People die. Those loved ones and friends that remain choose to honor, celebrate, grieve or sometimes ignore a life lived. I was invited to celebrate and acknowledge a man that I had only just begun to know. Most everyone at the gathering were long time friends with stories to tell and many memories. I was a voyeur to an intimate look at a man's life and family that has been so steeped in a loving, thoroughly integrated lifestyle that is so rarely seen in today's frantic rush to have it all, which of course is never enough.
John was a worker of wood in all its manifestations. Carpenter, craftsman, artist, perfectionist. The Westgate's home is a testament to his craftsmanship and love of the medium. The house was made with milled lumber cut from trees on the forested hillside of their property. Bringing in cord wood for the fireplace, a chore for some, was an expression of artistry and an intimacy with the details of tools, trees and the dance between them.
In an adjacent room picture boards of the years gone by. Frozen moments in time giving only a partial glimpse, a hint at the constant thread of their family's DNA code. The man's commitment to a dream, embodied and shared by his partner of 46 years. Soul mates that built a sanctuary for raising a family on the side of a mountain. They have two sons.
Nice story you say. Rare, even quirky by today's standards, and maybe not your cup of tea as a life path. But in death - the beauty of their grieving brought to light the depth of their bond, and that was profound to witness.
The heartfelt eloquence of the youngest son as he spoke of his father. The elder son spoke to his father as his belief is that John was with us in the room. We sat and listened and witnessed their grief as they broke down weeping several times recounting and thanking their father for the lessons they'd learned.
John chose to be cremated, and state law says the body must be placed in a casket. John was not one for flashy expensive things, yet his sons knew in life he would abhor the shoddy, cheap wooden casket the funeral home offered, so they went home to their father's wood shop and began building the casket he would be cremated in. They chose good wood, but not the best stock as John would have admonished them to save it for a project more deserving. What's the sense of burning up a fine piece of cedar?
They made a bed of cedar bows and snowdrops and laced the casket with native flowers from their property. It's said that the western world has a strong aversion to death. Having experienced the programmed efficiency of a funeral home twice I realize, given the altered state of most and the requirement for documentation, that places for "handling" death need to exist. And these places, where bodies are boxed, burned or buried with a briskness designed to avoid the ritual of grieving, seemed a cold alternative to the immersion into grief the Westgate family chose, thereby beginning the mending of their broken hearts.
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