The first anniversary of my grandpa’s death is fast approaching. For the last nine months, his ashes sat on the mantle of the house that he lived in for over fifty years with his wife, whom he’d been married to even longer than that, packed into a box the size of my fist. This month those ashes were spread around the foundation of that house, around the yard, and out into the back woods. A sprinkle here. A sprinkle there.
And this makes good sense. During his life, my grandpa poured himself into his home. He expanded it with new rooms, built an garage, constructed a sun room (in Seattle no less!), painted again and again, rearranged the landscaping, busted walls, rebuilt walls, and continually remade his surroundings as he continually remade himself.
A week before his death, grandpa, Liam, and I enjoyed a few hours together. I wasn’t supposed to be in Seattle that Christmas, but God sovereignly had other plans.
It was that house that I used to ride my bike down to at five in the morning, speeding on East View Ridge Drive, down onto the steep, exhilarating incline of Olympic Avenue, and into the gravel drive with a slam of my breaks and an epic skid only an eight year old boy could appreciate, giddy with expectation as I prepared to caddy for my grandpa at one of the local golf courses. It was in the warm kitchen, smelling of coffee and melted butter, that I sat down to eat the smiley face pancakes, a McElroy tradition. It was in the warmly lighted family room, where we sat around the dinner table and talked into the night, telling long and rambling jokes and playing board games. It was that house where my mom, my uncles and aunts, me, and my cousins grew up. Good memories and bad, that house that was his and ours.
I was not able to make it up for the spreading of grandpa’s ashes, and in a way I’m glad. I paid my respects, kissing his cold forehead for the last time in the living room of the very same house in which he lived and died on that frosty December morning almost a year ago. But part of me wishes that I could have been there, to see just one last time the remains of the man I loved, even if they fit in a Chinese take-out box instead of one of his spring-fresh laundered v-neck undershirts. To gather as a family one last time around a man who had been a center of our life for so long. But in the end, it is his memory that sustains my love, not ashes. And those still burn strong.
Yet, there are days when I miss him terribly. Today is one of those days.
Rest in peace, Ronald McElroy. Rest in peace, grandpa.
It has been just over a year since my mothers ashes went for a swim in a Ventura, CA beach. She was born there, married there and had her final swim there. I was the one privileged enough to take her on this final adventure. I agree, memories are much better than ashes.
LiveLove