Ashes to Memory or Commemoration

In conclusion, these are the many reasons why symbolically ashes this August  2008. 

I symbolically first returned to St. Charles County and then to the Mississippi River to deposit or disperse  a few of Dad’s ashes (cremains).

I determined in advance of my pilgrimage to stay at a hotel in Wentzville, Missouri en route to my final destination on the Mississippi River—on the Illinois side.  I chose this particular (imaginary) hotel because it was located on Continental Drive. 

Dad had worked for over 4 ½ years on that very street at Continental Telephone.  The road was named for this now-non-existent firm.

After checking in at the hotel on Continental Drive, I headed to the baseball diamond, where Dad had played softball with some of the church teams in Wentzville. 

In Wentzville, Dad had played the first few summers with the local Catholic Church softball team in the Church League.  His team was very very good—loaded with talent--, and they handily won the league each season.  According to many, this particular Catholic team was also very fun to be around—as well as to watch and play.

Alas, that team consisted of certain Catholics who were not setting good examples for the community of softball followers.  Years later, my best friend’s father—who also played in that same league but on another team—shared and laughed about how many of the outfielders on the Catholic team  carried full cans of beer out to their positions some innings.  Some of them were known for making diving catches even as they tried not to spill a drop of beer from those same cans.

Eventually, the head priest at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, i.e. who was outraged at the bad behavior of some of his church’s players on the Catholic Team, decided that the Catholics would not field any more teams in the Church league for the foreseeable future..

Subsequently, my father played on the Methodist Church Team as my mother attended regularly there.

These memories of the sporting side of my father  explain why I chose to deposit a few of the ashes on the very field where Dad, my brother, and I had played at during our family’s tenure in Wentzville.

It was a wet and muddy day. As I walked onto the field, I released some ash onto the on-deck circle of the home team. 

Later, I decided this was quite poignant because it is on such an on-deck circle where batters kneel, do practice swings and pray—while waiting for their turn at the plate.

We all have to take our turn at the plate, don’t we?  (We also all need to learn  pray and try to get a hit—even if life throws us curve balls, eh?)

After leaving the ball diamond, I drove to St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, school, and cemetery in the south side of Wentzville on Church Street.  My Dad, older brother, and I had attended the fellowship here for the duration of our stay in St. Charles County from December 1970 through August 1975.

My younger sisters attended more regularly with my mom at the United Methodist Church at the other end of town.  In short, both my father and mother had let us children know from our childhood onwards that faith was a choice. (Many other peers of mine in America and around the globe have never seen faith as a constant act of making choices, i.e. as to which church to attend or which faith to consider or which softball team to play with.)

It was here at that St. Patrick’s Church where on January 1, 1973 we lit candles for our hero Roberto Clemente, who had passed away the night before.

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