Posthumous Potluck

The first row of cars came into view around the tight bend. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the road as far as could be seen. Some were parked off the road, some at dangerous angles in the trees, others halfway into the oncoming traffic lanes.

How many cars are there?

Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.

Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.

Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.

It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.

What throngs!

At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.

This is the place.

The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.

"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.

Should I?

The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.

The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.

Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.

Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.

More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.

A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.

This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.

Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.

Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.

In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."

The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.

A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"

As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.

In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.

The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.

By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.

The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.

The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.

I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.