Cemeteries Are For The Living

In the years before my father died, my brother and I would often ask him what he wanted us to do when his time came, and he would usually answer the same way, “Have me cremated, put me in a shoe box and stick me up on a shelf in the closet.” Although, one time, shortly after he purchased a six foot long fish tank, he told us to bury him in that, until he realized that would kill the fish.

My dad. He was a character for sure. So much so, that after he passed away, the local soccer club held its first annual Ray Fettig Turkey Bowl. I could not have thought for a more apt name. The tournament is still held to this day in Farmingdale, New York, and although the name has changed, it has grown from a fundraiser that benefited the local community to one that now serves all of Long Island. He would be proud.

“What the hell do I care what you do with me?” my dad used to say, “I’m going to be dead! Cemeteries are for the living. I’ll be able to go wherever I want when I am dead. Put me in the closet and pull me out when you want to spend time with me.”

It was New Year’s Eve of 2006 when I got the call that told me that my best friend in the world; my father, was gone. While he was in a nursing home, where he had recovered from a stroke, it was still a shock. He seemed to be doing better, but now he was gone. We never had finalized any plans. He never really wanted to talk about it. I knew what I knew what I had to do. He told me.

Let me tell you, when you walk into an athletic shoe store looking for an empty shoe box, don’t tell them that you are in need of it to put your father’s cremated remains in. Explain yourself first. Luckily, the sales clerk there got quite a giggle out of it after I told her the story, and she knew my dad, so she understood that the humor of it all would not be lost on him.

I can also tell you that traveling through airport security with a shoe box full of your father’s ashes in your carry on is a great way to keep your big bottle of hairspray that you forgot was in your luggage when security flags your bag for a check.

“Those are my father’s ashes,” I said when the TSA officer went to open the shoe box.

I wish I had a picture of her face, because it was priceless as she responded, “Oh,” quietly closed up my suitcase and handed it back to me saying, “You’re good.”

Whenever I see an Eagle, it has always signified that a life changing event was about to happen for me. So, when I was traveling last week and one swooped over my car, all I could think to myself was, “Oh boy. Here we go.”

Those of you who follow us on the Renwick House Facebook page over at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100076433233285 , know that I have been battling with some wrist issues as of late, and it has slowed work down quite a bit. Since I crochet for a living, I have been pushing myself extra hard to work like a machine and crank out inventory for upcoming shows and my busy season, which begins in September. Well, it seems I pushed myself just a little too hard.

I spent yesterday in Urgent Care after the pain in my left wrist was so bad I almost passed out, with my wrist swollen and my fingers looking like I had sausages on my hand. Yes, I finally caved in and went to get care.

Luckily, there are no signs of carpal tunnel, but I was diagnosed with deQuervain’s Synotivis, a tendonitis that affects the thumb. I was prescribed steroids for the swelling, which luckily is working already, and a splint. No crocheting for at least 4 weeks. I need to rest it. Ugggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!

If you know me, you know that I NEVER slow down. My husband is always yelling at me to rest, and I tell him that I will do that when I’m dead. I don’t have time to rest. He literally followed me everywhere I went yesterday to make sure I wasn’t using my left hand. I finally had to explain to him that, “I CAN’T use my left hand because I can’t move any of my fingers with all the swelling.”

I sat on the couch, looked at my crochet basket, had a small pity party for myself and decided to go for a walk. I didn’t need two hands for that. I knew exactly where I was going. The cemetery. I wanted to check on the Renwicks tombstones that I had spent a day cleaning a few weeks ago.

When I turned the corner by the gas station to head down the road to the plot they are laid to rest in, I was amazed. I could see two bright white stones standing like pillars, the sun, low in the sky beaming off of them and making them glow even more.

I was thrilled to see just how beautiful they had turned out after letting the D2 Biological Solution work on them for a few weeks. And the stones of their children who had died very young were even brighter.

As I stood before their stones, splint on my hand, explaining to them that I promise I will get their house fixed up eventually, hoping that they understand, and getting comfort from knowing that I have been doing what I can as I can, it hit me. My father’s words were right there in my ear, “Cemeteries are for the living.”

Looking at their stones was a reminder that some things just take time. They had been battered by years of abuse from mother nature. They just needed a little care, and some time, and now they are majestic stones again, standing tall and reflecting the light off of them. I realized in that moment that I can’t keep battering my body and expect it to not eventually break. I need some self-care and time and I will once again be standing tall.

Perhaps the eagle sighting last week was a way of telling me I need to change things up a bit. While I do love my crocheting, there are many other avenues I can follow while still creating. I paint, sew, quilt, make wreaths, the list goes on. I’ll be doing a little more of those things over the next few weeks, being careful to take things in moderation.

While I do love my eagle sightings, I sometimes wish I could have an owl finally deliver my letter from Hogwarts so I can go off and learn how to just wave my magic wand and yell “Maximus Fixamus” to bring the Renwick House back to what it once was. However, reality sets in and I know that nothing worth doing is easy.

As far as my Dad’s shoe box goes, well, I didn’t put him in the closet. I did put him on a shelf though. It was in the kitchen of my old house, so he would always be there when my children ate their meals and he could watch them grow. Now he sits on a shelf in my living room. I pull him down for every Mets Home Opener and place him next to me so we can sit and watch the game “together”, just as we always did in life. I don’t need his shoe box right there to remind me that he is always with me though. People are never really truly gone as long as we keep them alive in our hearts.