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We buried Dad on Saturday, but not very deep.
It was a cool, clear morning and when the frost melted, the cemetery had cold, wet feet. So did we.
The funeral home man invited the two sons to lift the urn into the ground, urging us to lower the velvety bag by the drawstrings. And we did.
It was heavier than expected and the hole wasn’t very deep. We turned the urn a little so it would lie square with the edges of cut earth. It would be there a long time. Crooked wouldn’t do.
Now and again, crows were squawking, happy or cross, but impolite. The priest spoke, sprinkled holy water. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Angels and saints, servant of our Lord Jesus Christ, life everlasting, amen. Ma shook a little.
By a photo we had brought from home, we were invited to lay bright yellow flowers on the ground, leaning on the headstone. So we did.
There are days when losing a parent is a crushing loss and sad is all you know. Saturday wasn’t one.
Dad died almost three years ago, Nov. 21, 2012, age 82. At some point, it stops being sad because we need to turn this overcast sky into something brighter, like he’d want. So we do.
Because there are two siblings in Vancouver, we waited for the perfect time when everybody would be home, so we could deal with the ashes together.
It just never came. One would visit, but not the other. On it went, year one, year two, year three. Then Ma had triple bypass, was creeping up on age 85. She didn’t want to wait. So we didn’t.
Our boy would be home from his Toronto school that week. So it was settled: Donald Joseph Gordon Egan, born July 28, 1930, would be buried on All Hallows’ Eve.
He had chosen a golf motif for the urn. It looked a little cartoonish, but it suited his love of the game, which he has passed to his boys.
Golf is not a metaphor for life. Golf is life: square up to the task or shot; assume the right stance; keep your eye exactly on the job; imagine in your mind that it will all go well; swing smoothy, in rhythm, finish strong.
“Swing easy, hit hard,” Donnie used to say. And he did.
Support your fellow players when they make a good shot; be silent when they muff one; be gracious in your own humiliation, which the game abundantly provides. Be grateful for the sun and the air. Love the green and the quiet.
He’s with his people now, in the checkerboard sections of Notre Dame. His mother is here, his father, his father’s father, his brother, two of his children. Eventually, he will be joined by his wife of 59 years.
There isn’t a game of golf that goes by that I don’t think of Dad. I have an old sandwedge in the bag, which he gave me. My brother Norm, who is named for my father’s father, carries his old driver.
I’m not much of a player but, sometimes, the course doesn’t know that.
The summer after Dad died, we were playing at Larrimac, a pretty little course on the Quebec side with some nutty mountain holes.
Number six is downhill, then uphill and dogleg right, a par 4 playing about 320. The drive was decent, leaving about 130 to the hole. The seven-iron went high and right, struck a hill, ricocheted on the green, dinged the pin and dropped in the hole.
Eagle, first one ever made. Norm was there, saw it first. “Wish Dad coulda seen that,” he whooped.
For the next two years, I carried the ball on my pull cart, never wanting to use it again, like it was magical.
What was I going to do with this thing, mount it like a trophy? No. I’m like Dad, unhappy with self-regard.
Saturday came the answer. I tucked it in the car on the way to the cemetery. When no one was really looking, when the priest had gone and the crows had stopped and the photo was being collected, I dropped the Wilson Staff into the hole, beside the golf urn, a shot that crazily worked out, like his life had.
We buried Dad on Saturday, but not very deep. With arms out, we could still reach him, as he finally lay to rest.
To contact Kelly Egan, please call 613-726-5896 or email kegan@ottawacitizen.com
Twitter.com/kellyegancolumn
查看原文...
It was a cool, clear morning and when the frost melted, the cemetery had cold, wet feet. So did we.
The funeral home man invited the two sons to lift the urn into the ground, urging us to lower the velvety bag by the drawstrings. And we did.
It was heavier than expected and the hole wasn’t very deep. We turned the urn a little so it would lie square with the edges of cut earth. It would be there a long time. Crooked wouldn’t do.
Now and again, crows were squawking, happy or cross, but impolite. The priest spoke, sprinkled holy water. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Angels and saints, servant of our Lord Jesus Christ, life everlasting, amen. Ma shook a little.
By a photo we had brought from home, we were invited to lay bright yellow flowers on the ground, leaning on the headstone. So we did.
There are days when losing a parent is a crushing loss and sad is all you know. Saturday wasn’t one.
Dad died almost three years ago, Nov. 21, 2012, age 82. At some point, it stops being sad because we need to turn this overcast sky into something brighter, like he’d want. So we do.
Because there are two siblings in Vancouver, we waited for the perfect time when everybody would be home, so we could deal with the ashes together.
It just never came. One would visit, but not the other. On it went, year one, year two, year three. Then Ma had triple bypass, was creeping up on age 85. She didn’t want to wait. So we didn’t.
Our boy would be home from his Toronto school that week. So it was settled: Donald Joseph Gordon Egan, born July 28, 1930, would be buried on All Hallows’ Eve.
He had chosen a golf motif for the urn. It looked a little cartoonish, but it suited his love of the game, which he has passed to his boys.
Golf is not a metaphor for life. Golf is life: square up to the task or shot; assume the right stance; keep your eye exactly on the job; imagine in your mind that it will all go well; swing smoothy, in rhythm, finish strong.
“Swing easy, hit hard,” Donnie used to say. And he did.
Support your fellow players when they make a good shot; be silent when they muff one; be gracious in your own humiliation, which the game abundantly provides. Be grateful for the sun and the air. Love the green and the quiet.
He’s with his people now, in the checkerboard sections of Notre Dame. His mother is here, his father, his father’s father, his brother, two of his children. Eventually, he will be joined by his wife of 59 years.
There isn’t a game of golf that goes by that I don’t think of Dad. I have an old sandwedge in the bag, which he gave me. My brother Norm, who is named for my father’s father, carries his old driver.
I’m not much of a player but, sometimes, the course doesn’t know that.
The summer after Dad died, we were playing at Larrimac, a pretty little course on the Quebec side with some nutty mountain holes.
Number six is downhill, then uphill and dogleg right, a par 4 playing about 320. The drive was decent, leaving about 130 to the hole. The seven-iron went high and right, struck a hill, ricocheted on the green, dinged the pin and dropped in the hole.
Eagle, first one ever made. Norm was there, saw it first. “Wish Dad coulda seen that,” he whooped.
For the next two years, I carried the ball on my pull cart, never wanting to use it again, like it was magical.
What was I going to do with this thing, mount it like a trophy? No. I’m like Dad, unhappy with self-regard.
Saturday came the answer. I tucked it in the car on the way to the cemetery. When no one was really looking, when the priest had gone and the crows had stopped and the photo was being collected, I dropped the Wilson Staff into the hole, beside the golf urn, a shot that crazily worked out, like his life had.
We buried Dad on Saturday, but not very deep. With arms out, we could still reach him, as he finally lay to rest.
To contact Kelly Egan, please call 613-726-5896 or email kegan@ottawacitizen.com
Twitter.com/kellyegancolumn
查看原文...
