My friend Aris, who died in December, made clear what he wanted done with his ashes. It’s on my to-do list for this spring. He wanted them sprinkled around the tree that stands in front of our house. I’m frankly not sure why. He visited rarely, only once in the last forty or so years, when he attended my daughter’s wedding here in 2019. But something about the location spoke to him: the unfolding lawn and woods, sky and clouds, and a gently curving road that could serve as metaphor for a journey about to start or one that has finally reached its destination.
I’d have assumed that Aris would have wanted his ashes spread in Central Park. That’s where we met for years on warm spring and summer days, on the benches opposite Tavern on the Green, to drink and smoke and watch the world go by. Or perhaps in Riverside Park, outside his apartment window.
My understanding is that disposing of ashes in New York City parks isn’t strictly legal, though I doubt that has prevented many people from hesitating to do so. If that’s someone’s wish it seems to me that we ought to honor it. I think that we can all agree that there exists a higher power with whom the deceased’s friends and relatives are engaging than the New York City Parks Department.
I’ve never before dealt with ashes any larger than a family pet’s. I can’t recall exactly how much the funeral home told me to expect the package would weigh. But it’s heavy enough that its disposal could present a challenge if one isn’t planning to purchase a niche and consecrate them permanently at a columbarium. The only advice that the funeral director gave me is that if I was considering releasing them into the Hudson River, several short blocks from the funeral parlor, I first remove them from the box.
They’ve had previous unfortunate experiences where the police showed up bearing some client’s remains in their original box. Their survivors simply chucked them into the water. Having mentioned the issue to friends — various ash disposal strategies, that is — what I’ve discovered is that some, perhaps many, people never get around to addressing it. My hunch is that the cremains sit around, the responsibility shirked from one generation to the next, until eventually nobody can associate a name with them.
But Aris’s ashes aren’t the part of his estate that poses the greatest conundrum. I, and his other friends, will be honored to follow his wishes and give them a proper sendoff. He was an only child, survived his wife, and has no other close family. A greater dilemma is disposing of the hundreds of family photos that my friend left behind. They’re exactly what you’d expect: framed baby photos, a black and image of Aris’s mom on the beach at Asbury Park in 1936, Aris riding a pony as a small child.
I contacted a couple of distant cousins to ask whether they’d care to assume responsibility for the artifacts but never heard back. Aris’s wife Carole, a writer and poet who supported herself reading tarot cards — she had a devoted following including at least one celebrity whose thank you note I came across while cleaning out the apartment — died in 2018. She also left no family besides her husband so I became responsible for finding a home for her stuff, too. A friend of hers took most of it — diaries, photo albums, and dozens of charming, whimsical, inventive packs of homemade tarot cards that may have been Carole’s most impressive creative act. I loaded them into the back of my car, drove them down the New York State Thruway, and dropped them off at her house in February.
I suppose that leaves me as Aris’s archivist. I have some experience in the field. I’m already serving that role for my parents, grandparents and even earlier generations. My mother, wisely, identified her relatives in photographs dating back to the 19th century and wrote their names on the backs of the images. Had she not they might already be lost to time.
Even so, it seems inevitable that they, too, eventually fade into obscurity; all of us, unless we’re famous and our fame endures, will be forgotten. I’m not counting on Wikipedia to immortalize me. We started as stardust and to stardust we’ll return. Many people couldn’t care — I’m talking about preserving the past. They’re unburdened by such issues. Everything without monetary value goes straight into the dumpster. They say they’re focused on the future. I get it. But a reverence for the past and an eagerness to embrace tomorrow can be juggled simultaneously.
I agree with Willy Loman’s wife in Death of a Salesman and her utterance about her husband after he dies: attention must be paid! A person’s inherent dignity needs to be recognized. Ultimately, it all boils down to stories told in the memories and memory aids that we leave behind. There’s something sacred about those stories. Whether the person was mighty or weak, rich or poor.
I enjoy reading the obituaries in the local paper. Their subjects weren’t famous beyond their friends and family. They may have lived ostensibly unremarkable lives, whatever that means. But they were loved and respected and that’s no small accomplishment.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
