With all our weather woes you have other things to worry about than Kurt Cobain's ashes. I do, too, for that matter, but I can't get them out of my mind.

Cobain's widow, Courtney Love, told the Guardian of London last week that the ashes of Cobain, singer and songwriter for Nirvana, were stolen from a handbag in her home.

"I can't believe anyone would take Kurt's ashes from me," Love said. "If I don't get them back I don't know what I'll do."

This story has haunted me since I first read it, because for almost 10 years now I've had my parents' ashes on a closet shelf in my small downstairs home office. They died within nine months of one another and I don't think they envisioned my closet as their eternal resting place, although they are perched next to an eight-part VHS series on Frank Sinatra, and they were both Sinatra fans.

Since my parents weren't celebrities, I really don't think there is much chance of the ashes being stolen, but I think my situation may shed light on a more universal truth. When you are contemplating what Raymond Chandler called the big sleep, it's not enough to say, "I want to be cremated." You need to tell people what to do with your ashes. My parents never did.

I remember reading a biography of Irwin Shaw, the late author of "Rich Man, Poor Man," and finding an anecdote told to author Michael Shnayerson by Shaw's friend, producer Robert Parrish. Shaw had neglected to say what he wished done with his ashes. His widow gave them to Parrish for safekeeping, and years passed.

Shnayerson wrote that Parrish was "somewhat bewildered about where to store a burial urn," and settled on a shelf in his garage. "Every time I have to go into the garage to get something," Parrish said, "I just look up on the shelf and think, 'Well, there 's Irwin.'"

Of course, even when someone lays out detailed instructions for their ashes, implementation can at times be difficult. My research on the subject yielded a story from the San Francisco Chronicle in which a family had hired a small airplane to scatter a loved one's ashes in the Pacific Ocean, per his request. Unfortunately, when the big moment arrived a stiff wind blew the ashes back in the window. The pilot said, "We had to vacuum Grandpa out of the airplane."

Somewhat more successful was the attempt, half a century ago, to scatter the ashes of a prominent UW athlete and administrator over Camp Randall Stadium. In October 1955, UW Athletic Director Guy Sundt died, at 57, of a heart attack. Born in Madison and raised in Stoughton, Sundt had been an outstanding athlete at UW (eight varsity letters) as well as senior class president. He became athletic director in 1950.

Sundt had requested his ashes be scattered over Camp Randall. On a day some weeks after Sundt's death, a group of Sundt's friends -- including John Fish, Arthur Towell and UW boxing coach John Walsh -- flew the ashes over the stadium. The plane belonged to Swiss Colony founder Ray Kubly.

Last year I spoke to Bob Witte, who in 1955 was a freshman member of the UW Marching Band that was practicing adjacent to Camp Randall when the plane flew over. He said most of the ashes did indeed make it into Camp Randall, but some were carried by the wind onto the parking lot where the band was practicing. "It was like an early snow," Witte said.

It didn't require an airplane, but I've always admired the ingenuity of one Badger fan who found a way to get his father's ashes scattered in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, Calif. The dad had been a long-suffering fan of Badger football who on his death bed said if the Badgers ever made it to the Rose Bowl, he'd like to make it, too.

As recounted in Justin Doherty's book, "Tales From the Wisconsin Badgers," when the Badgers made it to Pasadena in 1994 after a long absence, the man's son approached an assistant director of the UW Marching Band as the band was entering the Rose Bowl. He explained his father's dying wish. The band director agreed to try, took the plastic bag filled with ashes, and wound up spreading them in the Wisconsin end zone during the "Fifth Quarter."

The recent news of Kurt Cobain's ashes has me wondering again what I should do with those two boxes in my office closet. If Rohde's restaurant was still around, I could summon the spirit of Dorothy Parker and put my dad behind the bar there with a little sign: "Pardon my dust." As for my mom, I suppose she enjoyed her time volunteering in the Meriter Hospital coffee shop and gift shop as much as anything. I wonder how they would feel about a decorative urn behind the counter and a sign excusing her dust?

My own kids have been informed that my ashes should be scattered over the Odana Hills golf course, anywhere but the 16th hole, where so many of my good rounds already went to die. No need to rent a plane. Tossing me out the back of the beverage cart will be just fine.

Contact Doug Moe at 608-252-6446 or dmoe@madison.com.