They say any element heavier than Hydrogen was made in a star. Hydrogen fuses into Helium. And that fuses to form heavier elements. The heavier stuff will be found towards the center of a star, like metals. Gold, Silver, platinum and the less precious stuff, are forged in the cosmic furnaces. When a star dies, the elements are scattered. Our planet is made with the remains of dead stars. People are fond of pointing out that we are made of stardust. I was thinking about that this week. I have been avoiding the beagle club with Covid-19, and letting the old timers have the club running grounds. I am constantly officiating funerals with lots of people being exposed to me, the last thing I want to do is give a virus to an older club member. So, I have been running in the wild. Everyone who has hunted with Andy Purnell will tell you that they know his secret spots, but I actually do. I have been in those spots a lot, the ones that are safe—some are prone to rattlesnakes before winter.
Andy and I would run dogs and chat. Some spots we would just train dogs, no hunting, just to make sure that no one else found them by following us in hunting season. Sometimes, we would run a place so much that we would know particular rabbits, the same as when you get a bunny in a beagle club that tends to run the same pattern every time you find it.
“That rabbit is familiar,” I said, listening to the dogs one day in November.
“The third circle will cross the fork of the dirt road, running over that flat rock,” Andy said.
“Yep.”
“We shouldn’t shoot it until the third circle,” Andy said.
“You want to get it?” I asked.
“Why?” he shrugged.
“I know you like staying on the paths.”
“For a guy that gets in the brush as much as you,” Andy puffed on his pipe, “You should be a judge.”
“I aint a fast enough runner,” I said.
“Fast enough,” he smiled.
“I don’t know enough about dogs to evaluate them,” I protested.
“I won’t disagree with you there,” he laughed.
“Go stand at the Y in the road,” I said, walking away.
“Where you going?” he yelled.
“Don’t you worry,” I said, and headed for a patch of greenbrier. I heard Andy laughing. He knew I was headed to a spot the rabbit would go on the fourth circle.
BOOM! I heard Andy’s .410 pistol bark. “Son of a b---” Andy yelled. The rabbit ran right to me. I dropped it, with one shot from my double barrel.
“Well,” Andy yelled, “You only shot once, so you must have got it.”
“I always get it,” I said, “I get at the edge of the brush. They are moving slower.”
“They are only slower in front of your dogs!” he yelled back, “Mine are here too! You must have gotten lucky!”
We ran another rabbit, guns unloaded, sitting on a log until it was time for him to go to work at Lion Country Supply, and for me to do hospital visits. That was a few months before Andy died, from cardiac failure. I was at that Y in the road recently, running a rabbit that runs remarkably similar to the one I shot that day, years ago. I won’t shoot him this fall, if he makes it that far. I was thinking about stardust as the rabbit passed me. Why?
When Andy died, the town where the funeral was held was jammed full of pickup trucks with dog boxes in the bed. They lined the streets, like a parade was going to start. The funeral was standing room only as I walked in, an hour before the service started.
“Can I get his wedding ring?” Andy’s widow, Lisa, asked me. Andy had been cremated.
“I will get it,” I said and walked to the funeral director and asked him.
“What ring?” the funeral director asked.
“His wedding band,” I said. He looked nervous. The funeral director that worked for him walked towards the back, closing the door behind her. I walked back to the urn with the ashes, where Lisa was greeting people. “They are getting it,” I said. A few minutes later the guy approached.
“They didn’t give us the ring,” He said, “The State Police probably have it.” That sounded odd to me. I pushed the idea aside, getting ready to officiate the service. It was going to be tough to do without getting emotional. When I am at a funeral for someone close to me, I keep a memory of a time when the deceased made me angry ready to think about if I get too sad to keep speaking. I pause, and the memory pops into my head to help me settle. If that doesn’t work, I bite the inside of my cheek. I bit my cheek pretty hard to get through that funeral.
The next day, I called a state trooper I know and asked why the police would have the wedding band. He told me that would not happen. I told Lisa to call the coroner. She got a copy of the coroner’s report, and it said that the ring was taped to Andy’s hand, and the clothes he was wearing were there too, with the body. I thought it was possible that the guy stole the ring, an odd thing.
Lisa called my cell phone, “Hello,” I answered.
“I scheduled a meeting with that funeral director,” she said.
“Good idea,” I said.
“Will you take me?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Sure.”
“Good,” she said, “I am afraid that I will get mad. You need to keep me calm.”
“No problem,” I said.
I know a lot of pastors and funeral directors. I did some calling. I am told that the guy was previously in legal trouble that got him in enough trouble that he can own a funeral home but he has another worker doing the work. I was also told that he once beat his wife on main street. I can’t prove that these things are true, and I didn’t try to confirm them. But his peers and my colleagues said it was the case.
It was cold and snowy when we met him. Tiny, powdery snowflakes, that he was shoveling as we arrived. A broom would work better. Into the office we went, he sat behind his desk, Lisa and I sat on the opposite side.
“Did you find the ring?” Lisa asked.
“It never arrived here,” he leaned back in his chair like we were discussing a ball game or pizza.
“It had to,” I said.
He dialed a number, his desk phone on speaker mode. One ring, and an answer “Hello?”
“Yes,” the guy put a foot on his desk, “I am here with the Purnell family.” He didn’t recognize me as the officiating pastor a week earlier. He thought I was a relative.
“Oh yeah,” the guy on the other end said.
“Yes,” he slouched in his office chair, “You told me that there was no ring on the body when you did the cremation, right?”
“That is correct,” the voice asserted.
“Okay,” he put both feet back on the desk, “Goodbye.”
“What does that prove?” Lisa asked.
“The ring never made it here,” he said.
“We contacted the coroner,” I said, “You’re a liar.” I was wondering what pawn shops I had to seek to get the ring back.
“You can’t talk to me like that!” he stood and was shouting. Lisa began to cry,
I stood. And in a very calm voice I said, “You better calm down. Because if you plan on going in this direction, I will give you a hell of a lot more trouble on main street than your wife did.” I shoved his desk towards him. He sat down and rolled his chair backwards. His eyes were like silver dollars. Yeah, I can’t believe I said that either. The woman that works for him pulled us aside.
She handed me the ring, and told Lisa that she should not pay a bill if she received one. She apologized, and said she went back and found the ring. It went through the cremation process. It only survived the heat because it was made of titanium. All the precious gold had boiled out of it, and the once shiny titanium was now charred and blackened. That was the second time I held that wedding band. The first time was at their wedding, when I held them both high with the wedding liturgy that says, “These rings are the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace…” Now, I held the ring again. We walked outside. No one checked for the ring. They burned it. I was shocked.
“That was some gangster shit, Ford,” Lisa said.
“What?” I asked.
“You just threatened to kick a guy’s ass on main street.”
“Sorry about that,” I saw her watery eyes. I am not touchy-feely, but I reached down and held her hand, making sure that the wedding band was between our palms.”
“I didn’t expect that from a pastor,” she said.
“I hear that from time to time,” I said, pressing the ring into her hand so she grasped it as we neared my truck.
“You were supposed to keep me from getting mad!” she said.
Months later, Mike Leaman, Cody Mathis, and I held a small ceremony in one of Andy’s favorite hunting spots. We put his ashes, as requested by Lisa, where we had just hunted and shot some hare. It just occurred to me recently, that the gold, forged in the blast furnace of a star, and boiled out of the wedding band by a crematorium, must have been mixed into those ashes, in tiny flakes. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” as the liturgy says. Stardust.
Andy and I would run dogs and chat. Some spots we would just train dogs, no hunting, just to make sure that no one else found them by following us in hunting season. Sometimes, we would run a place so much that we would know particular rabbits, the same as when you get a bunny in a beagle club that tends to run the same pattern every time you find it.
“That rabbit is familiar,” I said, listening to the dogs one day in November.
“The third circle will cross the fork of the dirt road, running over that flat rock,” Andy said.
“Yep.”
“We shouldn’t shoot it until the third circle,” Andy said.
“You want to get it?” I asked.
“Why?” he shrugged.
“I know you like staying on the paths.”
“For a guy that gets in the brush as much as you,” Andy puffed on his pipe, “You should be a judge.”
“I aint a fast enough runner,” I said.
“Fast enough,” he smiled.
“I don’t know enough about dogs to evaluate them,” I protested.
“I won’t disagree with you there,” he laughed.
“Go stand at the Y in the road,” I said, walking away.
“Where you going?” he yelled.
“Don’t you worry,” I said, and headed for a patch of greenbrier. I heard Andy laughing. He knew I was headed to a spot the rabbit would go on the fourth circle.
BOOM! I heard Andy’s .410 pistol bark. “Son of a b---” Andy yelled. The rabbit ran right to me. I dropped it, with one shot from my double barrel.
“Well,” Andy yelled, “You only shot once, so you must have got it.”
“I always get it,” I said, “I get at the edge of the brush. They are moving slower.”
“They are only slower in front of your dogs!” he yelled back, “Mine are here too! You must have gotten lucky!”
We ran another rabbit, guns unloaded, sitting on a log until it was time for him to go to work at Lion Country Supply, and for me to do hospital visits. That was a few months before Andy died, from cardiac failure. I was at that Y in the road recently, running a rabbit that runs remarkably similar to the one I shot that day, years ago. I won’t shoot him this fall, if he makes it that far. I was thinking about stardust as the rabbit passed me. Why?
When Andy died, the town where the funeral was held was jammed full of pickup trucks with dog boxes in the bed. They lined the streets, like a parade was going to start. The funeral was standing room only as I walked in, an hour before the service started.
“Can I get his wedding ring?” Andy’s widow, Lisa, asked me. Andy had been cremated.
“I will get it,” I said and walked to the funeral director and asked him.
“What ring?” the funeral director asked.
“His wedding band,” I said. He looked nervous. The funeral director that worked for him walked towards the back, closing the door behind her. I walked back to the urn with the ashes, where Lisa was greeting people. “They are getting it,” I said. A few minutes later the guy approached.
“They didn’t give us the ring,” He said, “The State Police probably have it.” That sounded odd to me. I pushed the idea aside, getting ready to officiate the service. It was going to be tough to do without getting emotional. When I am at a funeral for someone close to me, I keep a memory of a time when the deceased made me angry ready to think about if I get too sad to keep speaking. I pause, and the memory pops into my head to help me settle. If that doesn’t work, I bite the inside of my cheek. I bit my cheek pretty hard to get through that funeral.
The next day, I called a state trooper I know and asked why the police would have the wedding band. He told me that would not happen. I told Lisa to call the coroner. She got a copy of the coroner’s report, and it said that the ring was taped to Andy’s hand, and the clothes he was wearing were there too, with the body. I thought it was possible that the guy stole the ring, an odd thing.
Lisa called my cell phone, “Hello,” I answered.
“I scheduled a meeting with that funeral director,” she said.
“Good idea,” I said.
“Will you take me?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Sure.”
“Good,” she said, “I am afraid that I will get mad. You need to keep me calm.”
“No problem,” I said.
I know a lot of pastors and funeral directors. I did some calling. I am told that the guy was previously in legal trouble that got him in enough trouble that he can own a funeral home but he has another worker doing the work. I was also told that he once beat his wife on main street. I can’t prove that these things are true, and I didn’t try to confirm them. But his peers and my colleagues said it was the case.
It was cold and snowy when we met him. Tiny, powdery snowflakes, that he was shoveling as we arrived. A broom would work better. Into the office we went, he sat behind his desk, Lisa and I sat on the opposite side.
“Did you find the ring?” Lisa asked.
“It never arrived here,” he leaned back in his chair like we were discussing a ball game or pizza.
“It had to,” I said.
He dialed a number, his desk phone on speaker mode. One ring, and an answer “Hello?”
“Yes,” the guy put a foot on his desk, “I am here with the Purnell family.” He didn’t recognize me as the officiating pastor a week earlier. He thought I was a relative.
“Oh yeah,” the guy on the other end said.
“Yes,” he slouched in his office chair, “You told me that there was no ring on the body when you did the cremation, right?”
“That is correct,” the voice asserted.
“Okay,” he put both feet back on the desk, “Goodbye.”
“What does that prove?” Lisa asked.
“The ring never made it here,” he said.
“We contacted the coroner,” I said, “You’re a liar.” I was wondering what pawn shops I had to seek to get the ring back.
“You can’t talk to me like that!” he stood and was shouting. Lisa began to cry,
I stood. And in a very calm voice I said, “You better calm down. Because if you plan on going in this direction, I will give you a hell of a lot more trouble on main street than your wife did.” I shoved his desk towards him. He sat down and rolled his chair backwards. His eyes were like silver dollars. Yeah, I can’t believe I said that either. The woman that works for him pulled us aside.
She handed me the ring, and told Lisa that she should not pay a bill if she received one. She apologized, and said she went back and found the ring. It went through the cremation process. It only survived the heat because it was made of titanium. All the precious gold had boiled out of it, and the once shiny titanium was now charred and blackened. That was the second time I held that wedding band. The first time was at their wedding, when I held them both high with the wedding liturgy that says, “These rings are the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace…” Now, I held the ring again. We walked outside. No one checked for the ring. They burned it. I was shocked.
“That was some gangster shit, Ford,” Lisa said.
“What?” I asked.
“You just threatened to kick a guy’s ass on main street.”
“Sorry about that,” I saw her watery eyes. I am not touchy-feely, but I reached down and held her hand, making sure that the wedding band was between our palms.”
“I didn’t expect that from a pastor,” she said.
“I hear that from time to time,” I said, pressing the ring into her hand so she grasped it as we neared my truck.
“You were supposed to keep me from getting mad!” she said.
Months later, Mike Leaman, Cody Mathis, and I held a small ceremony in one of Andy’s favorite hunting spots. We put his ashes, as requested by Lisa, where we had just hunted and shot some hare. It just occurred to me recently, that the gold, forged in the blast furnace of a star, and boiled out of the wedding band by a crematorium, must have been mixed into those ashes, in tiny flakes. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” as the liturgy says. Stardust.
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