FORT KENT, Maine — Twelve years ago my late husband and I moved my dad across the country from Portland, Oregon, to Fort Kent.
Or, as dad was fond of putting it — “to the middle of oblivion.”
To be sure, moving from a major metropolitan city to a small border community in Aroostook County was something of an adjustment for him, but the move was made worse by the fact that it was basically forced upon him for medical reasons.
We’d been after him for several years following the death of my mom to come live with us at Rusty Metal Farm, but it was not until he suffered a serious stroke that he finally agreed the time had come to swap coasts and head East.
It took a couple of months, but eventually the house I’d been born and raised in was cleaned out and put on the market and more than 50 years of my dad’s memories and furnishings had been sifted through and prioritized according to keep, sell or toss. Then my dad bid his final farewell to the city he’d called home for 70 years.
This past week, I took him home for the last time on his final trip from “the middle of oblivion” back to Portland.
In his 82 years, Michael Bayly had survived rugby matches at his Vancouver boarding school, at least two serious car accidents in his 20s, direct hits from mortar shrapnel and gunfire in the Korean War, a series of strokes, 12 summers of Fort Kent blackflies and 12 Maine winters.
But he could not survive the cancer discovered in his lung about a year ago, and last October it got the best of him and he quietly took his leave.
Never one for showy displays or ceremonies, my dad did not want a funeral, but I knew he wanted his ashes brought West to be placed with those of my mom.
So, last week a friend and I boarded a plane in Quebec City with our bags checked and my dad in carry-on. Well, his ashes in a special travel urn, in carry-on.
I will admit to a bit of trepidation in taking my dad over an international border for the flight, as he was not the first in my family to require international travel to a final resting place.
Some years back my aunt had to fly to Costa Rica to collect the ashes of her father — my grandfather — who was living down there at the time of his death.
The process of bringing his ashes back to Portland required two embassies, two consulates and endless shuffling back and forth among them by special couriers.
Eventually my aunt was allowed to board her flight — my grandfather’s ashes in a very fancy urn, in the overhead compartment.
No such diplomatic maneuverings were required to transport my father back and forth across the border, but the arrest of a British man and confiscation of the ashes of a friend he was transporting at St. John’s International Airport earlier this month did give me pause.
In that case, border agents said they had “probable grounds” to believe the man was carrying a narcotic after the ashes tested falsely for ketamine.
After some online research on the policies of transporting cremated remains and consultation with a friend in the Canada Border Services Agency, I had a myriad of required and recommended documentation for the trip West, which turned out to be problem-free.
Once in Portland, we visited my cousin who is an accomplished ceramic artist for a custom-designed urn to replace that travel urn.
Custom-designed and measured down to the last millimeter.
Remember that fancy urn my grandfather traveled in from Costa Rica? Unfortunately, when he arrived at his final destination, it was about a quarter inch too large — no matter how it was positioned — to fit in his designated funeral niche.
Not wanting a repeat of that, I had made sure to get the measurements from the funeral home before we arrived and, assured he would fit in the space provided next to my mom, I, his sister, my cousins and friend assembled at the niche for “the placement.”
With solemn efficiency the funeral home staff carefully removed the marble cover, accepted the urn and gently placed it next to my mom’s, where they would rest together for eternity.
With equal solemnity, the staff gently replaced the marble slab covering the niche and prepared to screw in the corner fasteners, which would have been a great deal easier had my dad’s urn actually fit in the allotted space.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry — perhaps both. But eventually the staff finessed the two urns into place and quickly sealed them in.
Nothing in my family is ever easy.
But mission accomplished. With the love and support of my family and some very, very good friends, my dad was home — one of the last desires of which he spoke at the end.
After it was all said and done, I really wasn’t sure how to feel. Sad, certainly. Relieved I had been able to honor his wishes, definitely. But most of all, grateful for that small cadre of people who had known him during different parts of his 82 years who stood there with him at the end.
Certainly with people like that in one’s life you are never, ever in “the middle of oblivion” and for that, I — and I know my dad — are eternally grateful.
Julia Bayly of Fort Kent is an award-winning writer and photographer who writes part time for Bangor Daily News. Her column appears here every other Friday. She can be reached by email at jbayly@bangordailynews.com.
