Burning Old Jack

Bubba was always cheerful, but on that August day, when he handed me a can, he was as solemn as a mortician.

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“All’s left of Jack Stone,” he mumbled. Like Bubba, Jack had been a lifelong crop duster. With neither wife nor progeny, he departed this earth with one wish — that his cremated remains be spread over the Stone family homestead. “The Cub is just right for this job,” Bubba said, nodding toward my little Piper airplane. “I’ll fly and you sit in the rear seat. We’ll leave the doors open, and when we get there, I’ll throttle back while you lean out and empty the can.” I wanted no part of this project, but Bubba kept whining about how it was only right to heed Jack’s last need, so I relented.

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We decided it would be easier to hold on to a heavy canvas sack during the ceremony, so Bubba pried open the can, revealing what looked like chalk dust. We dumped Jack from can to sack. Airborne, with doors open, the airplane droned toward our destination. The day was hot and cloudless, and the antique craft labored to reach 5,000 feet. Over the target, Bubba throttled back. Gripping the sack’s bottom with one hand and its open end with the other, I shook the dust into the slipstream. Instantly, the cockpit filled with fine white powder. As I struggled with the sack, Bubba, blinking at me like a great white-faced barn owl, screamed, “Chunk it out! Chunk it out!” I did, and — whoomph — the sack snagged on the little yellow bird’s tail feathers. Bubba fought the rudder and stick, wondering how in the world we would land. Gingerly, he turned toward the airport. Directly in front of us floated a solitary, mysterious, alabaster cloud. It was Jack’s motes — hanging like a fog bank between home and us! Straight through it we flew, emerging with yet another coating of white powder. As we approached the grass airstrip, I saw sweat beads coursing through the chalk dust on Bubba’s neck. With the sack flapping from our tail like a banner, we had no idea what the plane would do when it slowed enough to land. Well, any landing you walk away from is a good one, so goes the old saying, and we were fixing to test the saying. Coated a ghastly white and eyeball to eyeball with the Grim Reaper, the two of us resembled cadavers, as the ground loomed upward. When the wheels touched, the Cub took a few jackrabbit leaps before lurching to a stop. A good while later, after pondering the indescribably secure feeling of feet on firm ground, we removed the sack from the plane’s tail. Looking inside, Bubba discovered a handful of Jack’s ashes. “What should we do with this sack?” he croaked. “Burn it,” I croaked back. In a reverential tone and looking piously self-righteous, he said, “Naw, let’s bury what’s left of him. It just wouldn’t be right … burning old Jack.”

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