In the interest of not leaving anyone hanging, of achieving closure, of writing the end, I want to report that we scattered my brother’s ashes. We have laid him to rest.
Back in February I got up the courage to ask Jim about his final wishes. This was after we knew there were multiple lesions in his brain, the biggest in his frontal lobe. On the phone he grew quiet. He asked where Mom would be buried, then he was very quiet. He cursed. I was alarmed. Had I overstepped? Was I being a pushy older sister?
I asked would he want some part of him in the Smoky Mountains, where he first loved camping and nature. He said no, it should be the Cascades. He said, “Cremate me. Drive up to Rhododendron in the Cascades. The Salmon River.” He was quiet again and I knew he was picturing us there, in his favorite place without him. “There are lots of places to eat. You just find something you like.”
It halted me, him imagining us three women, all that remain of his family of origin. And his partner, Rich, and my kids and husband. Did he see us all laughing and chewing our dinner, remembering him? Did he see us weeping and embracing? Was it raining in his vision? Or was it sunny? Were we all wearing black, standing in a line on the river bank? Or were we in the water, baptism style?
In reality we were all of the above and more. Friends of his from decades ago came to camp in the woods along the river, next to Jim’s Portland crew. My mom and my sister and my family rented a house nearby. Mom’s sister and our cousin traveled to be with us. Dozens more were with us in spirit. He, and we, were on people’s minds. They sent texts, emails, cards. They wrote on social media. They requested pictures if we could manage it. They made things, played music in his honor, put up old photos. They wished us well, they sent hugs and love. I wonder what they, the distant grievers imagined? Rain or sun? On the banks or in the water? Laughing or weeping? Did people imagine seventy-foot cedars? Downed trunks, fallen in a half circle like benches in a cathedral? The living trees rose like a steeple above us. Richard spoke of tears feeding the dead. My sister spoke of witnessing her younger brother coming of age in late-nineties New York. This brought the half circle of us to tears. One of his Tennessee friends wept throughout, a big man, hunched over, shoulders shaking, wrecked for over a half hour.
Another of his Tennessee friends spoke of the Stillwell family, what we were to him thirty years ago when he first met us. We were young and whole. He said Jim, and all of us, taught him to see what he’d always seen in a brand new way. Later my husband returned to this idea. He did not meet my dad, did not know us whole and young, and has never met much of my extended family, so he’s put together a picture of us over the years. This was another piece of the puzzle. He said, “I think the Stillwells were unusual. You were a different point of view from most.”
Perhaps my family was unusual. Certainly we were singular, moving to a tourist town in east Tennessee with not a single scheme in mind, no plan, no business idea for a restaurant, hotel or shop. Related to no one. It was the five of us for a series of years, for better or worse, living in an economy that could embitter the hardiest soul. What happened to us there was maybe not so singular: we grew up. Embitterment was part of it. So was beauty. An appreciation of it, a desire to cultivate it. I’m grateful to Jim’s friend and to my husband for remarking on this, our ability to be stunned by the world, to allow one’s jaw to drop, to feel the breathlessness brought on by the world’s natural gifts and all that they inspire people to make.
Existing in the mind of another. Taking up space, being considered, having an effect. What an honor, to be thought of. To influence. I liked the idea of us, the Stillwells, in outside minds. Not in a vain way, but in a way that allowed me to love us, who we were, who we’ve tried to be, and who we have become.
Jim’s day was sunny and brilliant, then suddenly rainy, then sunny again. No one wore black. Some people took their shot glass of ashes and stood on the shore. Others, like my husband and I, waded into the water. We threw our ashes and had to deal with the awkward spatter over our clothes. Our son reported the same unsettling news: parts of Jim got on his pants. This is a fact of cremation that not everyone knows: ashes don’t always behave the way you think they will. I watched my daughter crouch on a boulder and tip her glass directly into the water. My aunt was wheeled in her chair to the bridge where she turned her glass. The others, I don’t know. I can only imagine what they did and how they did it, and what they were thinking of.
Later there was a fire, and booze and other substances. It was a party that Jim would have loved and his absence was felt sorely. In a private moment I noted how similar the place felt to the potluck we had for my dad. We buried Dad in Illinois, but later had a ceremony in the woods of Tennessee, next to the Little Pigeon river. I recall needing to shout to be heard. Well, I thought to myself as I burned my paper plate. It’s a trend for the Stillwell men. They are memorialized and laid to rest in the woods. We take them to the river.
May they rest in peace.
Love you, love your words, love your family, and miss Jim terribly,
Cousin Karen
Love you and felt you there with us. It’s just so hard to get used to, his being gone.
beautiful.
Thank you for reading.
Amen. RIP Jim Stillwell.
yes. Amen
you make it official with your words. I thank you for writing them. for remembering–what an honor! to hold someone in one’s mind!
Oh, yes an honor!
I wanted to attend so badly, this helps me feel a bit like I had. Love your wording, I could imagine it all. Xo
Im so glad you felt you were there. We certainly felt your presence among us XXOO
What a beautiful scene you’ve conjured in my mind; you brought me along with you to this gathering for Jim, connected your friends and family again when we read your words here. What a tribute. Thank you.
Thanks for writing Marilyn.
Thank you for taking those of us who couldn’t make it there to that day and place with your words!!
Suzanne, you and Ryan were among the distant grievers. We felt you.
This is a wonderful memorial that Jim, I am sure, would have loved. Your mom told us of those moments, how beautiful the ceremony was. We were there with our thoughts and spirits. Jim will live in the memory of those who loved him, and were touched by his good soul. For as little as I knew Jim, but hearing all the story that your mom told us, this was the perfect closure for his too short, but intense and meaningful, life on earth. His spirit, though, will live in everyone else’s memory.
This is so kind and I appreciate you taking the time to write.
Thank you for sharing this, Christy. Jim did what all of us hope to do – leave this earth a better place because of having been here. I met Jim once, and felt his goodness, gentleness and kindness immediately – hoping to have more time in the future to see him again. I felt his presence, Christy, through your final words of tribute to him and the Stillwell family. Sending love, Bobbi
Thank you Bobbi.
Such a lovely, extraordinary, beautiful family my dear friend Kathy and her husband have given our world. Thank you Christy for sharing ❤❤❤
And thank you, Kathy, for writing.
Very well done Christy. After reading and pondering, I cried a bit. I needed to
Im so glad to know you’re out there. Thank you.
Beautiful touching words about your family and a wonderful tribute to Jim. I could feel it all as I read. We were family friends in Illinois and treasure all the things we did together! Your family is in our minds and hearts even if we can’t get together very often ! Thanks for writing such a moving piece. Love your picture Christy, You are a beautiful in body and spirit❤️ With love Bob and Donna
Donna I share those same fond memories of your family and feel so grateful to have grown up as your neighbor. Lots love to both of you and thanks for writing.
My darling Chris,
I really have no words. Thank you for sharing so beautifully our tribute to Jim. I believe it will help bring closure to Jim’s friends and our family. Such a kind gesture, difficult to be sure, lovingly accomplished.
Mom
thanks mom, glad you commented
My darling Chris,
Thank you. So kind of you to share our tribute to Jim. Difficult beyond imagining. Your words have accomplished what they were meant to do.
Mom
Chris, I was given such a feeling of peace while reading your tribute to Jim. I think he would have been so happy and proud. I know he was loved by many. To me such a gentle soul. He will be missed but he will be remembered! Love you and your entire family!
Chris, your words were a true tribute to Jim and his short but sweet life. I will never forget sitting with your grandma when your dad came bursting in the house announcing that he had a football player. Jim was certainly a gentle soul and it sounds like he was a very special friend to many people. We mourn his loss because we selfishly want him back with us. We all just have one more angel watching over us. My love to you and your entire family. You all mean so much to me. Love, Bonnie
Christy, of all of you, I know your mom. She’s a special gal!!!!!! Comfort to all of you—-Your writing is beautiful—
many thanks
Christy, I just learned of Jim’s death today. Your words are so very meaningful. I have such wonderful
memories of visiting your mom and dad, you and Cindy, and Jim at your hillside home in Gatlinburg! Whenever there are firecrackers, I think of a summer visit there. Jim loved them. My sympathy.
Thank you, Nancy and its so nice to see you here.