpose. 

Peg and I remove out shoes and wade out into the water. It is surprisingly warm. Peg uncaps the container of Susan's ashes while I fiddle with the camera settings. The moment has arrived. Peg unhurriedly scatters handfuls of ash while I click away. All sense of time fades. Susan's ashes and this magnificent place are all that occupy the present. Wonderful memories of Susan's and my adventures here are being cast into the water and submerged. Only this moment, here and now, exists. This profound realization brings neither sadness nor joy, but it celebrates our aliveness. And for a few very brief instants my mind penetrates the veil of death and beyond and I am whole once more.

Returning back to Dexter the serene present transforms itself into an angry thunderstorm. The fierceness of the lightening and the roar of the thunder command immediate attention and respect. The TV warns of approaching tornadoes. Rain and hail smash the earth. Be here now the storm warns. Forget the past, the future does not exist, live your life in the present moment and your hopes and dreams will resolve themselves. It is Susan's message to me. Susan the therapist appears in the swirling clouds above my head. Her counsel is practical and wise. I will do my best to heed her words, but I know it will be a daunting challenge.

Returning to my kitchen I am confronted by a ceramic plaque hanging on the wall. "The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace," it reads. 

I wish you the same,

Stan

On The Road - And Buddha Laughs

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Hudson Mills Metropark

Dexter, MI

Hi Everyone,

I'm sitting in my Odyssey with Orion and Rosie in their crates and I'm parked in the lot overlooking the rapids at Hudson Mills. There are perhaps 15 yards of grassy sloped embankment between the car and the rapids. The Huron River is in fine, full, fast, flowing form today. I'm vividly recalling a terrifying event that occurred last year at about this time.

The Huron River is in flood stage, the rapids are a raging torrent. The water has risen all the way up the grassy embankment to the parking lot. I'm letting Orion out of the van when his lead slips off his collar. He realizes he is unconstrained and charges into the water. He can't swim, so he flails his front paws wildly as he bobs up and down in the relative calm of the flooded  embankment. Five more yards further out and he will be swept away by the Huron's massive current. He is oblivious to the danger. I shout his name over and over but it is useless. He is drifting towards the charging rapids. A sinking feeling of helpless desperation seizes my mind and shakes me violently. I am frozen in fear. I'm about to charge into the water to attempt an extremely dangerous rescue when I hear another car pull into the parking lot.  A Chocolate Lab bitch is released out the passenger door. Orion takes note immediately and struggles heroically to reverse his momentum and come ashore. After long anxious moments he is safe on shore, shaking off the water and schmoozing the Lab. I clip on his lead and he is saved, but it will take another five minutes before I stop shaking.

There, the secret is finally out. I never told Susan or anyone else about the events of that day. I couldn't bear to upset her so. Susan, please forgive me.

Several dozen Canadian Geese are, at this moment, peacefully grazing that same river embankment adjacent to the parking lot. I open the door ever so slowly as to not frighten them. There are about 10 adults and maybe 25 one month old juniors. They shuffle slowly as I open the door but are otherwise unimpressed. That will all change when I let the dogs out. So I wait. The Geese have their backs to the rapids. If I pull out the dogs, they'll flee into the river and the little ones will be swept away and drown. I wait some more. Maybe if I just gently open up the back and let them glimpse the crated dogs. They're still not impressed. I take out Rosie. They all instantly react and head towards the river. Rosie barks sharply. Everybody jumps into the rapids. My heart sinks. Then, in precise single files of 6 to 8 birds, an adult at both ends, youngsters in the middle, they glide majestically downstream over the rapids. When they are sufficiently far downstream they make a sharp left turn back to the river bank. It all happens with military precision and no commotion whatsoever. Well, no wonder they were so unconcerned. Ain't nature grand?

So speaking of nature, the grass is covered with it. The geese have left gifts of downey molted feathers and little goose poop dog treats. Orion's mouth is watering and is covered in fluffy white down. He looks positively rabid. Rosie is sniffing franticly. Goose treats give them terrible diarrhea. I yank on their leads and get them moving upstream along the bank. A woman appears directly ahead of us grasping a large camera in her left hand while waving a clipboard overhead in the other. She is followed closely by two other women. The scene reminds me of Delacroix's painting Liberty Leading the People, except, of course, Liberty's breasts are covered. The younger of the two other women is clad in a black cocktail dress, her long dark tresses spilling down over her shoulders. She is Mona Lisa. Her mother, Olympe de Gouges, peers suspicously as Liberty plucks weeds from around a large boulder for Mona Lisa to sit upon and pose for her portrait. As we pass close by them on the narrow path, Orion is urgently seized by the need to take a dump. As I kneel to pick up his load, Rosie gags on a piece of goose poop. Mona Lisa stops smiling and inquires if Rosie will be all right. I respond matter of factly that I don't know. Obviously perturbed by the disturbance Liberty motions the group to move on. Mona Lisa edges down off her perch and steps into goose poop. As she bangs her shoe on a rock and issues an explicative, Liberty waves the group further downstream. We continue our trek upstream through the poop fields.

In front of the Altarpiece in the Temple formed by the North Territorial Road Bridge over the Huron River I am thrust back to the events of May 26, 2010, Susan's 70'th Birthday. I am smiling inside at how much my feelings have changed since the disappointment of that day. If I were writing the story today it would have ended very differently. The issue, as I see it now, is not what happened, since that is indisputable, but rather how I interpreted what I saw. Peg replied to my description of the event in "On The Road - At Home in Dexter, MI" by saying:

"Susan was playboating!  She was doing a stall with her bow up.  And then, since she no longer needs oxygen for her journey, she was able to submerge and find herself in the river.  When she found exactly the right current, she resurfaced to show you that she was celebrating her day as she became one with the river to continue on her journey. ... You did exactly what you set out to do.  Susan found her place in the river." 

Standing there in my River Temple memories of Orion's narrow escape from the river trigger memories of the helplessness I felt when I saw Susan's kayak submerge. But I do not dwell there, as my mind-stream carries me forward to the goose babies floating gently over the churning rapids. Most certainly Susan could have floated peacefully downstream in her kayak, it would have been the most natural thing to do. But then Susan would have remained "on" the river rather than "in" the river. Instead, Susan goes playboating, and in a swift kayak maneuver Susan's ashes find their rightful place.

We follow the trail out from under the bridge and cross over the bridge along a sidewalk bordered on both sides by a low railing. When we reach the center of the bridge Orion is suddenly seized by the urge to dump again. There is no grass anywhere around so Orion is forced to use the sidewalk as his toilet. Fortunately I have another bag, the last of three I started with. As I bend to pick up the poop, I catch a glimpse of a golf chariot speeding along the sidewalk directly at us. I immediately recognize the charioteer as the same chap that ordered me to pick up Rosie's lead on Susan's birthday. I forget about the poop and hold the dogs tightly and squeeze against the railing. The chariot speeds by without slowing and squashes the poop against the sidewalk into a five inch pancake. Kneeling down, I struggle to figure out how to pick it up. It is then that I see Budai approaching me from the opposite direction as the chariot. I recognize him by his bald head, walking stick, expanded waistline and elongated earlobes. I've always know him as Laughing Buddha. He smiles knowingly at me as he approaches, but I lower my eyes both as an acknowledgment of his greatness and shame for my poop pancake. If he is really Budai then he's already carrying a much bigger bag than I have. And as we turn and walk away we hear Buddha laugh. 

Hoping that Buddha laughs at you,

Stan

On The Road - Muskegon, MI

Memorial Day Weekend

Muskegon, Michigan

Hi Everyone,

On a hot spring day, the breeze that slides along the face of Lake Michigan can feel like an arctic blast. Later today I'll play baseball with the twins and we'll soak through our shirts before quitting in the middle of the second inning, not that I couldn't have gone longer, but then, I don't run as hard as they do. But now I'm thinking I wish I had worn a long-sleeved shirt. Stretched ahead is a long breakwater, terminated by a red lighthouse. A sign announces "Welcome to Pere Marquette Park." "A lot of ships have gone down here in storms," notes Chuck, and my mind jumps to the Shipwreck Museum at Whitefish Point, the last stop on the last vacation trip of all of the wonderful trips that Susan and I made together. It was to have been a repeat of our loop around Lake Superior, but circumstances dictated a shorter and less strenuous route, so we camped in Muskegon State Park before moving on to Tahquamenon Falls State Park with an intermediate stopover in Petoskey.

Susan's first born child Sharon, her husband Chuck, twin 11 year old sons Elijah and Garrett and I walk a quarter mile out into Lake Michigan along a smooth concrete pavement constructed over thousands of humvee sized quarried rocks. There is a definite feeling of separating ourselves from the ordinary. The crowded beach disappears behind us, and except for the ribbon of earth that supports us we are surrounded by water and sky. The wind and water sound a familiar melody. Jimmy Buffett singing "Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes." Key West, the Conch Republic at the end of the Overseas Highway. We're all going back to Key West, at least symbolicly. At the Red Lighthouse at the End of the Road we'll scatter Susan's ashes over the water.

"Use your will to Zen away the cold", I tell myself. Think Beach, Think Sun, I'm warm, I'm warm. "I'm cold!" Sharon announces.  Sharon is walking just ahead of me, the goose bumps on her shoulder glimmering in the noonday sun. "Is that a new tattoo?" I ask. "Just had it done for my Mom," replies Sharon, "It's the Keys". And Indeed it is. Ahhh, the Keys, I'm feeling warmer already. The Florida Keys were a magical time and place for Sharon and Susan. They walked and talked the beaches, the mangroves, Duval Street, sunsets at Mallory Square, and on, and on, and they lunched together under the palms and sipped Margaritas in warm caressing breezes. For all of us, the Keys are an earthly paradise. For Sharon and Susan, The Keys forge an indestructible link that bonds them eternally.

The breakwater we walk forms a protective harbor for the shipping channel that connects Muskegon Lake to Lake Michigan. Muskegon State Park where Susan and I camped is just the other side of the channel. Susan and I walked the length of the channel along a sidewalk. It was hard for her. Our goal was the green navigation sign at the end of the channel. We made it all the way. It was our last walk together. I look across the channel at the green navigation sign. It tells boaters that they should be on this side of the channel if they are going out into the lake. The red lighthouse at the end of the breakwater that we are on signifies "Red, Right, Return," which I recall from my Keys boating days. Yes Susan, today we are returning.

Wrapped in our new used popup camper in sandy Muskegon State Park astride beautiful Muskegon Lake on that late August day just last year Susan talked with Sharon on her cellphone. They talked a long time, for there was much to say. So much had happened since the Keys. And in this place on that day they reforged their bond. Susan cried and hugged the phone when their conversation ended. I cried. Sharon's back.

Beyond the Red Lighthouse at the End of the Road Sharon releases Susan's ashes into the water and into the sky. She pours ashes into her hand and sprinkles them gently. She pours ashes into Chuck's hand and Chuck releases them into the water. She pours ashes into the hands of her sons and they hurl them, faces beaming, out over the boundless lake. The boys wipe their hands off on Grandpa's shirt. I welcome the boyish irreverence in their expression of love. Everyone is feeling good. The chill in the air is gone.

The path back ends on a beach capped by large sand dunes that invite everyone to play. Sharon, Garrett and Elijah run up and down the dunes, jumping, falling, rolling, covering themselves in sparkling sand, filling their lungs with the bright Muskegon air. Chuck suggests we all get ice cream, so we pile back into the car and Chuck zooms us off to the more urbanized part of Muskegon. Back at the Red Lighthouse a delicate sweetness luffs over the swells, and the water spirits tiptoe ever so delicately across the waves.

Wishing you many gravity defying, hair-raising adventures,

Stan

On The Road - At Home in Dexter, MI

Hudson Mills Metropark, Dexter, Michigan.

May 26, 2010.

Hi Everyone,

The dawn broke bright and warm, sunlight streaming through the open bedroom windows, a special day, Susan's birthday, her 70th, exactly three months after her transcendence. The night had been restless. This was to have been a memorable day. Susan and I had discussed it at length. "I'd like a big party but it's a lot of work and many of my friends and some family probably won't be able to make it," she worried out loud. "We could take a trip ourselves or we could do something very special at home," she conjectured. I didn't have a clue, although I was relieved that she seemed to be nixing the big party idea. "Time enough to explore alternatives," I had thought to myself. But the day had arrived wrapped in a cloak of transcendental circumstance, its significance begging acceptance and recognition.

I had planned to release some of Susan's ashes into the Huron river today. The event would mark not only her birthday but would celebrate the completion of our California cross-country healing odyssey. But there would be no whales as witnesses, no energy vortexes to swirl the ashes heavenward, no giant redwoods penetrating the divine light. Just me, Orion and Rosie and the very familiar Huron river rolling through Hudson Mills park, a scant two miles from our home. "How do we make this day special?" was the question that hung in the soft humid morning air.

Sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, my thoughts carried me over the park's trails, footpaths and bridges. This past year Hudson Mills has become a sanctuary, a place of worship and replenishment amidst the turbulence. For years Susan and I had walked these trails together with Gaia and Zeus. But this past year I walked without them, Gaia and Zeus having crossed the rainbow bridge, and Susan's foot wound preventing her from walking any distance without severe discomfort. My thoughts now turned to an event, a mysterious synchronicity that had transpired on the day following my return from the road trip, and in my crystalized recollection I could sense the glimmer of an idea.

I had never seen a white-water kayaker on the river here before. Lot's of canoeists do float along this stretch from upstream. When they get to the rapids in the park, they stiffen, grab their paddles extra tight, and allow themselves to be carried along by the churning current, surrendering themselves to the will of the water. But directly before me is a kayaker joyously playing in the waves, the white foam spilling over him, he rolls his kayak over and over, he reaches behind him with his paddle and the kayak rears up like a stallion and falls over backwards on top of him. He laughs and laughs as he frolics, as much under the water as above it, never drifting with the current. His play reminds me of the whales. When he emerges from the river he spots Orion. "How old is your Curly?" he asks. "You know about Curly Coated Retrievers?" I reply with surprise. "Yep, owned one myself." Astounding! I have never met another Curly owner outside of a dog show. Curlies are rare. Just a handful of people in the park have ever correctly identified the Curly breed. I sip my coffee. The adventure of the day percolates through my gray matter. Susan will have her special birthday. Today, her ashes will ride the waves in a miniature kayak that I will now build.

Two hours later I enter the park, the six inch cardboard kayak containing the ashes resting on the seat besides me next to my camera, Orion and Rosie restlessly await our arrival at the parking lot next to the rapids. Not a hundred yards past the park's entrance gate a deer crosses the road directly ahead of me. I've never seen a deer cross the road in the park before. An animal crossing your path is not a good omen. I ignore it and proceed on. I concentrate on separating myself from ordinary reality, allowing the divine mysteries to dictate events from here on. "I am not subject to the laws of man," I chant to myself. "I separate myself from consensual existence and enter the realm of unexplored experience.

When I reach the parking lot and uncrate the dogs the sun beats down on my balding head and I am surprised to realize that I have forgotten my baseball cap. I never, ever forget my baseball cap. Bad omen number two. A sign posted on a pole warns me to keep my dogs on leash. Enjoying my separatist fixation I drop Rosie's leash to the ground. As I glance up, a golf cart appears at the top of a hill that I affectionately call "The Pyramid of the Sun." The cart heads straight for me, driven by a young man wearing a shirt bearing the park logo. "Pick up the leash," he commands. As I dutifully comply I count omen number three.

Now I am standing next to the river on a concrete walkway that runs under the highway bridge that crosses the river. This is my "Temple." It is a holy place of solace and transfiguration for me. I have stood here many times before, in prayer and in gratitude for prayers answered. The river silently runs through here, a hundred yards upstream from the start of the rapids. The concrete slabs above my head and the concrete piers that support them are my cathedral. Its walls are decorated in graffiti with the names of the saints, Bean, Coryn, Dahlia and Rose. I associate the names with my four fur children, Orion, Koda, Kitchi and Rosie. I place a clear quartz crystal on a rock alter and sprinkle a tiny bit of ash as an offering. After a silent meditation, I am ready. Let the adventure begin.

I lay down my camera as I prepare to launch. I'm going to throw the kayak as far out into the river as I can, upstream of the bridge. In the deep flow of the river's core there will be less chance of the kayak getting hung up along the river bank. Susan cries out "Stan, are you sure this is going to work?" I reply "I've worked out all the details, everything will be fine," as I convince myself they will be. As soon as the kayak is water-borne, I will run downstream with my camera and record Susan's miraculous birthday adventure. "Everything will be all right," I reassure myself, nervously.

The kayak strikes the water far from the riverbank. It is floating vertically, its bow pointing straight up, its stern under the water's surface. Susan cries out "HELP," but there is nothing I can do to help. I watch helplessly as the tiny craft slips below the water's surface and disappears. It has traveled at most ten yards before sinking. And as I walk slowly back to my vehicle, my mind clouded by failure and disappointment, a trickle of ash finds its way out of the water-soaked cardboard kayak and into the smoothly flowing current. The trickle becomes a stream, and the stream merges itself into the river, flowing like a river, smoothly navigating the rapids, raising its head up in the snowy white-water caps of the rapids, diving deep to the solitude of the rocks below, embracing the freedom and joy of being one with the river's passion. I reach my vehicle and load in the dogs. It will be some hours before I can let go of my failure. Susan's spiritual name is Sarita, it means "flow like a river." Flow, flow my dear Sarita. I'm so sorry.

Wishing you many successful adventures,

Stan