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My cousin Jim had made no definitive statement about what might be done with his ashes except to suggest putting them on the compost pile, which his sister Carol called "very Miller-esque." Since he often talked about going back to the farm, his family decided that was the place for them.
It took a year after he died for the stars to align for that to happen.
Jim, 77, died in May 2022 after Alzheimer's robbed him of his wonderful mind and eventually his life, when he lost cognitive ability to manage his Type 1 diabetes. His widow Melissa said Jim always treasured the farm in his memories. . . until he didn't.
Standing outside the old Miller farmhouse last Wednesday, Mel spoke to the little group of Rogers and Millers who had gathered for this farewell to Jim. Kate, her significant other Charles and their daughter Terry had flown in from Oregon. Carol and David drove from Minnesota. Jeff, a Detroit firefighter, with wife Julie and daughters Samantha and Claire, swung through as part of a wide-ranging vacation. Mel drove from Ann Arbor with son Charlie. We had four days to talk, eat and catch up on each other.
We assembled in late morning, waiting for some guidance in what to do, since scattering ashes was new to most. With her experience as a Presbyterian minister, Melissa was able to provide practical advice as well as spiritual cover. She said there is no right or wrong way to scatter ashes. Each person was free to do what felt right.
Jim's eldest child, Jeff, said it was suggested that we walk around the farm and visit places that were special to his dad, sharing stories as we scattered ashes, and that's what we did.
He carried the box containing Jim's ashes, a quantity of fine white powder a little less than what might fill a grocery bag. Two small pewter cups - an antique cream and sugar set borrowed from the farmhouse - served as dippers, a fitting connection to Millers past.
The Miller farm was a touchstone for Jim, as it has been for many people.
His mother Dorothy was a Miller. She and her brother Lester, our father, were raised on this farm, helping parents Fred and Edythe with milking, chickens, canning, gardening and all the other aspects of farm life in that era. Dorothy married Charley Rogers and they had two children, James and Carol. Their lives were lived elsewhere, but the Rogers family often visited and remained close; Jim and Carol had many happy childhood days here, playing in the barn and exploring the fields.
When our Miller grandparents became elderly and ill, Lester moved our family home so he could take care of them and the farm. Grandfather's wish was for the farm be left to Lester; Dorothy acquiesced in inheriting a lesser property. Her sacrifice was similar to that of our grandfather's older siblings, who worked it out to allow the farm to pass intact to Fred, the youngest.
We ash-scatterers trooped first to the spring, where little Terry peeked into the covered place where the spring water flows out of the hill into a carved sandstone basin. It has never run dry. Young Claire dipped her hands into the cold water of the mossy stone watering trough, where many a horse found a cool drink on the hottest day.
Some walked to the springhouse, the small building set into the hillside where milk was kept fresh. We visited the sites of the corn crib and horse stable, whose existence is attested only by foundation stones. My sister Col. Peggy pointed to where the pig pen was, and I where the Pittenger Schoolhouse had stood. Built after the Civil War and used into the 1940s, it was the only school for generations of local farm children. Grandfather Fred taught school there as a young man.
Passing the garden, a small garter snake slithered past our feet and Charley picked it up by the tail so we all could admire it. Claire and Terry, only 4, bravely took a turn, too, which would greatly have pleased Jim, an avid naturalist.
Charlie's brother Luke could not attend because of work; they are Jim's sons by Melissa, his second wife, his chance for a second family after his first wife, Terry Heitz, died of a brain tumor. Terry gave him Jeff and Kate. Kate's daughter Terry is her namesake.
We went into the barn, where big doors high above the former cow pasture were opened wide so ashes could be flung to the wind. The final destination was the hill. I fired up the 1953 McCormick tractor to pull a trailer, but Jeff declined my offer of a ride and trekked up because that was what his dad would have done. Charley, Julie, Samantha, Kate and Charles walked up also. Carol and husband David were among those who sensibly rode, though she walked back. My grandson Grant stood behind me on the trailer tongue all the way up and back. He could have driven the old tractor as well as I.
We stopped on the very top of the hill and looked back down at the farm and Gas Valley. A newly mowed hayfield was spread below us like a grand green carpet. As the ultimate stop on the ashes tour, most dipped a new cup of Jim even if they had already scattered elsewhere. A few words were said, but mainly, I think, we spoke in our thoughts.
I asked for a cup and spread Jim gently, thinking of our cousin friendship and shared love of nature, farm and family.
Samantha helped little Terry empty her pewter cup of ashes, all that remained of the physical matter that had been their grandfather. The stuff disappeared into the green grass and clover in front of the tractor, to be absorbed into the soil of the farm that he loved to the end of his memories.