This past weekend our foray into the basement uncovered a surprise. Although it would be fair to say that I am almost always surprised by what I find during my weekly sojourn to our basement to clear clutter and dispose of unwanted (un-needed?) memories.
Over 30 years ago my grandparents passed away within a month of each other, leaving my mom utterly devastated. She was an only child, in a bad marriage, two of her three children off to college, and, well, just devastated and feeling very alone (I did not realize this at the time by any stretch of the imagination).
They were cremated in Florida, where they had been living. My mom went down to get the ashes and brought them to her home where she lived until her death five years ago. My grandparents were together in a large tin; my grandfather’s ashes occupying a much larger bag than my tiny, 4’9” grandmother’s bag. Their ashes reminded me of seashells; light gray with slight pastel hues.
They were left, in their tin, sitting on the bottom shelf of a table in one of the bedrooms for a few years. I would come home occasionally and see them and ask my mom what her plans were for them and when? Her response was always, “I’m not ready to let them go.”
If ever I was a sentimental person, that quality of my person has mostly been lost amidst the practicality of my nature. To me, the ritual of “disposing” of the ashes would have been a fun family event. An opportunity to remember, together, these wonderful people who filled our childhood with memories.
Year after year those ashes sat there. Eventually I stopped asking. Eventually they were moved to another location somewhere in the house and I forgot about them.
When my mom was dying, Jim found the ashes up in a closet, hidden away behind many things.
Seriously, those ashes, my grandparents’ remains, were left sitting in a closet for all these years, never to be freed! What comfort is there in that? I will never understand this.
After my mom died my sister had to move and asked me to take the ashes and I said, “No, I don’t want those ashes in my house.” There are two reasons I feel this way.
- The ridiculousness of the fact that the ashes were still in existence annoyed me.
- The idea of human ashes in my house creeped me out.
She understood and kept the ashes.
My sister moved three or four times and the issue of the ashes never came up, other than when discussing the disposition of my mother’s ashes, which she currently has possession of. I suggested we take all the ashes to Lake Michigan, a place where we have all enjoyed being together over the years as a family. My sister said that no, my mom explicitly stated that she wanted her ashes to be put to rest in Florida. Treasure Island I believe, specifically. As far as I know my grandparents never specified where they wanted their ashes to go. I believe if I asked my sister she would say they are also supposed to go to Florida.
The concept of my family; my brother, sister, and I, all going down to Florida, at the same time, to dispose of these ashes is almost inconceivable. I mean, we could do it, but will we? Will we all, somehow, find the time to get our collective selves down to Florida, to dispose of these ashes? It’s just not very high on any of our lists of priorities. So I don’t ask.
This past weekend I discovered my grandparent’s ashes in my basement. In an old rusty tin. The old rusty tin was inside a large plastic bin full of my sister’s belongings that she left in our basement between one of her moves. She recently told me that anything of hers still in our basement we could dispose of as she had gone through everything and took what she wanted. I almost picked up the whole bin and put it in the “Goodwill” pile without sorting it out. But then I decided to go through it.
Among mismatched boots, bags, and fur stoles, was a large, yellow, aging tin. Completely out of place but not surprisingly out of place. So I took a peek. Instantly I knew what I was seeing.
My grandparents’ ashes are in my home.
What to do now?
By the end of the day I had declared that we were going to Lake Michigan this weekend. In my mind I see myself wading out into the frigid, icy water (hopefully not too many waves) and dumping the ashes. All by myself (Jim, dogs, and Nick on the beach minding their own business; none of them having ever met my grandparents).
That night Jim and I discussed the idea of taking the ashes to Fox Lake, where the vast majority of my memories of my grandparents reside. They lived on Fox Lake during my entire childhood; one mile away from where I lived. We visited them frequently (as in almost daily). One time my brother and I even walked across the frozen lake to their house.
Oh, such memories! I remember watching the rain come across the lake from the other side. And a favorite - every weekend my grandpa would take my brother and me “for a drive”. We would just drive around for an hour or so seeing the sights. I was always in the back seat, my brother in the front (is this why I always prefer to sit in the back when I go places with groups of people?). Picnics on the patio with my aunt and uncle and favorite cousin, Sheri, who also lived on Fox Lake. Taking the boat out to the island and looking for goose nests and sometimes finding them full of eggs or newly hatched chicks. Peering at the “sunken ship”, an old rowboat that sunk near the island, wondering what mystery befell this sad, sunken thing. Rowing through the canals; going through the tunnel that was full of spider webs, completely freaking me out but the other side was so worth it; a meandering magical place of quiet nature, utterly ours, not a human ever did we see. Ice skating on the frozen lake devoid of snow, the wind literally blowing me across the whole lake (it was SO cold), then hiding out in neighbor Sam’s shed to warm up so we could do it again. Christmas eves by the warm cozy fire. Etching our initials in the rafters of the attic. Putting my handprint in the cement on the patio; meant to last forever. Trying to catch a glimpse of the chipmunk that hid in the wood pile on the side of the house. The wooden swing. Boo Boo Fox, the adorable dog a few houses down. My fishing tackle. Fishing off the dock with frozen hotdogs (works really really well). Swimming swimming swimming. Always swimming.
Yes, that's me. I can't believe they let me drink beer at such a tender age!
We spent a lot of time there, creating these wonderful memories I hold deep in my heart.
So even though, if this works out, I may only go back to Fox Lake one more time in my life, it seems appropriate that that is where they should be. Someone needs to keep safe my memories.
We need a boat though. Just a rowboat. To row to the middle of the lake. I don’t want to stand on the bank and toss them in; they wouldn’t want that.
I want to row out to the middle of the lake and look around; it’s all changed now – their house isn’t even there anymore so I’m told – and recapture, for a few moments, those happy memories, if I can. And let them go.
My brother and I must do this, together. It will be fun.
