[Cont.] On to my first important point, which is actually just an extended (bizarre, incongruous) story: On Friday the 13th, my aunt and uncle were in town for the approximate 10-year anniversary of my paternal grandma's death. My Aunt Jane had called my dad several months ago, informing him that she had their father's ashes (he died in 1988) and was incapable of disposing of them by herself. At the time, we had my grandma's ashes in our house (my dad didn't remember where exactly, which appalled my mom). It was decided that this 16-year lapse in filial duty should end over the summer, in the DC area, after dinner at my house and copious wine. The adults agreed upon American University as the final resting site, since my Grandma Muriel was head of the Sociology Department and apparently my Grandpa Joel obtained an Anthropology degree there. (I have no idea what he did with it, since I think he was a Psychology Ph.D.)


Anyway, the adults wanted to do this on Saturday, but I pointed out (joking) that illegal acts like ash-scattering are better done under cover of darkness. There was the added draw that they would be tipsy at the time (with the exception of my dad); this happy confluence of bravado and natural concealment was unlikely to be repeated at midday. As we got our jackets and filed into the car, my father reminded us that we didn't know ash-scattering was illegal. There had been some talk of trying to obtain permission: "Hey, do you remember Professor C.?" my dad had said, mock-enthusiastically. "Well, we've got her remains here, and we think it would be a great idea to scatter them somewhere on campus." (Beat.) "Oh, by the way, she won't be in class on Monday." Now, in the car, my Uncle Murray announced that he didn't believe what we planned to do - namely, evade campus security long enough to shadily dispose of human remains in a flower bed - was illegal, anyway.

"It doesn't matter whether you believe it," my dad said, thoughtfully. "This is not some existential question about whether God is alive."

My mom and aunt, both lawyers (and sharing the backseat with me), quickly chimed in that they were certain it was illegal, but willing to pretend otherwise; they had learned about it in law school.

"In cremation class?" my uncle said.

On River Road, we approached the turnoff to my grandparents' old house. The adults were suddenly overcome by this promising new opportunity to expedite the ash-scattering. It was even, apparently, not technically trespassing to do so - as long as we stayed in the grassy strip at the periphery of the lawn, which was public property. As a sober person, I felt it was my moral obligation to object stridently. "Think of the Golden Rule!" I said. "Would you want strangers coming to your house at night to do such a thing? Would you want your children to dispose of you in a drainage ditch?" The others claimed they wouldn't mind, but, grudgingly, we continued on the route to AU. After about 15 minutes of attempted parking (God, acting through the construction patterns on campus, apparently did not smile on our task), we found a small lot in walking distance of the Sociology building. Carrying our two small parcels (one was in a cardboard box, and the other looked like simulated wood?), we self-consciously traversed the remaining distance; my dad and uncle talked about what a terrible postmodern story this would make, and how some further zany misadventures must inevitably befall us.

I said, "What would really be appropriate is if we had all gotten in a car accident on the way and died."

Outside the Sociology building was a bed of black-eyed susans and a path extending, eventually, to a main road; an AU bus parked ominously across the street. The two men opened their parcels to reveal plastic bags. I had been waiting the entire time to see whether the ashes would really look like kitty litter (as in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was over-referenced that night), and I was disappointed to discover they were too fine and not gritty enough, more like dusty sand. Well, my dad and uncle punctured the bags and upended them over the flower bed, where the white ashes fell in wide swirls, in jarring contrast to the dirt. Everyone noticed this discrepancy and wasn't sure what to do. My grandma and grandpa were both at the very least agnostic, and their children were the same; nothing had been said to consecrate the act, and I don't think anyone knew of a decorous way to obscure the ashes. My father, matter-of-factly, began to kick dirt over them.

I felt a little sick. "Dad, you're stepping on your parents."

He said, "I think a good ending to the story would be if we realized the ashes were too conspicuous, so we peed on them."

My mom and aunt decried that as a terribly inappropriate joke, and we all walked back to the car (with a brief stop to discard the bags and boxes in a dumpster). I don't remember my grandpa much, but I used to participate in AU academic life a little with my grandma. I remember sitting in on a class, being babysat, when I was eight; I tried to keep still and look attentive so the other students might think I was a precocious college student, and I was surprised to find I understood most of the lecture. Another time, I handed out hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party for her graduate students, feeling grown-up and self-satisfied. The second to last time I was at AU was for my grandma's memorial service (the last time was for those As You Like It hijinks), but the campus seemed surprisingly familiar. I walked up ahead with my dad, wearing my blue windbreaker, and he put his arm around me; I told him that his peeing ending idea lacked verisimilitude. [I think my second important point will wait until later, because I'd like to post before I go out this evening.]