Ashes of My Life

Ashes of My Life

When I was in high school, a classmate’s house burned to the ground. In our small rural school, we rarely had friends who suffered the loss of their home, so we hardly knew how to respond to the news. I had a weekend to grapple with how to greet our friend when she returned to school the next school. Should I offer condolences or, to spare her feelings, pretend that I didn’t know about her loss? I was surprised to note that she was wearing a pair of green rain boots when she walked into our shared homeroom on Monday morning. She proudly announced that she had always hated the boots, but when she sorted though the ashes of her possessions, she knew that the boots would have survived the fire because they were the ugliest, most hated article of clothing she owned. Their “survival” gave her the courage to look forward to a brighter tomorrow. I was confused by her comment, but in awe of her courage, in the face of the horrible loss she had experienced. I occasionally thought of her odd, brave response to her personal disaster as I completed my schooling with my graduating class.

I was in the fortunate generation made up of those whose parents had hopes for a brighter future for their children. My parents worked full-time factory jobs, and they scraped and saved to make sure that I would have opportunities for success that were never open to them. They frequently encouraged me to become involved in community activities to broaden my horizons. Through small-town scholarships and loans, attendance at a state college became possible. Moving into a dormitory in a college town was my first opportunity to be exposed to the world outside of my small town. Independence and mind-opening educational opportunities opened doors to additional independence and opportunities and encouraged me question to the rules and the ethics of my small farming community. My parents soon were an embarrassment and appeared old-fashioned in their ideas and their understandings. After graduation, moving to a more progressive area and leaving behind archaic ideas and life-styles was necessary to fully separate myself from my confining past. I had finally earned my freedom and intended to make full use of it.

I walked into a new set of rules that were more elusive than the rules I was expected to follow as a child or adolescent. Rules were based on power, beauty, and financial securities. To play the games required more than a good roll of the dice or even being at the right place at the right time. Success required that I forget, or at least ignore basic rules of conduct toward those who thought that they were on the same playing field as I. I had to be scrappier, faster, smarter, and more cunning than those who thought they could win the prize that I so desperately desired. As I climbed the social and financial ladder, just when I thought I had the “golden ring” within my grasp, it would vanish, only to be replaced by a brighter, more distant goal. I could allow nothing to stand in my way. Friends and family members were all replaceable and could be cast aside.

The passing of time, was the only thing beyond my control. The passing of seasons and the celebration of birthdays that I had so eagerly anticipated as a child, became like a creeping ooze that slowly sought to overtake me and slow my forward progress. I developed new appreciation for those early explorers who searched for the fountain of youth, as it became evident that there was always someone younger or more ambitious snapping at my heels, wishing to steal the spot that I wished to maintain and clung to so desperately.

Reunion invitations were tossed in the trash because I had no desire to be reminded of my small-town past. Hearing, from the hired home-care nurse, that my parents were in need of round-the-clock assisted-living care and could no longer keep their home was merely a blip on my radar. Time away from my job to take care of “family issues”, though permitted, was certainly not recommended. I offered to pay a local agency to clean out my parents’ home, but was firmly told that it was my legal responsibility to assist in the sale of my parent’s home. I begrudgingly purchased a round-trip first-class ticket. If I needed to complete this distasteful task, at least I could do so in comfort. I planned to hire a team of house cleaners and make short order of this job.

I disinterestedly watched the stewardess do her “song and dance” regarding safety precautions and use of automatic drop-down oxygen masks and removable seat cushions. I watched the scenery go by, from my window seat, as the plane rolled down the runway. The tall buildings, so much a part of my life, became miniscule before they were obscured by the clouds. I placed to headphones over my ears so as not to be bothered my any well-intended co-traveler or stewardess. What seemed like a short while later, a gentle nudge reminded me to readjust my seat for the approaching landing. A glance out the window showed the well-maintained farm lands with meandering pathways that created a patchwork of greens and browns, as we approached the small airport and proceeded to make a smooth landing. Quaint is the word that would most appropriately be used to describe the terminal, complete with rocking chairs for waiting family members. With hardly a glance at the others waiting to pick up their luggage, I hurried to the nearest car rental kiosk.

When I pulled my loaner car into my parents’ home driveway, I was aghast by the obvious disrepair of the small house. Had I truly grown up in such poverty? My mother had always taken pride in her house, but many of the appliances and pieces of furniture had not been improved or updated since I had moved to my faster-paced, exciting life. I quickly glanced around to make sure that no one would question my entering the house thorough the peeling, white-washed gate and unlocked the door. The smell and look of age were pervasive as I quickly went through the house to develop a plan.

I easily hired a team of workers who began packing up items to donate to the local Salvation Army. Supervising and redirecting the cleaning team allowed me to remain aloof and to continue to work on an important document that was due the following week. I felt that I was making sufficient progress until one of the workers called me into the bedroom to go though my mother’s jewelry box. I moved the offending box of trinkets to the living room end table while I attempted to make contact with my financial team to finalize a high-stakes report.

Though most news travels slowly in isolated farming communities. The horrors of the New York City attack on the World Trade Center circulated surprisingly rapidly. Cell phone communications were quickly transferred by word of mouth and one of the workers tuned into the local news station to verify the terrible realities of the terrorist attack on our country’s major cities. All pretenses and class differences fell away as we held our collective breaths while waiting to hear of the devastation of the building where I and so many others had built their kingdoms. The shocking news resulted in a sense of denial and disbelief followed by fear and dread as we attempted to sort out the meaning of such unbridled violence. We clung to each other while fearfully waited to hear the latest reports. The gathering of this small group of people in my parents’ home offered more sympathy and compassion than I had shown to those I dealt with on a daily basis. This group of individuals that I looked on as poor slices of unfortunate humanity, offered me protection through their caring in the face of the hatred that had destroyed all I thought was important. These kind, compassionate strangers knew nothing of my successes and powerful position, but approached me with a warm touch and a gentle word. The workers slowly left the house, heading for the security of their own homes, to assure themselves of the safety of those they loved. I listened to the shocked, unbelieving voices until I could stand it no more. I cradled my head and curled up in the over-stuffed chair.

In a daze, needing something to cling to, I reached to the end table and I opened the smooth surfaced jewelry box. A silver charm bracelet with a matching necklace caught my eye and gave me pause. I had never seen my mother wear either piece. Perhaps they were too fancy for everyday wear or were simply keep-sakes of an earlier life. The tiny silver charms were memoirs of a life that I knew nothing about nor had ever cared to consider. A tiny dated graduation cap, a prancing horse, a train replica, tiny plates with names of places that I never knew were visited, listing awards that I never knew were earned. Symbols of a life my mother had lived before I was born.

The heart shaped locket on the matching necklace sprung open with a gentle touch of the latch. The beauty of the woman in the tiny photo nearly took my breath away. Though I recognized her as my mother, I had never seen her looking so lovely, distant, and unapproachable as she appeared in the photo. My mother had always been loving, giving of herself to my father’s and my benefit. Perhaps when she placed these items in her jewelry box, she was exchanging pride for loving-kindness and haughtiness for caring-tenderness. She never spoke of her past experiences or successes. Her easy-going generosity was her legacy to those who knew her.

I latched the bracelet around my wrist and the necklace around my neck. The pieces of jewelry felt increasingly warm to the touch, nearly burning a hole through the shell surrounding my heart, choking out my personal pride and my arrogance. My mother had been beautiful and successful, but had exchanged her successes for a fulfilling, humble life of giving to her family and community. The reality of my personal legacy, of hard-hearted, self-serving power seemed trivial and I realized that my preoccupation with success had a strangle-hold on life and had built a wall that prevented lasting relationships. Real life had been taking place beyond the walls of my now non-existent well-stationed corner office, but I was so deeply entrenched in my ego-centric life, I had no desire to connect with what was real and valuable. A deep sense of loss and regret caused heaving sobs, sending me, on my knees, to the faded carpeted flooring.

Visions filled my mind of my high school friend, searching through the ashes of her home, to find something that refused to be destroyed. The raging fire had destroyed everything she thought she treasured, leaving only something she thought she detested. As I slowly unclasped the charm bracelet, I realized the time had come to search through the ashes of my life, to rediscover what was lasting.