“Rest in peace.”

The words caught me by surprise. I have never thought of my father in those terms even though it’s been more than five years since he died. Rather, he has always been there. And as for rest, he never did much of that. In later years, when he was in his 90s, the body slowed. He quit tennis and physical activity, such as long walks, and bringing in the firewood were out of the question. Yet mentally he never slowed down, curious about what members of the family were doing, in tune with what was happening in the neighborhood and in the world.

My sister, Claire, suggested we spread his ashes at the stone marker adjacent to that of my mother’s where her ashes had been placed. We wanted them close to one another and the cemetery agreed to put the two stones together, but the site was not large enough according to their rules to bury an urn of ashes.

So, the ashes came home and for those years sat on a shelf not far from many of the books he loved.

Now was the time to find their final resting place.

Over dinner Saturday we thought of the places he loved and those that reminded us of him.

Collectively the image taken of him walking the dog along the lakeshore in early fall came to mind. It’s a family favorite picture. A bright afternoon, the shadows long, the lake a mirror reflecting the reds, yellows, oranges and the dark greens of the bordering trees. He’s wearing a checkered jacket and holding a stick as he walks toward the camera. The dog is watching him, ready for the throw.

“We want to put some there,” said Carol. My bother-in-law, Edward, agreed whole-heartedly. We’d walk the rocky beach to that spot.

Instantly the list of locations grew. For sure, we would leave ashes at the tennis court and the point overlooking the lake at the state park that was of special significance to him and my mother and frequently a destination of walks with the dogs.

But how would be do this? The ashes were in a double lined clear plastic bag in a plain white box with his name. This hardly seemed appropriate, not a container to hold the remains of 97 years. He should be free.

Carol suggested we use the silver shovel-shaped spoon from the sugar bowl that once sat on the kitchen table. We knew exactly of what she meant. I could see him reaching for it after adding milk to his coffee. Well, if we were to use the spoon, well then, we should include a cocktail glass.

Indeed, a drink with some Gold Fish crackers and peanuts nearby was his way of signaling dinnertime was not that far away. A drink was his way of bringing people together and more than anything engaging in conversation.

One of many family stories is of the time his companion later in life, Marge, called for help after he had passed out. By the time the rescue from the volunteer fire department showed up, he was sitting up and feeling quite well. With the crew standing ready with a stretcher, my father suggested they join him for a drink. He knew them and, of course, was not only being polite but likewise interested in the local news. They declined and sped him to the hospital, where for certain he learned the latest from nurses and physicians.

An eggcup also seemed an appropriate implement. He liked his soft-boiled eggs and the cups were often part of the breakfast setting.

Finally, so that we would each have an implement, Claire suggested a shell. My mother loved shells and would bring them back from vacations. Some of her best finds adorned the mantel along with polished rocks, and figurines of birds, and naturally, dogs. Claire retrieved an orange scallop shell.

Our mission could have been reverent, even morose. There could have been music, prayers and readings. That was not the case. Claire and I walked to the point with a small container of ashes bulging from my pocket. Ollie on a long leash led the way. Tucker, Claire and Edward’s dog, brought up the rear slowing down the cortege with his deliberative sniffing.

“He would have loved that we brought the dogs,” she said. We traded stories and remembrances and when he arrived at the point we wondered where to leave the ashes. We picked a hollow beside a large rock – a place where perhaps my father and mother had taken in the view of the lake and surrounding hills.

When we returned, we all headed over to the tennis court. I filled the cocktail glass; Carol had the spoon while Edward had the eggcup and Claire the shell. We stood in a circle, we raised our crucibles and in a spontaneous silent toast brought them together. We then went different ways recalling his serve, his net game and love of the sport.

As we went we thought of more places, the white oak in the front yard and the swing hanging from its branches, the trail to the lake and the dock.

And finally, we went to the cemetery to find my mother’s marker and those of the extended family. We spread the ashes, at first only at his stone, but then in a widening circle to include my grandparents, uncles and cousins.

He was free from the bookshelf and he was free from an urn deep in the earth. Moreover, we were replete with all the memories he had left us.