Santa Monica Pier

On a dark December morning, Ellen's new 1958 Edsel Citation rolled from the carport and glided down the frozen driveway. When it reached the street, one of its tires thumped the curb. The impact caused her husband's pewter cremation urn to slide from the passenger seat. It struck the floorboard with a dull lonesome thud.

"That's okay," Ellen whispered. She gave the car's dash a reassuring pat. "We're in this together. But you're going to have to help me out. You'll need to be strong now, so I can be strong later."

The Edsel roared to life and lit up the cul-de-sac with its peculiar looking headlights. The neighbor's five-year-old son, Billy, stood in his parent's front yard and waved goodbye. Ellen smiled and returned the gesture. Billy had died of polio four months ago. She and her husband, Paul, had been fond of the young boy. They'd loved how he'd often showed up at their back door, asking Ellen if he could help her water Frankie and Johnny.

Frankie and Johnny were two six-foot tall fig trees, which lived in large clay pots on her sun porch. She'd dragged them out there last summer after realizing they'd outgrown their space in the living room. Paul was amazed when he returned home from work to discover she'd moved the hundred pound plants all by herself. She had more energy back then. Paul told her she possessed the spirit of a lioness, and that made her feel special. Paul had a way of doing that.

On leaving the cul-de-sac, the Edsel turned down Main Street and headed for Route 66. She and Paul had often talked about taking a Route 66 road trip, but that was before the accident.

The Edsel slowed as it neared Jake's Gas 'n Go, a place where they'd often stopped for fuel and cokes. "Not this time, Eddie baby," Ellen gently tapped the car's accelerator. "If I can do without my cokes, you can do without your gas."

Ellen figured that if they traveled day and night, they could make the 2250-mile trip from Chicago to Santa Monica Pier in about three days. She sighed when she thought about Paul and Santa Monica. Four years ago, on the end of the pier, Paul had gotten down on one knee and nervously proposed to her. That had been a very special time.

After twenty-four hours of steady motoring, the Edsel coughed and sputtered ever so slightly.

"What's wrong, Eddie?" Ellen asked, "You need a rest?"

The car's radio responded by tuning in one of her Nat King Cole favorites. Then they continued on, as if they were out on another Sunday afternoon cruise.

Paul had come up with the cremation idea, and she'd suggested scattering their ashes out over the clear, blue ocean. The final plan had been a joint decision. The survivor was to take the remains of whoever went first to Santa Monica and sprinkle the ashes off the end of the pier. Paul had put cremation in their will, but he hadn't gotten around to adding the bit about Santa Monica. That was still on his to-do list when a speeding Greyhound Bus broadsided his Cadillac. He died instantly.

It rained the second night of the journey. Suddenly, in front of the Edsel, not more than twenty yards ahead, a white-tailed deer and her baby stood frozen in the glare of the oncoming headlights. Tires screamed and the horn blared. The deer didn't move, but the smooth handling Edsel avoided a catastrophe. It swerved around the pair and continued down Route 66, leaving mother and child standing in the middle of the road like ornamental garden statues.

Ellen loved her Ember Red Edsel. It had been an early Christmas present from Paul. He'd even taken her down to Happy Hank's to pick it out.

"It's loaded," the bigheaded salesman in the pinstriped suit told her. "Its got power everything. It even has a compass." Then the salesman snorted like a horse. "I'm here to tell you, lady, this car will practically drive itself. You just point it where you want to go, and it'll do the rest."

She'd never been fond of car salesmen, but that guy knew his stuff.

On the third morning, the Edsel pulled into the Santa Monica Pier parking lot. With steam rolling out from under its hood, it looked like it had run its last race. It coughed once, twice, and then died on the spot. Its mission completed. Ellen knew the rest was up to her.

With a great deal of effort, she removed the cremation urns from the car and carried them across the nearly deserted pier. Her short journey over that gray, weathered, wooden platform took her past a young couple standing hand in hand staring out at the clear blue waters. They were talking about having fair-haired children and living to a ripe old age. They didn't even glance in her direction.

Twisting the lids from the urns proved nearly as arduous as moving Frankie and Johnny from the living room to the sun porch, but she managed. Then, with the aid of the soft ocean breeze, the ashes took flight. They swirled up into the sweet morning air and gently came together as one. Finally, they floated out over the sparkling water like fireflies on a warm summer's eve.

As her spirit soared, Ellen overheard a portion of a nearby conversation.

"What is it?" asked a female voice.

"A couple of empty cremation urns," replied a male. "One's engraved with the name of Paul Baker, loving and devoted husband, died December 12, 1958. The other, Ellen Baker, loving and loyal wife, died December 13, 1958. Looks like he died first and she followed one day later. Someone must have emptied their ashes into the ocean. What do you think of that?"

"I think I'd like someone to do that for us someday," she replied softly.