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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 06/09/2012
Sprinkle My Ashes
Born 1938, M, from Canon, GA, United StatesSPRINKLE MY ASHES by Michael D. Warner
Copyright 2005 by Michael D. Warner. All rights reserved.
Most of the town knew about it before I did. After all, they had traded with him for more than forty years, and many of them were related, some naturally, the remainder by marriage. They had eaten with him, bowed heads in the same church with him, gone to school with his children and grandchildren, shared stories and laughter with him and finally, had attended his funeral. Those present at the reading of his last will and testament appointed a delegation to carry out his last wishes.
Word had spread fast. By mid-morning of the following day, my pilot lounge at the small airport had filled with curious citizens, of whom none had approached me to conduct any business other than changing paper money into coin for use in the five-cent Coca-Cola machine before which stood a line of perspiring, thirsty onlookers. Most spoke in low tones. Now and then I saw them glance at their watches.
Admittedly, I felt curious. But, small town etiquette prevented me (still an outsider) from asking what probably would have been considered a dumb question.
A quarter hour passed. Then, the door opened. Three black-suited men marched to the counter. Coming to my feet, I smiled and nodded a greeting. Surely, these fellows would ask me a question that would likely answer mine. Instead, they stood stiffly, each clearing his throat as if waiting for one of the others to speak.
The year was 1960. Bussell Field had two runways, one of which was actually paved. A grand total of nine single engine airplanes were based there. As a recently discharged U.S. Air Force veteran, I ran the place for forty dollars per week and whatever odd flights I could pick up. At age twenty-one I was more interested in the young women present than in the upcoming proceedings. Glancing quickly around the room I wondered if any of them might possibly be attracted to a bachelor-pilot. Anyway, one could always hope!
Waiting for the men to speak, I reflected upon the recent demise of a well respected old man and wondered briefly about heaven and hell and that final journey.
**********************************************************
Hiram Brown had lived over eighty-two years the day his heart took permanent rest. Born in Bussell County, he had spent his life on lands trod by generations of his ancestors, hunting, fishing, trapping, clearing fields and farming. Except for a rare trip to the state capitol some fifty-miles distant, Hiram had been content to remain in the county. In later years he leased out the farm, moved to town and opened up a hardware store. He had been well loved by fellow citizens who intended to the best of their ability to carry out his final instructions to the last letter.
It was with this determined sense of purpose and honorable devotion to duty, this grasp of sacred responsibility, that the chosen three approached me.
**********************************************************
I had not really known Hiram Brown, other than exchanging brief pleasantries inside his store when buying nails or rope, or perhaps a few nuts and bolts, and I had no idea at the time how closely associated we were to become.
*****************************************************
A hot sun blazed overhead. Even insects were quiet. It seemed a great effort to breathe.
"Yes sir?" I said to the middle-aged man acting by default as spokesman for the black-suited group. "What can I do for you?"
"We want to take a passenger ride," he blurted, pointing to the painted wooden sign advertising:
PASSENGER RIDES:
$5.00 ONE PERSON
TWO FOR $7.50
THREE FOR $10.00.
"How many want to go?" I asked, which is where the confusion began.
"Three of us," the man soberly replied, carefully flicking a tiny speck of lint from his black sleeve.
The fellow standing to his left nudged him and I waited while the men dropped back to speak together in low whispers. "Don't forget about Hiram," I heard the one on the left say. Then they nodded to each other. Approaching the counter again, the first man who had spoken to me cleared his throat.
"There will be four of us," he informed me, again looking up at the sign. "How much will that run?"
"The airplane only holds a total of four," I explained, eager to have the business. "I can carry three of you and come back for the fourth, then carry him..." I looked around the room, wondering who the other passenger was, maybe one of the pretty girls, "..uh, up for a separate flight," I continued, "for an extra two-fifty."
The man standing on the right leaned down to pick up a small cardboard box. He reverently placed it upright on top of my counter. Then he stepped back a foot or so, as if having accomplished a ritual deed.
"Where's the other passenger?" I asked, removing the worn key to the Cessna 172 from its peg behind the counter then stuffing a Birmingham sectional-chart into my hip pocket.
The three black-suited men were silent for a moment. The two standing on either side of the spokesman expectantly turned their heads toward him. The spokesman frowned, leaned forward, cleared his throat, then whispered: "He's in the box."
"Er, I beg your pardon?" I stammered.
The man nodded his head toward the cardboard box. "It's the ashes of Hiram Brown," he explained. "In the box lays the urn," he added, as if that were a significant fact. "But," he said almost haughtily, "we'll pay you for four. Hiram always paid his own way an' this ain't no different."
The others nodded in unison.
By the time we had completed the preliminaries, the pilot lounge was bustling with well-wishers. Hiram had loved the land and its people, white and black alike. The mourners were still dressed in funeral costume, the men crisp and uncomfortable in black suits and vests and heavily starched white shirts. The women wore more colorful garb, but only just so, mainly white and gray and all wore hats having thin veils that could be pulled down in front.
I heard nickels dropping and knew the Coke machine in the far corner was doing a good business. Outside, the June sun blazed hotly. Spring was over and Summer promised to be fierce.
As I stepped into the sunshine, I began to make the connection between the box of Hiram's ashes and the airplane ride. While untying the airplane and opening its doors, the spokesman informed me the purpose of the flight.
My mouth was still open as we squeezed into the hot airplane, perspiring freely as starched collars wilted in the heat and armpits quickly soaked shirts. It felt much better after I started the engine and shoved my door open to pull in a blast of cooling air from the prop while taxiing to the far end of runway one-seven.
The man holding the box sat behind me in the left rear seat. By the time we had reached the end of the runway, he had removed the brown urn and was cradling it gently in his lap.
The last part of Hiram's instructions in his lengthy will had been: "...and sprinkle my ashes over the land I love," leaving it to his survivors to select the best method.
With a final glance at seat-belts and door latches, I shoved the throttle forward and we began to gather speed. Just under maximum gross weight, traveling two-thirds of the runway length, the single-engine ship bravely hauled us away from the scorching pavement and into the clear air of Bussell County.
I shouted over the engine's roar, "Where do you want to start?"
The man beside me leaned over the seat to consult with his two partners. Presently, he moved his head close to mine and shouted: "We'll start over the farm."
"Where's that?"
He pointed, and I banked the ship to take up a new heading. Minutes later, at three-thousand feet I extended full flaps and throttled back the engine. Then I made a gentle descending turn to the left, circling Hiram's white farmhouse nestled upon a tree covered, grassy knoll. I sensed motion behind me and the man sitting beside me suddenly shouted: "Now!"
Popping open the left window, I was instantly blinded by a shower of dry ashes. The cockpit was a snowstorm of white and brown flakes. All of us coughed and sneezed. Wiping my eyes, I heard the man behind me shout to no one in particular: "There's still a few left!" I squinted my eyes and tensed. When the chore was done, I closed the window.
The return trip was flown in silence. After landing, I taxied toward the gas pit, swinging wide to avoid the crowd of onlookers gathered just outside the operations office. The black suits of my passengers were now charcoal gray down the fronts of the coats and pants. I parked the Cessna and we deplaned.
Patting the twelve-fifty in my pocket, I watched the men dust some of what had been Hiram from their clothes. Hopefully inconspicuously, I did likewise to my faded khakis. The men walked away, and amid sudden fits of sneezing I heard them talking about what to do with the empty urn. Then they were gone.
*************************************************
I was sweat soaked again by the time I had finished vacuuming the interior of that airplane. Continuing my clean up task, I entertained solemn thoughts, occasionally flicking an ash from my bare arm, wondering what lurked beyond the gates of death? At twenty-one dying seemed a never-never thing, and such thoughts as a young man held about it were quickly dispelled by the pressing mundanities of everyday life. Yet, it was a thoughtful young pilot who walked slowly back to the office that day.
************************************************
That night, I lay on my cot tossing and turning for nearly an hour before swinging my legs to the floor. I knew what I had to do. Dressing hastily, I rubbed bleary eyes.
One hour later, the shovel gleamed in moonlight beside the pile of dirt it had unearthed. Standing with head bowed, I mumbled a short prayer: "...ashes to ashes ...dust to dust."
I shook the contents of the vacuum-cleaner bag into the small grave, then pushed damp dirt back into the hole on top of it. "Goodbye, Hiram," I muttered.
I made my way back to the building and fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
----THE END----
Sprinkle My Ashes(Michael D. Warner)
SPRINKLE MY ASHES by Michael D. Warner
Copyright 2005 by Michael D. Warner. All rights reserved.
Most of the town knew about it before I did. After all, they had traded with him for more than forty years, and many of them were related, some naturally, the remainder by marriage. They had eaten with him, bowed heads in the same church with him, gone to school with his children and grandchildren, shared stories and laughter with him and finally, had attended his funeral. Those present at the reading of his last will and testament appointed a delegation to carry out his last wishes.
Word had spread fast. By mid-morning of the following day, my pilot lounge at the small airport had filled with curious citizens, of whom none had approached me to conduct any business other than changing paper money into coin for use in the five-cent Coca-Cola machine before which stood a line of perspiring, thirsty onlookers. Most spoke in low tones. Now and then I saw them glance at their watches.
Admittedly, I felt curious. But, small town etiquette prevented me (still an outsider) from asking what probably would have been considered a dumb question.
A quarter hour passed. Then, the door opened. Three black-suited men marched to the counter. Coming to my feet, I smiled and nodded a greeting. Surely, these fellows would ask me a question that would likely answer mine. Instead, they stood stiffly, each clearing his throat as if waiting for one of the others to speak.
The year was 1960. Bussell Field had two runways, one of which was actually paved. A grand total of nine single engine airplanes were based there. As a recently discharged U.S. Air Force veteran, I ran the place for forty dollars per week and whatever odd flights I could pick up. At age twenty-one I was more interested in the young women present than in the upcoming proceedings. Glancing quickly around the room I wondered if any of them might possibly be attracted to a bachelor-pilot. Anyway, one could always hope!
Waiting for the men to speak, I reflected upon the recent demise of a well respected old man and wondered briefly about heaven and hell and that final journey.
**********************************************************
Hiram Brown had lived over eighty-two years the day his heart took permanent rest. Born in Bussell County, he had spent his life on lands trod by generations of his ancestors, hunting, fishing, trapping, clearing fields and farming. Except for a rare trip to the state capitol some fifty-miles distant, Hiram had been content to remain in the county. In later years he leased out the farm, moved to town and opened up a hardware store. He had been well loved by fellow citizens who intended to the best of their ability to carry out his final instructions to the last letter.
It was with this determined sense of purpose and honorable devotion to duty, this grasp of sacred responsibility, that the chosen three approached me.
**********************************************************
I had not really known Hiram Brown, other than exchanging brief pleasantries inside his store when buying nails or rope, or perhaps a few nuts and bolts, and I had no idea at the time how closely associated we were to become.
*****************************************************
A hot sun blazed overhead. Even insects were quiet. It seemed a great effort to breathe.
"Yes sir?" I said to the middle-aged man acting by default as spokesman for the black-suited group. "What can I do for you?"
"We want to take a passenger ride," he blurted, pointing to the painted wooden sign advertising:
PASSENGER RIDES:
$5.00 ONE PERSON
TWO FOR $7.50
THREE FOR $10.00.
"How many want to go?" I asked, which is where the confusion began.
"Three of us," the man soberly replied, carefully flicking a tiny speck of lint from his black sleeve.
The fellow standing to his left nudged him and I waited while the men dropped back to speak together in low whispers. "Don't forget about Hiram," I heard the one on the left say. Then they nodded to each other. Approaching the counter again, the first man who had spoken to me cleared his throat.
"There will be four of us," he informed me, again looking up at the sign. "How much will that run?"
"The airplane only holds a total of four," I explained, eager to have the business. "I can carry three of you and come back for the fourth, then carry him..." I looked around the room, wondering who the other passenger was, maybe one of the pretty girls, "..uh, up for a separate flight," I continued, "for an extra two-fifty."
The man standing on the right leaned down to pick up a small cardboard box. He reverently placed it upright on top of my counter. Then he stepped back a foot or so, as if having accomplished a ritual deed.
"Where's the other passenger?" I asked, removing the worn key to the Cessna 172 from its peg behind the counter then stuffing a Birmingham sectional-chart into my hip pocket.
The three black-suited men were silent for a moment. The two standing on either side of the spokesman expectantly turned their heads toward him. The spokesman frowned, leaned forward, cleared his throat, then whispered: "He's in the box."
"Er, I beg your pardon?" I stammered.
The man nodded his head toward the cardboard box. "It's the ashes of Hiram Brown," he explained. "In the box lays the urn," he added, as if that were a significant fact. "But," he said almost haughtily, "we'll pay you for four. Hiram always paid his own way an' this ain't no different."
The others nodded in unison.
By the time we had completed the preliminaries, the pilot lounge was bustling with well-wishers. Hiram had loved the land and its people, white and black alike. The mourners were still dressed in funeral costume, the men crisp and uncomfortable in black suits and vests and heavily starched white shirts. The women wore more colorful garb, but only just so, mainly white and gray and all wore hats having thin veils that could be pulled down in front.
I heard nickels dropping and knew the Coke machine in the far corner was doing a good business. Outside, the June sun blazed hotly. Spring was over and Summer promised to be fierce.
As I stepped into the sunshine, I began to make the connection between the box of Hiram's ashes and the airplane ride. While untying the airplane and opening its doors, the spokesman informed me the purpose of the flight.
My mouth was still open as we squeezed into the hot airplane, perspiring freely as starched collars wilted in the heat and armpits quickly soaked shirts. It felt much better after I started the engine and shoved my door open to pull in a blast of cooling air from the prop while taxiing to the far end of runway one-seven.
The man holding the box sat behind me in the left rear seat. By the time we had reached the end of the runway, he had removed the brown urn and was cradling it gently in his lap.
The last part of Hiram's instructions in his lengthy will had been: "...and sprinkle my ashes over the land I love," leaving it to his survivors to select the best method.
With a final glance at seat-belts and door latches, I shoved the throttle forward and we began to gather speed. Just under maximum gross weight, traveling two-thirds of the runway length, the single-engine ship bravely hauled us away from the scorching pavement and into the clear air of Bussell County.
I shouted over the engine's roar, "Where do you want to start?"
The man beside me leaned over the seat to consult with his two partners. Presently, he moved his head close to mine and shouted: "We'll start over the farm."
"Where's that?"
He pointed, and I banked the ship to take up a new heading. Minutes later, at three-thousand feet I extended full flaps and throttled back the engine. Then I made a gentle descending turn to the left, circling Hiram's white farmhouse nestled upon a tree covered, grassy knoll. I sensed motion behind me and the man sitting beside me suddenly shouted: "Now!"
Popping open the left window, I was instantly blinded by a shower of dry ashes. The cockpit was a snowstorm of white and brown flakes. All of us coughed and sneezed. Wiping my eyes, I heard the man behind me shout to no one in particular: "There's still a few left!" I squinted my eyes and tensed. When the chore was done, I closed the window.
The return trip was flown in silence. After landing, I taxied toward the gas pit, swinging wide to avoid the crowd of onlookers gathered just outside the operations office. The black suits of my passengers were now charcoal gray down the fronts of the coats and pants. I parked the Cessna and we deplaned.
Patting the twelve-fifty in my pocket, I watched the men dust some of what had been Hiram from their clothes. Hopefully inconspicuously, I did likewise to my faded khakis. The men walked away, and amid sudden fits of sneezing I heard them talking about what to do with the empty urn. Then they were gone.
*************************************************
I was sweat soaked again by the time I had finished vacuuming the interior of that airplane. Continuing my clean up task, I entertained solemn thoughts, occasionally flicking an ash from my bare arm, wondering what lurked beyond the gates of death? At twenty-one dying seemed a never-never thing, and such thoughts as a young man held about it were quickly dispelled by the pressing mundanities of everyday life. Yet, it was a thoughtful young pilot who walked slowly back to the office that day.
************************************************
That night, I lay on my cot tossing and turning for nearly an hour before swinging my legs to the floor. I knew what I had to do. Dressing hastily, I rubbed bleary eyes.
One hour later, the shovel gleamed in moonlight beside the pile of dirt it had unearthed. Standing with head bowed, I mumbled a short prayer: "...ashes to ashes ...dust to dust."
I shook the contents of the vacuum-cleaner bag into the small grave, then pushed damp dirt back into the hole on top of it. "Goodbye, Hiram," I muttered.
I made my way back to the building and fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
----THE END----
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