Forty-eight hours after I saw my Dad die, I stood in front of his wooden casket, in a matching, brown dress. I regarded the box with curiosity, but didn’t feel much. The body inside, the envelope as my husband calls it, wasn’t the father I knew and loved.
We stood together in front of the casket; my traditional mother, my ultra-orthodox brother and ever-secular me, in the low-lit, kleenex-strewn family room of a Jewish funeral home. The funeral director reached for my Mom’s and my neck, ripping our black scarves with gusto and a blade, then went at the lapel of my brother’s jacket. While I appreciate the poetry of these symbols, I felt no need to tear my clothes to show that I was sad, and would have preferred wearing green to honor my father’s long and fertile life. When the director asked us to approach the coffin, to apologize, ask for forgiveness or whisper something we still needed to say, I smiled through my tears. We said it all when he was alive.
Days after we buried my father, dear farmer friends suggested that we plant a tree in tribute, ringing my heart like a bell. Through the wilds of our family life, my father was a mountain of wisdom, a legendary sea of calm. My friends’ organic farm in Hemmingford, Quebec was the place to remember him, and, in their words, to dig holes and reach the sky.
What could do justice to the man? Oak. The word alone is sturdy. Known to survive thousands of years, the Genus Quercus dazzles an open field and covers my winding staircase and dancing floors. I was having trouble finding a baby tree until early one morning while feeding the sheep, my friends discovered a squirrel was plucking acorns off the single, old oak on their property and planting them as a future food source. My father nurtured entrepreneurship throughout his teaching career and I covet growing what we eat. To harvest and share what we reap.
Love lives forever on a farm. My friends transplanted a choice bud and scoped out its home, close to the churning compost where Leopold the Llama stands guard and some happy sheep roam. Life and death loom under the deep blue sky. My father, the good earth, the roots of my tree.
Next post about my Dad: How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love the Vote.
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An eternal lover of HBO’s Six Feet Under, I’m always on the look-out for eco-burial ideas. Check out this awesome urn that will turn you into a tree!
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20 Responses to A Family Tree
All Very Touching Brenda,with warm regards,Morty
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That’s so perfect, Brenda. The planting of tree, beautiful.
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Indeed, the earth nourishes all its souls. Your Dad was indeed a mighty Oak Tree in the human
world. Love, Myrna
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Oh, you brought the tears out with this post. I think I could ask no more of life than to be remembered in such a way, and guarded by such a faithful llama. Your family, your father, your spirit – thank for sharing these beautiful, sacred things.
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Thanks, Jennie. It helps to share.
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[…] If you’d like to know more about my Dad, read Part 2: A Family Tree. […]
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A mighty oak of a man, indeed! Lovely words and lovely photos.
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Thank you for expressing your feelings so eloquently for all of us to experience
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What a lovely idea: a tree to celebrate a life. It is very poetic too. I hope that you are well. Losing a loved one is one of the most difficult things that I have experienced. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.
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I am glad I found your blog today. Lost my Dad at age 15 and it still hurts today. I am 62. However the hurt is that strange but wonderful taste of bitter sweet. My best to you.
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Thank you.. I am very touched by your lovely words.
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Thank you all! Your beautiful comments seed the garden of my heart.
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This was absolutely beautiful, I am definitely crying.
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Thank you, La La. Open hearts open hearts.
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A daughter’s a daughter all her life.
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Thank you for that, Juanita. Exactly right.
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