As we headed home from a tour of the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, Stewart our tour guide could tell we were all sleepy from an early morning and a long day of trekking. He decided for the last half hour, he would let us doze after playing one of his favorite songs. He had to look around for it on YouTube and he then let it play.
It was called Goodnight and Joy. The song is a somber ballad of a man nestled in his house towards the end of the year presumably in the Scottish Highlands. There is a cold storm coming as the sun sets in the West and the darkness is falling. Yet, instead of being morose, the man wishes his companions a good night and for joy to be with them. He says that perhaps he will see them in the morning. This song is a metaphor for death and the hope of meeting loved ones in the hereafter. There could not have been a more perfect soundtrack for my Scottish adventure.
My maternal grandfather loved Scotland. He loved golf, the military tattoo, and even had his own plaid. He and my grandmother were scheduled to have one more final trip together to Scotland as she was slowly becoming ill. They left for Philadelphia International Airport on a Tuesday morning; Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. Needless to say, their travel plans were interrupted. By the time they could finally reschedule, my grandmother was too ill to travel. Taking care of his wife as she slowly succumbed to her illness, my grandfather moved them both from Pennsylvania to Louisiana and started the final chapters of their lives. Her chapter came to a close in July of 2009 and his finished on Easter morning in 2013. He had never visited the land he loved so much.
One of the most important lessons I learned from him is that it is never too late to fix relationships until it is. Due to some family strife, we had a falling out. When I decided to leave Los Angeles in October of 2010, I called him and asked if I could stay with him for a little while while I set up my new life in New Orleans. Without hesitation, he asked when I would show up. After driving almost 2000 miles, he met me at the front door of his house with a bottle of Jack Daniels. We sat on his back porch, hashed out our differences, talked, joked and drank until the wee hours of the morning. Our relationship was repaired, and I was able to see him quite often in the remaining years of his life.
I was with him the day before he died. A hospital bed was moved into his home. He was hooked up to oxygen and was drifting in and out of consciousness. Members of his church came and prayed around him as they knew his time was short. Family members and true friends came and said their goodbyes. The next morning before his body was taken to the funeral home, I held his cold hand and recounted my favorite memories of our times together. As he was being carted out, I finished the bottle of Jack Daniels we shared years before on his back porch after pouring a little out for him.
I booked my trip to Scotland specifically with him in mind as an homage to my grandfather and my heritage. I knew I needed to do something special. With the planning and execution of a well-coordinated bank heist, I was able to enlist my aunt, his daughter, in helping me. My Edinburgh hostel initially misplaced my parcel and after a few breathless hours, they were able to find it. I headed to the one place where I could get some privacy, the bathroom, and opened it. There was a plastic bag filled with ashes. My grandfather finally arrived in Scottland. I took his earthly remains and placed the bag in my newly empty gigantic malaria pill bottle, ready for transport.
In Edinburgh, I spread his ashes at the Edinburgh Castle, then hiked to Arthur’s Seat. I spread them in Loch Ness and Loch Lomand. I spread them in the forests and the riverbanks of Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands. I spread them on Gordon Street in Glasgow and finally at the feet of John Knox high above the city.
Having climbed to the top of a small mountain, I was tired, hot, and dripping with perspiration. I took a seat, back pressed against the base of the statue of the father of Scottish Presbyterianism (my grandfather’s faith) and sat looking out from my perch with his ashes and Glasgow sprawled before me. I knew this would be a serene place for one’s final rest. It was a Necropolis, after all. I looked down to the small mound of ash at my feet that matched the color of the Scottish sky high above my head and smiled. I felt at peace and thought that, perhaps, we’ll meet again in the morning.
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