FLESHERTON CALLING

My father’s ashes are out in the woodshed on a makeshift shelf behind the workbench. They’re in a white alabaster box with a multi-coloured lid. It is inside a drugstore plastic bag held together by a rubber band. They used to be in an old Biway bag, but it decomposed after a few years. Sooner or later, everything falls apart.

Before he died, my father requested that his remains be divvied up among my siblings, like a Poker Pot in a Rummoli game with multiple winners. He wanted to be set in a place that was meaningful to each of his offspring and to remain there for all Eternity. Or at least until the property sold. My sister Caroline, the traditionalist, put him on the mantle of the fireplace of the living room, where he could remain in a kind of Purgatory, ever conscious of the fires below. Tim chose a shelf in his mancave, nestled closely to a framed signed photo of Tie Domi of the old man’s beloved Leafs, a team my brother, a Habs fan, despised. And Bernie, conscious of the many summer meals my dad orchestrated, enclosed him in an opening of the brickwork for the barbecue. It was for him, I guess, a gentle reminder of both transience and the crematorium.

Every year, on the third Sunday in June, we gather at one of our homes, spouse and kids in tow. At least part of the time, we congregate at our respective memorials and laugh, eulogize and tell stories. We followed a strict rotation based on birth order. I’m third up.

I cannot recall any of us ever receiving a gift from my dad when we were young. What was bestowed upon us for birthdays or Christmas or graduation was always the result of a treasure hunt. He would provide us with a clue, whether it was clever, cryptic or genuinely unfunny, and we were expected to deduce the location of the prize based on it. Every blessing had to be earned, because his real gift to us was the knowledge that absolutely nothing came easily and without effort.

KEVIN ARTHUR LAND

Owner, Speaking Volumes Books and Audio 12 Toronto Road, Flesherton kevinarthurland@gmail.com www.kevinarthurland.ca

out of the shed near where my father is in case it might come in handy. My brother Bernie, recalling the pine tree air freshener that always hung from my father’s rear view mirror when we were growing up, is following his own line of inquiry. He has my nephew Terry, a monkey child if there ever was one, shimmying up and down the pine trees near the pond.

I am finishing up making the potato salad and about to go out to start the barbecue. I know the family will be getting hungry soon and will be back looking for sustenance. I wonder how many more rotations it will take before I have 37 acres of arable land when I hear laughter in the distance. The treasure seekers are returning emptyhanded. The young ones will ask for clues, but I will not give them any. The adults know better than to ask. Instead, they give adamant assurances of certain success four years away. We’ll spend the rest of the afternoon on the back deck eating lunch, watching the cousins laughing and running about, one upping each other with funny stories and, in our own way, trying to find our father.

My family came up from the city this morning and are out there now, traipsing every inch of my 37 acres. They came armed with shovels and pulled the wheelbarrow right