“Wait a second, Mom, you’re keeping them where?”
She drained the last of his coffee and got up from the table, making for the still-brewing pot. “Want more?”
She was evading the question. I’d seen it before. She’d let something slip, and there was still more to it. “Nuh-uh. You’re not getting out of this. Sit down.”
With a begrudging sigh she dropped back into the chair.
“Darling, you know he wanted to be cremated. He was too claustrophobic to spend the rest of eternity buried under a mound of dirt. I’m just carrying out his final wishes.”
“I know that, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re keeping them there and not, say, I don’t know, on the mantle or in a shoebox or something?”
She looked aghast at the thought of putting her husbands’s ashes into a shoebox.
“There’s more to it than just that. You see, he wanted to be mixed in with the charcoal during a summer barbecue”.
“You’re keeping Dad’s ashes in the back of the fridge because he wanted to be added to a barbecue?” Now I was aghast.
“Well, yes, dear, isn’t there where you’re supposed to keep things for cooking?”
I know of people that have been buried in Memphis Tiger blue and Elvis outfits. The idea of someone from the barbecue capital of the world wanting their ashes scattered in the way I listed above wouldn’t even make me bat an eye.