stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2021-06-20 07:55 pm
stevenpiziks) wrote2021-06-20 07:55 pm
Entry tags:
Burying Shawn
Right at the beginning of the pandemic, Darwin's brother Shawn passed away in Arizona. Darwin and Shawn weren't super close, but Darwin was still upset, and, worse, the pandemic prevented us from traveling down there. On top of it all, Shawn's family down there ended up pushing most of the arrangements onto Darwin. From a distance, he arranged to have Shawn cremated and his ashes sent up to Michigan. Darwin wanted to have Shawn's ashes buried up in Onaway, Michigan, where his family has a burial plot, but the pandemic prevented that. And so the ashes waited in our house in Commerce, and then the house in Albion, and then the condo in Waterford.
Now, though, the pandemic has calmed down, thanks to the vaccine, and I told Darwin that this would be an ideal time to bury Shawn. We both had time now, and things are going to become extremely busy for us very soon. He agreed. We decided to head up to Onaway on Friday, inter the ashes, spend the night, and come home on Saturday.
I called the village and explained the situation to the clerk. There was some back-and-forth while she checked records and such, but in the end she said everything was arranged and could we meet at the cemetery on Friday at one o'clock? We could.
Meanwhile, the cremains were still in their original cardboard mailer. Darwin very much liked the rosewood box with a tree carved on it that I'd found for my dad's ashes, so I ordered another one just like it for Shawn. When it arrived, we transferred Shawn's ashes and sealed the box.
We made the three-hour drive in good time and arrived in Onaway. It's a tiny town fairly close to Mackinac City that seems to depend on tourists for its living. The graveyard is also tiny, and Darwin easily located the family plot. It helped that someone had already dug a hole and left a traffic cone to mark the spot. We were about half an hour early, and Darwin examined other family graves and shared stories about the people.
Eventually, the clerk arrived with a Department of Public Works worker in tow. Darwin handed over the burial paperwork that had arrived with the ashes from Arizona, and she accompanied us to the site, where Darwin placed the box into the grave. He wasn't up to saying anything, so we had a moment of silence. Darwin couldn't bear to watch the actual burial, so he and I took a walk while the worker handled that part. And so it was done.
Darwin wanted a marker on the spot, and the clerk had told us that the best (only) place to get one was the funeral home in Onaway. So we headed over there. The funeral home was right across the street from village hall, in fact. We entered the place, and eventually a woman in a black shirt and slacks came up from the basement stairs to ask how she could help us. When we explained we wanted a gravestone, she said that the funeral director was the only one who could help with that, and he wasn't available just then. Perhaps we could make an appointment for next week? We said we lived three hours away and were only in town until tomorrow morning--Saturday. Could we make an appointment for then? She laughed this off. "Saturday? No, never."
"Is this something we could ultimately handle over the phone?" I persisted.
She thought about that, then laboriously went down the stairs to the basement again. When she came back up, she said that we could indeed do it over the phone. She gave us some pamphlets and catalogs for headstones, and we left.
"That was weird," Darwin said. "The director couldn't meet with us on a Saturday? Do people not die on Saturdays in Onaway?"
"You know why he couldn't meet with us now and why she kept going into the basement to talk to him, right?" I said. "The embalming room is in the basement. He was . . . occupied with another client. The funeral is probably tomorrow, which is why he couldn't meet."
"Ah," said Darwin with a nod, and we drove off.
There was no place to stay in Onaway itself, and I had found us an Airbnb in the unfortunately-named town of Indian River, about twenty minutes away. We'd driven through Indian River on our way to Mackinaw, in fact, and had even eaten at a restaurant there a couple times, but had never spent significant time there.
The Airbnb turned out to be a studio apartment that had once been the host's attached garage, and it was very nice and exactly what we needed. We explored the town a little and got ice cream at a charming ice cream and candy store on the main street. We also stumbled across Burt Lake entirely by accident.
Burt Lake has been a resort area since at least 1910. It's an enormous lake that connects to another lake, that connects to yet another lake, which finally connects to Lake Michigan. Burt Lake is large and clear, with a delightful public beach just a few blocks from downtown Indian River. Darwin and I got there as the sun was setting in a spectacular blaze of red and pink and orange. A quay juts out into the lake, and we walked down it, enjoying it very much.
Cottages and vacation homes of all sizes ring Burt Lake, and you can see by the architecture that most of them went up in the 1910s and 20s, though they've been meticulously maintained and updated. Back in those days, it was the thing to board a steamer and chug around the network of lakes, as many publicly-displayed photos of women in long skirts and tiny hats and men in high collars and tweed jackets attest. It was also common to tie a string of rowboats behind the steamers for the more daring among the vacationers. As a result of all the boating and of the river that divides the land into a series of tiny islands near the lake, there's a series of little canals and eddies and streams (both natural and artificial) around the area that are crying to be explored on a kayak or canoe. Darwin and I were completely charmed and we both agreed that our next trip to northern Michigan would be to Indian River so we could swim and boat and explore to our heart's content.
We conked out hard at the Airbnb, and in the morning we had a delicious breakfast at a very nice café, where we people-watched an elderly Amish couple, a group of good-old-boys, and a breathtakingly handsome young man who looked like Clark Kent in a ball cap. He arrived alone, ate alone, and left alone. We wondered what his story was.
And then it was home. For all that it was for a sad reason, the trip was a fine one.
Now, though, the pandemic has calmed down, thanks to the vaccine, and I told Darwin that this would be an ideal time to bury Shawn. We both had time now, and things are going to become extremely busy for us very soon. He agreed. We decided to head up to Onaway on Friday, inter the ashes, spend the night, and come home on Saturday.
I called the village and explained the situation to the clerk. There was some back-and-forth while she checked records and such, but in the end she said everything was arranged and could we meet at the cemetery on Friday at one o'clock? We could.
Meanwhile, the cremains were still in their original cardboard mailer. Darwin very much liked the rosewood box with a tree carved on it that I'd found for my dad's ashes, so I ordered another one just like it for Shawn. When it arrived, we transferred Shawn's ashes and sealed the box.
We made the three-hour drive in good time and arrived in Onaway. It's a tiny town fairly close to Mackinac City that seems to depend on tourists for its living. The graveyard is also tiny, and Darwin easily located the family plot. It helped that someone had already dug a hole and left a traffic cone to mark the spot. We were about half an hour early, and Darwin examined other family graves and shared stories about the people.
Eventually, the clerk arrived with a Department of Public Works worker in tow. Darwin handed over the burial paperwork that had arrived with the ashes from Arizona, and she accompanied us to the site, where Darwin placed the box into the grave. He wasn't up to saying anything, so we had a moment of silence. Darwin couldn't bear to watch the actual burial, so he and I took a walk while the worker handled that part. And so it was done.
Darwin wanted a marker on the spot, and the clerk had told us that the best (only) place to get one was the funeral home in Onaway. So we headed over there. The funeral home was right across the street from village hall, in fact. We entered the place, and eventually a woman in a black shirt and slacks came up from the basement stairs to ask how she could help us. When we explained we wanted a gravestone, she said that the funeral director was the only one who could help with that, and he wasn't available just then. Perhaps we could make an appointment for next week? We said we lived three hours away and were only in town until tomorrow morning--Saturday. Could we make an appointment for then? She laughed this off. "Saturday? No, never."
"Is this something we could ultimately handle over the phone?" I persisted.
She thought about that, then laboriously went down the stairs to the basement again. When she came back up, she said that we could indeed do it over the phone. She gave us some pamphlets and catalogs for headstones, and we left.
"That was weird," Darwin said. "The director couldn't meet with us on a Saturday? Do people not die on Saturdays in Onaway?"
"You know why he couldn't meet with us now and why she kept going into the basement to talk to him, right?" I said. "The embalming room is in the basement. He was . . . occupied with another client. The funeral is probably tomorrow, which is why he couldn't meet."
"Ah," said Darwin with a nod, and we drove off.
There was no place to stay in Onaway itself, and I had found us an Airbnb in the unfortunately-named town of Indian River, about twenty minutes away. We'd driven through Indian River on our way to Mackinaw, in fact, and had even eaten at a restaurant there a couple times, but had never spent significant time there.
The Airbnb turned out to be a studio apartment that had once been the host's attached garage, and it was very nice and exactly what we needed. We explored the town a little and got ice cream at a charming ice cream and candy store on the main street. We also stumbled across Burt Lake entirely by accident.
Burt Lake has been a resort area since at least 1910. It's an enormous lake that connects to another lake, that connects to yet another lake, which finally connects to Lake Michigan. Burt Lake is large and clear, with a delightful public beach just a few blocks from downtown Indian River. Darwin and I got there as the sun was setting in a spectacular blaze of red and pink and orange. A quay juts out into the lake, and we walked down it, enjoying it very much.
Cottages and vacation homes of all sizes ring Burt Lake, and you can see by the architecture that most of them went up in the 1910s and 20s, though they've been meticulously maintained and updated. Back in those days, it was the thing to board a steamer and chug around the network of lakes, as many publicly-displayed photos of women in long skirts and tiny hats and men in high collars and tweed jackets attest. It was also common to tie a string of rowboats behind the steamers for the more daring among the vacationers. As a result of all the boating and of the river that divides the land into a series of tiny islands near the lake, there's a series of little canals and eddies and streams (both natural and artificial) around the area that are crying to be explored on a kayak or canoe. Darwin and I were completely charmed and we both agreed that our next trip to northern Michigan would be to Indian River so we could swim and boat and explore to our heart's content.
We conked out hard at the Airbnb, and in the morning we had a delicious breakfast at a very nice café, where we people-watched an elderly Amish couple, a group of good-old-boys, and a breathtakingly handsome young man who looked like Clark Kent in a ball cap. He arrived alone, ate alone, and left alone. We wondered what his story was.
And then it was home. For all that it was for a sad reason, the trip was a fine one.