Southan Comiiiiimcation loumal VoL 71. No. 2. lune 2006. pp. 195-J03 | ^ Tiylori.

FrancisCr<x,p

Ashes of Love
Thomas Frentz

Born of love, bearer of the light of kindness ln.scription on Janice's gravestone Shortly after 8:00 a.m., November 20, 2003 in Miami Beach, Janice delivered her last convention paper to thi Ethnography Division panel participants and about six early risers. That paper concludes this issue, and Art Bochner cites it in his tribute to Janice. Her paper was entitled, "It Should Have Been A Wedding: Metaphors of Life and Dealh at a Funeral." She spoke compassionately of Dianne Hocker, who died of cancer only a month after marrying Janices brother, Ed. No one could possibly have known at the time how prophetic her remarks were to become, for as she was speaking, Janice had one day les.s than three months to live herself. Here are a few lines from her last paragraph: Ed and Gary |brother-in-law Gary Hawk] climb Ml. Harvard, one of the majestic 14,000-11 utters ol Colorado's t^ollegiate Peaks. It is an arduous ascent, but it is Dianne's most sacred place. In addition to the sleeping bags and five days' supply of food, the tvko men carry two small packages that are not "issc-niials." Ed tells me about it later. With wonder, he describes the clarity of the air at that height and the magnificent white, bearded mountain goats that showed up mysteriously to follow them silently to the highest point lul and (^ir\ raise their small wooden boxes, opening the lids while their audience of horned ones looks on curiously. Tlies release Dianne's ashes like feathers in the wind, not knowing where they will fall. (2003, p. 11) I had intended here to segue into another story of ashes-this one about me cartying Janice's ashes, not up Mt. Harvard, but to Tincup, Colorado. Little did 1 realize, however, how complicated this story was about to become. The one I'm about to tell is still

Thomas Frentz, Univcrsii) of Arkansas, I'aycttcville. I presented an abbreviated version of thi.s tribute at the N(;.\ convention in Chicago, 2004.1 loved, lived and wTOte with lanice for almost 24 years. 1 would like to thank Art Bochner for his careful reading of earlier versions of this stor>-, although I greatly regret having to writo tt Correspondence concerning this article should be sent to the author at Department of Communication, 417 Kimpel Hall. University of Arkansas, Fayetteville, AR 7270t. E-mail: tfrentzP'uark.edu ISSN I(l4l-794x (print) i 2006 Southern St.ites Clommunication Association DOI: 10.1080/llM1794060068.?.S62

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a tale of ashes, it still involves a trip to Tincup, and it still involves love, but, unbeknownst to me at the time, it would evolve into much more than I thought it would be.

My original plan was to leave Fayetteville on July 1, drive to "Shalom," the Hocker cabin, inter Janice's ashes in the Tincup cemetery and head back home. But then, sometime in March, I got this call from Janice's brother, Ed. After sharing a few pleasantries, he offered this apparent non sequitur. "You know, I didn't scatter all of Dianne's ashes on Mt. Harvard." "Oh?" "No, I kept some, although at the time I didn't know why. But now I do. Dianne spent her life looking for a family that would love and accept her, and she finally found it with us." "I'm sure that's right," I say, still not knowing where this is leading. "I'd really like to bury the rest of her ashes in Tincup, next to Janice's." A long pause. "But I really don'l want to do anything that might distract frotn what you are planning for Janice." "Ed, you would be adding to, not taking away. We could just have two services." "I suppose, but I still don't feel totally comfortable with the idea. Maybe I could do it some other timeto keep the two services more separate, more individualized." "F.d," 1 say vdth some conviction, "this is a ritual of completion, not of competition." 1 hat seemed to help. After another long pause, he says, "OKI guess you're right. I've already got the inscription for her grave stone. It goes, 'All who wander are not lost.'" "That's just beautiful. Where's it from?" "J. R. R. Tolkien. It's something a wizard once said about his own travels. It just seemed appropriate. And I've located someone here in Colorado Springs to carve the stones. Do you know what you want to say on Janice's?" "Not yet. I want to talk with Joyce and (lary about that. They're better than I am at capturing Janice in a few short phrases. But I'll get back with you soon." And with that, one set of ashes became two.

When Janice's parents, Lamar and Jean Hocker, came to Fayetteville for Janice's final weeks, we all knew that something was wrong with Jean. But this was Janice's time, and so we rationalized away her discomfort as some .stress-related ailment. We were wrong, very wrong. After they returned to Colorado, Jean's abdominal pains intensified to the point where, as Lamar would tell me later, "Some nights she would sob all night doubled over in pain." When Jean, who could, and had, endured most things, could no longer

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endure this, she checked into the hospital in early June for some tests. Most were inconclusi\ e; one was not. Once again, Ed called as the bearer of bad news. "It doesn't look very good." "So what have we got this time?" I ask, but already know. "There's a fairly large tumor in her pancreas. They've put a shunt between her pancreas and her liver, and that relieved her jaundice, but that's a very temporary fk." "Pancreatic cancer is bad, right? " "Right. It's painful, lethal, untreatable, and quick," he adds. "The quick part is tlie only 'good news' here." I get off the phone stunned and outraged. What ihc fiick is going on here?! Utuiet what conditions does a family lose so many of its members all at once? (^ar wrecks, plane crashes, murder/suicides, terrorist attacks, even plagues in days of yore, all come to mind. But never anything like this. Never from an illness with an almost conscious intetit to take out an entire family in less than a year. Cancer is sweeping through the Hockers like a wild fire through a parched forest. Then 1 calm down. Several days later, I fly to Colorado Springs and stay for a week, then Joyce takes over the next week, and after Joyce, Jean's brother, Fred, flies in from Seattle for still a third week. This "tag team" arrangement frees Ed up a bit and doesn't drain anyone totally. Jean does the best that she can, but she's badly overmatched and we all know it. She and Lamar briefly consider chemotherapy but then, wisely, decide against it. In late June, Jean asks to go to their cabin. We all know why. Secretly, I think this might be the dumbest idea in history. Their cabin is. lest we forget, at 10,500 feet and a tough 50-mile drive to the nearest morphine refill center and any Hospice help. But Joyce, who is now back for her second visit, and Ed know for better than I, and, somehow, they pack and transport Jean and Lamar the tiring four hour drive up and over Cottonwood Pass and down into Taylor Park and, finally, over to Shalom. |o\ce tells me later that when Jean got settled on their couch, she looked out over the valley and .said, "I'm home now." At 4:04 p.m. on the 4th of July the phone rings. "HeUo." "Hi Tom, it's Joyce." "Hi Joyce, it's Tom," 1 answer. We always play this little caller ID game. "Mamma died," her voice cracks ever so slightly, "at 3:00 this afternoon." "Oh JoyceI'm so sorry. No, check that. I'm relieved that Jean's suffering is over, but I am so sorry that you, Ed, and Lamar had to labot through another cancer death." "We're all right," she as.sures me, and 1 hear a strength in her voice that I've not heard before. I guess losing your sister and then your mother within four and a half months will do that to you. But it goes deeper than that. "You know," she continues, "how Mamma and I always had trouble sharing our feelings about each other? Well, in these last few weeks all of that melted away, and some very important healing took place. The day before she died, 1 was singing the TCU alma mater to her and she opened her eyes, looked right at me and .said, 'You're

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sure beautiful!' and I said, 'You are too.' That's part of why I'm all right. We said what we needed to say, and not everyone gets the chance to do that." "So what now?" "So now I think you should drive out heremay be in a couple of daysand we'll just have three services instead of two. We've known how this was going to end, and we're all ready." "I'll leave the day after tomorrow. As you know, I've been ready for some time now." I'd planned to head west on July 1 to bury Janice's ashes. I left on July 7 to bury three sets of ashesJanice's, Dianne's, and now Jean's. But before heading out, I need to speak a moment about "Ms. Red."

Janice was a "PK"a preacher's kid. One of the many consequences of being a PK is that you spend your life riding around in dark, dull cars. "Medium beige" was about as racy as it got in the Hocker family. "After all," Lamar would drone sanctimoniously, "I can't bury someone in a fire engine." But there was one time, and I believe Joyce will verify this, that the family actually voted on the color of the new Chevrolet station wagon they were getting. Ed, Joyce, and Janice swore they voted for bright red, and that would have carried the day, 3-2, but somehow, the "vote" was for a butt-ugly dark turquoise. And so, from time to time, only half set ioiisly, Janice would lobby for a bright red car. Not a sports car, as we had both exhausted our quotas of midlife crises, but rather a bright red 4-door sedan. So I looked for one, semi-seriously. I found two. BMW made an "electric red" sedan that was to die for, but it was around forty grand and projected an image that this former SDSer from Wisconsin simply could not live with. Audi had a nice cherry-red one, but that too was around thirty-five grand, and the nearest Audi dealer was in Little Rock. And so we kept talking but not buying. Then one day, less than a month after Janice had died, I was paging through Consumer Reports and came across a capsule review of a new car by Acura, something called a TSX. It was a sedan, built on the Honda Accord frame that is sold in Europe (smaller than the American version), and, most important of all, from what I could see from the picture, it came in red. So off to my Acura dealer I headed in search of this TSX thing. Naturally, they had one. Naturally, they had it in red. And quite unnaturally, given my previous experience looking for bright red sedans, it was the best red I'd seen in years. "So, what do you call this red?" I asked the salesperson, who really cared for me deeply as a person, not just as a customer. "Milano red." "Milano, huh? As in Milan? Isn't that where Ferrari's are made?" "Correct." "So, this is a Ferrari red rip-off, right?" "Right." "All right. 1 want one." "I know that."

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And so I got one. Of course, Janice never got to see this car, or to ride in it, but I do tell her about it all the time. That's not quite the same as her being here, but it's the best I can do. And I just know she'd giggle every time she'd drive it past a church. Oh, it now sports a personalized license plate that reads "JANICE."

I'm up early the morning of July 7th. Even though I'm all packed (and have been for se\ eral weeks), there are still a zillion last minute things to do. And so 1 do them. Now there's only one left. Mollie's curled up in a towel on the bathroom rug. As 1 bend over her, she raises her small head and gives me a soft meow. ~ I m going now, little one," I tell her. "TU be gone awhile, but Stace and Jason will be here and they'll take i;ood care of you. And remember, 1 always come back. Listen to that now: i alwdvs ioinc hack. I love you very much, small creature." I kiss her leather-like nose and leave. "I'll always come back," I think. The way this goddamned year's been going, how do I know I'll be coming back? I may get taken out by a Tyson chicken truck five miles out of tovm, my jugular pierced by some wayward beak. And how do 1 know Mollie will be alive and well even if I do return? As my cat-owning friends tell me, life is pretty risky for an indoor/outdoor cat. I point "Ms. Red" up the hill and say, "Well, my love, this is the beginning of the end of our vacation." I always start our driving trips off that way, and Janice always roars in mock rage. No roar toda\. I know this drive will be emotionally difficult, even in "Ms. Red," and so, to ease my loneliness, I keep up a constant patter with Janice. "Look, my love," I say excitedly as I come down off (Cottonwood Pass, "a coyote!" 1 vervthitig looks greener than usual. I'll bet they've had some rain lately. What do you think?" ""See the fire weed?" "I wonder if the Indian Paint Brushes will be thick this year. They might be, you know, we're here earlier than usual." "There's Taylor Park Reservoir. How does it feel to be home again?" This helpsbut not all that much. 1 airive at Shalom ai 1:15 p.m., about 1 hours sooner than 1 expected. Everything looks the same, but, of course, nothing is the same. I see Joyce's spouse, Gary Hawk, walking up from the creek. He i;ives me a big hug. A short time later, Joyce returns from a walk. How wonderful to see her! She looks calm and centered, but I suspect that only some of that is real. She just did twice what I only had to do once. We go inside. I embrace Lamar. I've lost a spouse of 23 years; he's just lost one of h2 years. We don't say much, don't have to. July 9, 2004 breaks clear and cool. It's interment day. At 9:30 a.m., Fd, Ed's best friend, Clyde, Gary, and I climb into Ed's pick-up and head over to the Tincup

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cemetery to dig some grave.s. We carry four red granite markersone large head stone for the Hocker plot, and three smaller ones for Janice, Dianne, and Jean. It's a short, but hazardous drive that requires every ounce of 4-wheel drive energy Ed's old Toyota can muster. But once there, something's wrong. The plot feels "off somehow. Ed and Clyde, who worked together for \'cars as stone masons, measure and remeasure, but not even they can get a lock on the plot's boundaries. We know that Lamar and Jean secured a double lot, and that should mark off an area of 15 x 10 feet, but the haphazardly placed boundary stakes are nowhere near those dimensions. Frustrated and now pressed for timethe services begin at 3:00 that afternoonwe head back to Shalom to figure out an alternative plan. The only "alternative plan" that makes any sense is for Ed and Lamar to head into Tincup and chat with "the cemetery man." And so that's what they do. Sitico only about 20 people inhabit Tincup on a semiregular basis, the cemetery man is not hard to find. "So what's the problem?" he asks. "The dimensions of our plot seem off," Ed says. "Well, they probably are. All I did was stick a few stakes in the ground in the general area that I^mar indicated." "So what .should we do?" "Well, what do you need?" This one catches Ed off guard. "What do you mean, 'What do we need?"' "I mean 'What do you need?' This is Tincup, not Forest l^vm. We're a little casual up here. How much space do you need?" "We'd like 10 K 20 feet," Ed says, going for the gold. "Take it," the cemetery man says. "Nobody's yonna ask sou to move folks once they're in the ground." And so Ed and Lamar return to the cabin witli more than they'd bargained for, and the four of us again scramble into Ed's pick-up and head back to the cetiieteiT, now to dig graves under a definite time bind; it's almost noon. I suspect that most graves are dug by cemeter> personnel long before the people arrive to fill them. But, like the cemeter\' man said, this is Tincup and not Forest Lawn, and so up here you dig your own graves. We had the bare e.ssentialsa pick, shovel, pocket knife, and our hands. The soil is loose and sandy, and that helps. I scoop out Janice's grave with tny hands, trying to estimate how wide and deep it should be to hold the vase with her ashes. I catch Gary's eye. "1 his is important work," he says softly, and although it seemed important before he said it, now it feels as important .is it seemed. I climb in Ed's pick-up and carefully lift Janice's marker. It's heavy, about 75 pounds, but manageable. I set it just behind the hole I've dug. After I place her ashes in the ground and cover them, I'll move the stone on top. At least th.it\ the plan. But it's now 12:45 p.m. and I only have a couple of hours to get back to the cabin, grab a

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quick bite, clean up, run through whatever I want to say to and about lanice and get back here. Nothing goes down easy on this day.

It s 2:30 p.m. now and I d;uh out to the car. "Do you have Janice's ashes?" Joyce asks. "No 1 don't," I say, incredulously. "They might be important," she adds with emphasis. "Right," I say, heading back In to retrieve what I'd forgotten. Too many things to do, and not enough time to do them. We decide to break the service into two parts, the first for K;an, the second for Dianne and Janice. As we take our places, I glance over at Lamar. He's 87, in fragile health, and I know the short, but steep, walk from the cemetery parking lot to the gravesite was hard on him. As Jean's service begins, I see that he's perspiring freely. 1 hear him whisper to Clyde: "I'm feeling a little dizzy." Clyde, who seems to have a preternatural instinct tor all such eventualities, immediately produces a folding camp chair he's brought so that Lamar might sit. Better, I'm thinking, but there's no way he'll be .ible to say anything even remotely coherent about Jean. Wrong again. When his turn to speak comes, Lamar stands, gathers himself amid tears and tells an absolutely heartrending story about the moment, more than 62 years ago, that he proposed to Jean. It's a four de force performance in which his God once again inspires this old preacher to remarkable eloquence.' Joyce recites some passages from Mary Oliver's, "In Blackwater Woods," Ed reads Jean s obituary, Gary plays "Blessed Be The Ties That Bind" on a flute, I say a few words about Jean's artistry, and friends share some personal stories. And so ends the first service. We gather again in about 15 minutes. Some people have left, but a surprising number return. It's Janice's turn and that means it's my turn. I know what I want to say, I just don't know quite how I want to say it. So J wait for some inspiration. When it comes, I walk in front of Janice's grave, turn to face it and kneel. As soon as 1 do, I feel the tears flow. I wait lor them to pass. A cleansing. And then, these few words, first to those behind me, and then to Janice:
I'm going to speak directly to Janice for a moment. Well, my love, you're home now, back in the high couiur\' of your lite. Do you remember the lines from that John Denver song we so loved? '"Clear waters are laughing. They sing to the sky. The Rockies are living. They never will die." (1973) You rest near clear waters now, and, if you listen carefully, you'll hear them sing to you as they rush over rocks and lean around bends. And they sing that you too. like the Rockies, are living, you never will die.

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Joyce reads Janice a poem entitled "In the Evening We Shall Be Examined on Love" and concludes with "The Celtic Blessing." Dianne's turn now. Ed reads two excerpts from remarks he presented at her previous memorial service. Because their love exploded through nature metaphors, he opens v^th "The Mountains, The Canyon, and the Fire" and concludes v^ith "After the Fire." And because Dianne was part Choctaw, Gary plays "The Creation Song" for her on a Native American flute. Time to cover the graves. Clyde eases the wheelbarrow holding the earth we removed just that morning in front of Jean's grave. Lamar, Joyce, and Ed carefully cover her ashes. I'm next. I kneel and take the vase containing Janice's ashes in my hands. I kiss it gently, place it in the grave, and say, "Rest easy, my love, rest easy." I turn, but Clyde's already right behind me. No tools this time. This is handwork. I pack earth lovingly around the vase. When it's covered, I smooth and slant the top so that the headstone tilts forward just a bit, making it easier to read. Then, with Ed's help, I ease the headstone into place. Ed's daughter has gathered bouquets of wild flowers for each grave. For Janice, she's selected brilliant, sapphire-blue Lupinesperfectand I place them at the foot of Janice's marker. I need to imprint this place. Janice and Joyce found it many years ago, and Joyce told me that Janice said at the time, "I want to be buried here someday." Now is that time. Today is that day. From Janice's grave site I look across a lush meadow, cut through with fast-flovking streams, and inhabited by at least two beaver families, who, I know from experience, will dam the streams and change the water flow in ever-renewing patterns. The meadow embraces every shade of green imaginable, from the lij-ne-yellow hues of new growth through the deep forests of mature grasses, all the way to the orange-greens of dormant stalks. My eyes lift to the foothills, cloaked in the emerald of lodge pole pines and the blue-green of lush spruces. Every so often, I catch sight of an Aspen grove, and I know that in less than a month, those will turn a brilliant peach in stark contrast to the verdant conifers. Above the foothiUs, at timberline, I see Cumberland Pass at 12,000 feet. Bracketing the pass on the right is Green Mountain, and on the left Fitzpatrick Peak, both majestic 13,500 footers still laced with patches of last winter's snow. I see all of this, and know that Janice does as well. I stand to leave, take a few steps, but then I pause, feeling somehow conflicted. Unfinished business. I think about the chorus of the old country song, "Ashes of Love," that I borrowed for the title of this paper. It goes: Ashes of love. Cold as ice. You made the debt, I'll pay the price. (Anglin, Anglin, & Wright, 1987) That chorus may be just right for the song, but it's all wrong for this moment. Try this:

Ashes of Love 203 Ashes ol love. Still burn in my heart. I leave you here now. But we're ne\iT apart. There. Much better. Time to head home now.

Note
111 Lamar Hocker died on January 31, 2005. He, too, now rests in the Tincup cemeter)' beside his beloved wife, lean, and hi.s daughter, lanice. He did not die ol cancer, a small consolation tor those who knew and loved him.

References Anglin, J., Anglin, I., & Wright. I. 1987). Ashes of love. [Recorded by The Desert Rose Band]. On The desert rose hand [vinyl|. Universal (Jty, CA: MC'A Records. Denver, J. (147='V Rocky mountain suite. On An evening with John Denver [vinyl). New York, NY: RCA Records. Rushing, I. H. (2003). // should have been a wedding: Metaphors ot life and death at a funeral. Paper presented at the meeting ol the National Communication A.ssociation, Miami Beach, FL.