Mickey Cashes in This Trip

When I was wee my dad took us to a cabin for a little vacay, me and my older brother "Pablo." One night we sat by the fireplace and he told us this spooky story... About two gold prospectors in the Yukon, and one was from Tennessee, and was always cold. He made his friend promise to cremate him, and then died. The friend hauled the body around til he found an abandoned boat, and burned him in it. When he opened the door he saw his friend (Sam McGee) sitting there smiling:

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm— Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

I later learned it was a poem by Robert Service, which my dad learned from our Gramma, and she learned from her mum. Gramma would sometimes recite it to us, and it's our fave Robert Service poem.

 

It's on my mind because I'm "up country" right now, at 100 Mile House, so named because it was one of the towns that popped up because of a gold rush trail. We're here, my dad, brother and I, because our grandmother is dying.

My Gramma (Mickey to her pals) became comfortable with the idea of dying at least a year ago. She's been in a lot pain because of spinal stenosis, and she's had cancers come and go. Now her cancer is back and she's all: Cool. Let's get this show on the road.

She's so practical she even gave her kids and grandkids money to help us travel up to see her (the rest if the family is one province over.) So friends and relatives have all been making the pilgrimage to see her one last time, wish her well for her journey.

We can only visit about an hour at a time, so in the meantime Pablo and I are in a motel. My dad's been up here awhile, staying in his RV outside their house, helping out. It's one of those semi-sad occasions, where it's sad to think of losing someone, but they're ready to go and you have to let them. She's had a really fulfilling 25 with her second husband, square dancing and skiing and camping and playing cards. If you ask her how she is, she'll say: It's well with my soul.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Okay she hasn't made any weird last requests.

At least none that I know of.