Eternal Watch: Grateful Magic Joy From A Mountaintop
Spreading Daddy’s Ashes
In the late September sky, when the sun hangs over the equator, it casts a golden glow over everything it touches, perfectly balancing day and night across Earth. This balanced position radiates a unique quality of light that feels warm and soft as the sun descends toward winter. I remember the sunlight filtered through the trees, producing intricate patterns on the ground, where fallen leaves formed a crunchy mosaic under my feet as I walked toward the bench. Shimmering in the autumn rays, shadows from autumn leaves fell across the bench, leaving lace-like patterns. As I sat down, the sun-kissed me, warming my chilled body as I cuddled my hands in my pockets. It was invigorating and refreshed my spirit, something I desperately needed as I watched my mother sitting next to me, hunched over, lost in her tears, as they streamed down her face like shining diamonds. Even they glistened in the sunlight. The magic of the autumnal equinox lifted my soul and massaged my spirit as I called out her name, “Mom?” I called, and she looked up, her big brown eyes red and puffy.
Usually so stoic and composed, she now showed her raw vulnerability, and my heart ached for her sadness. What I knew several months ago was that my Dad was dying and his days numbered —my mother was just now processing this truth in her heart. As a nurse and his primary caregiver at the end of his life, she’d mentally reconciled in her mind his passing. But now her poor heart was processing that news for the first time, and she was trying to remain resilient against her emotional storm. Mourning a loved one can be a harsh teacher of tragedy. It was a learning experience for both of us as we sat side by side that day, navigating the unpredictable terrain of grief. I thought about my Dad resting in hospice in a hospital, looming behind us with its sterile walls, a sanctuary of hope turned somber night, representing both the care and the inevitability of death. Its concrete walls reminded me of the struggle between life and illness and made me think about the duality in the fight for life and the peace of surrender. I found myself thinking about how important it was to cherish the little time I had left and make more memories to honor my father’s life, and that would be done in the aseptic atmosphere of the cold sentinel monument called a hospital. I knew this would be my final moment with my Daddy, and I tried to extend those moments by sitting there as if I could wish the sun to stop. But the sun continued its course around the equator, casting longer shadows as it began to hide behind buildings, telling me it was time. I was a little angry at Helios and cursedat it. It made me acutely aware of the emotional weight of that moment and feeling the heaviness of my father’s impending death. Those challenging negotiation moments reminded me of what it means to say goodbye. So finally, when the sun sets, it’s gone, but the sun rises again. My Dad would rise, too, but in another realm; where he would go to sleep in the arms of Creation, waiting to be woken by the angels who made him. Becoming an angel himself and like the stars shining bright above us becoming part of that celestial choir.
Snapping out of my trance, I called mother again, “Mom?” This time, she answered, “Although his body continues to decline, his spirit dances to a place where there’s peace. The hourglass is slipping; let’s go inside.” Something like that, which was beautiful and consoling, gave me power, knowing her pillars of strength held us both up as we had already felt my father's absence. My mother was holding me up just like when I was a baby. It made these cherished moments together poignant and wonderful. A time I’ll never forget. Her words relieved me of the anxiety about her future and worrying about how she would cope with her grief, how many of our relationships might change, and what life would look like when he was gone. Those were the thoughts flooding my brain as we walked the hospital corridors.
Sitting in my Dad’s hospice room, witnessing the fragility of life, I began to contemplate my existence and mortality. I wondered about the meaning of life and death and thought about my father’s legacy left behind, a star trail vanishing into the horizon to another realm. This is what he left for us. I wondered about my future legacy and the nature of existence itself. It was painfully clear to me life is fragile, and although my father’s passing was expected because of his age and condition, the inevitability of death can come without warning or preparation. This sudden awareness caught me off guard, and I thought of how we must appreciate every moment of our precious lives, as cliche as that sounds. My Dad was fifty-one when I came along. I was the second of his children. I can't remember my older brother Robert, who flew planes for the military and who died shortly after I was born when his aircraft crashed into Mt. Shasta in California. His remains rest in San Francisco National Cemetery in the Presidio. It is a beautiful place overlooking the stunning San Francisco Bay. He often talked about Bobbie, who, through my father’s stories, I felt I knew him. Dad was a great storyteller. He was born at the turn of the last century in 1903 in Ponoka, Alberta, Canada, sixty miles south of Edmonton, to a family of boys—he is the youngest by ten years.
My grandparents owned a husbandry and farrier business, booming during those final horse-and-buggy days. When it ended, they relocated to Spokane, Washington, when my Dad was eighteen, where they owned a grocery store. All this made for intriguing storytelling because he was from the olden days. Like the days we watched on the TV Show Bonanza. All the kids in the neighborhood came to our house to hear his fascinating stories growing up in central Alberta. Their favorites were his tales about riding in horses and buggies before the explosion of the automobile industry. Through his narratives, he kept the horse and buggy days alive. We were in awe hearing his tales told. He had a favorite horse named Bruce, and he recounted adventures riding along trails near rivers and streams and even riding horses north to the North Saskatchewan River near Edmonton, where the wilderness was their best friend. They made buddies with squirrels, frogs, and foxes and caught tadpoles to take home to Mom. He'd be gone all day with friends, and Mom never had to worry about him during the early 1900’s. He learned to sew to make saddles and other horse business necessities. Later, when I began sewing, he would give me an instructional hand or two, and I understood how to repair sewing machines, so every lady in town (which were most in the 1960s and ’70s) came to our home with their sewing machines. That was his happy hobby side hustle because his actual career was managing marketing, advertising, and distributing newspapers, a job he'd had since putting together ads for his parent's grocery store in the early 1920s. He even charmed my boyfriends with his tales. When he met the seventeen-year-old version of Randy, he got out some of his favorite albums — big band era music, and danced, saying, “Now this is music!” I’m like embarrassed, Lol. But it’s a memory both Randy and I hold dear to our hearts.
“Beep, beep, beep,” rang the sound of a monitor by his bed as a nurse came through the door to check his vitals and bring him a meal. She was followed by my youngest brother, Kelly, who was very close to Daddy and wanted to provide him with the best comfort. It was tough on my brother to see him in his dying state. He helped him eat a few tablespoons of mashed potatoes, but my father wanted none. Of course, our initial reaction was to encourage him to eat more, but when you're in the state of dying, the last thing you want is food to continue feeding your physical body, which is shedding, so your new spiritual body can begin to form after you expire. The wonderful hospice nurse and other aspects of the dying experience taught us this that day. When you are ready to go, you isolate yourself from your family and friends and become seemingly bitter and grumpy. This is a natural state, but it still hurts, no matter how much you understand this process, because your intention is love. That evening, I felt terrible for the three of us as my father rejected us. We were just fortunate to have a caring, beautiful hospice nurse guide us through the process. So we let my father rest and watched him for another hour. I knew this was the last time I would see him. I kissed him on his forehead and held his hand as he briefly opened his eyes, smiled, and squeezed my hand. I felt him let go as he closed his eyes. Goodbye, Daddy.
The following day, I left for my home in Reno, Nevada, where I was starring in Spellbound at the Reno Hilton, where press night was in a few days. With my work schedule, I knew I wouldn’t be back before he was gone. A few nights later, right before our show, I received a call from my brother Kelly. This was way before cell phones, so I had to use the backstage telephone in the company manager's office to phone him back. My conscience was at war as I dialed his number. Part of me wanted to call him, but my other side reminded me it was not a good time to receive possible bad news. “Chock, chock, chock,” as I heard my brother tell me Dad died. I don't know how I contained the flood of tears damming up in my eyes, but I had to be on stage in a few minutes, and by sheer will, I reversed their course. I couldn’t allow the voice of that first word to cry because my makeup would have run down my face, and I wouldn’t have been ready to perform. And so many people are depending on me. But let me tell you, after the show, I just collapsed after holding in my emotions. I was comforted to learn that his last few days had been good. Just like hospice said, my Dad responses to loved ones and activities were positive ones. He left his state of grumpiness to joke with my mother and brother, hold his grandkids, and eat again. But that was an illusion because the dying often encounters this very end-of-life happiness and well-being state. This was true for my father.
The show must go on, right? That’s how it is in showbiz so that I couldn’t return to my folks' home until our night or day off. The trip was a 14-hour round trip drive to Central California and back to Reno, so we planned to fly there in the plane we had at the time so I could be with my family for a day. That never happened. Our Press night grand opening was the next night. In front of about 25 news agencies, including the San Francisco Chronicle and the Sacramento Bee, my ex-husband and stage partner at the time, Jonathan Pendragon, was attacked by one of the tigers in the show while performing on stage in front of the audience. I was standing behind the incident, blocked by the thick stage curtains with our two assistants, getting ready for the next illusion when it happened. A hell of course broke loose, and the curtain acted like a shield from seeing the accident and hearing what was happening, so I didn’t immediately understand what was happening until I heard Jonathan’s muffled screams, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”
When I recognized Jonathan was being mauled by a tiger, I ran to our dressing room, grabbing a bundle of towels. Now, the Reno Hilton stage is one of the biggest in the world. It holds a 727, and there’s one parked backstage, Which had been used prior in a show called Hallelujah Hollywood. So I had to jog from my dressing room back to where he lay next to the plane waiting for medical help. One of the stagehands had his arm in a tourniquet and was covering it so I couldn’t look. I only saw the injury at that the hospital, and it was horrifying, to say the least. Jonathan was in horrible pain, and his surgeon was in the coffee room having a refreshment. I’m like yelling, “Can somebody please help my husband? He’s in so much pain.” No one moved very fast, and finally, the doctor addressed his needs. I found later that trauma doctors often need breaks like that to separate themselves from the medical tragedies they face, sometimes 18 hours a day. You can’t possibly be your best without those necessary respites. Jonathan wasn’t initially administered painkillers because they needed to test his arm for function. Fortunately, through a miracle of divine intervention, he didn’t lose his arm. The tiger bite missed vital nerves, which would have caused his arm to be dead, like Senator Robert Dole, who had a dead arm. This was excellent news to hear, but it was a climb back to mended health and the stage for Jonathan. I’ll cover that experience in a future article. I do want to say I wanted to slap Dick Foster, the producer of that show, who expressed no empathy for Jonathan. He approached me at the hospital and had the nerve to blame the accident on Jonathan when safety protocols by his staff had been ignored. From his standpoint, I suppose that was a typical response in his situation, thinking about future lawsuits. I stayed with Jonathan at the Reno Trauma Center for about a week, where he received excellent care, and his surgeon saved his arm. His Mom came to help and relieved me so I could attend my father’s memorial and spread his ashes.
Tragedy often brings loved ones together; that experience was good in my case. My brother Kelly found the perfect resting place for Daddy High in the Sierra Nevadas to watch down on us in the valley. Today, when I look up at the mountains, I see his home. The winding road that led me and my brother seemed to echo the twists and turns of our emotions that my brother and I felt that day on our heartfelt journey. Every curve felt like the weight of grief lifted as we talked and even joked and replaced my anxiety with peace and hope. Of course, the breathtaking beauty of the mountains surrounding us provided a much-needed relief from the heaviness that had settled in my heart. My brother and I had spent many times in these mountains when we were younger, so as we passed some of our favorite places, we talked about them. The Slides were rock formations that the Tule River ran through as it winded down to Lake Success. When it was safe, we often went there. You had to climb to the top of the rocks and then slide down in the waterway between the giant boulders emptying into a big pool of fresh water. During the hot summers, this was the place to go. But it was also dangerous at certain times of the year. A friend of Randy’s named Barry Weldon drowned in springtime white waters.
As we navigated the mountain roads, we passed all of our favorite swimming holes, and my brother talked about a place , named The SevenTea Cups, which is a waterfall made up of ponds of many different sizes on various levels that look like teacups being filled by a pot. My younger brother was adventurous and often partied there with friends. It’s quite a hike, and I’m not as daring and bold as my kid brother. Sharing stories and laughter and reminiscing about our father’s life that day gave us a special bond we hold today. It was a bridge that brought us closer and transformed our pain into something meaningful. When we reached the mountaintop it like reaching a sacred space. Standing there, surrounded by majestic mountain views that my father had loved, I felt his spirit in the air I breathed as we each took turns letting his ashes go in the wind. It was surreal and a cathartic release—not just for me, but for Daddy. I wasn’t just saying goodbye; I was healing and transformed. With my family by my side and the closeness I felt towards my brother, Kelly reminded me I wasn’t alone, and as we left the mountain, I felt at peace.
My father’s spirit and essence live in those magical mountains and are a guiding light. Every time I see their majestic solidity, I feel Daddy’s gaze, a guardian figure, from this perch looking down at me. In contrast, my mother’s ashes are laid to rest in the ocean, where they are released to dance with the waves under moonlight. Together, they watch over me—one from above, the other from in the calming rhythms of the sea. I find comfort in this balance, knowing their love and guidance transcend this physical world.
Exquisite my dear. You reached my soul with this one. ✨💙✨
Dear Charlotte, a beautiful and gentle walkthrough of mourning. Last night I was restacking this with four or five paragraphs; my grams' ashes are off Kings Canyon Byway! And I shared about my coping with mourning through a series of charcoal drawings--we had a two-second electric short on the "hill" and poof it was gone. Thinking of you!