Beauty for Ashes
Like a rotten spinach leaf stuck to the bottom drawer in a refrigerator, the Arby’s bag clings to the wet sidewalk. Freezing rain, which beats upon its surface, only aids in wedging the paper sack more deeply in the crack between cement panels, not washing it off. Nearby, remnants of a curly-fries carton decays in pulverized majesty. Constant footfalls upon it have aided in the natural process of decomposition, but, interestingly enough, have not beaten off the Arby’s logo adorning the outer surface. The iconic symbol of instant heartburn peddles a $1.99 item smashed beyond recognition.
I step over the trash. My dog faithfully limps along beside me. He’s not doing well these days. 10 years is a long time for a big dog, and we don’t know how many more he has left. I keep him on a short leash so he doesn’t overextend his leg.
My phone rings. I check the message. Since I’m not wearing gloves it hurts to open Mom’s message. Hurts to read it.
The phone gets stuffed back in a pocket, and foggy breath mists before me as I continue walking. The dog pulls toward a tree and I let him have his way, following him through a soggy ally-way.
I’m not polytheistic, but when viewing the seasons I can’t blame those who are. Sometimes it seems odd that the God who created spring tulips and warm showers is the same being who strips the trees bare and kills my balcony flowers with sleet. The Creator of winter brings flurries of light snow so you can kiss and ice-skate in a picture-perfect world. Deep blizzards offer peppermint and hot-chocolate and warm fires and books. Spring brings flowers, rebirth, and new love. Greenery and plenty abound. The Creator of Summer too, gives you rain to dance in, breezes reminiscent of childhood, and adventure-filled romance. Autumn descends with leaves of every color, and crisp walks in the park. Each season offers a unique bounty of nostalgia and happiness.
But the magic is lost in transition.
Between Autumn and Winter you get an array of dead plants without the snowy ground cover. Nostalgic moments of kissing in the hail. Naked trees. Slushy puddles.
We reach the end of the ally-way. I inspect someone’s potted plant withered beyond recognition, drooping like old seaweed.
My mind wanders to another season.
Springtime. A family reunion of some kind. I remember bits and pieces, but not the whole thing. A light purple bowl of popcorn. A long table with laughing people surrounding it. A blue van with a silver hitch. And Grandma. I sat on her lap one evening after a ride with Grandpa in the aforementioned blue van with the silver hitch. We talked about who knows what, and she probably kissed my head more than a reasonable amount, as was her custom. Probably with bright red lipstick, as was also her custom. She took my left hand in hers, and started playing the einsy wiensy spider on my arm. Too late I realized she was going to tickle me. Too late did I fight the iron grip of Grandma as her right hand crawled closer to my armpit. I melted into hysterical laughter…
In Northern California the sun isn’t hot enough in the summer to dry out garden flowers, and so with a little water, many bloom till fall. Grandma cajoled me again to see the flowers in my neighborhood. I told her there weren’t that many around, but nothing would persuade her to stay indoors. I pushed her wheelchair down Phyllis Lane, a side street without any traffic. Turns out I just hadn’t noticed the flowers, because they were everywhere. She had me stop at every house. It didn’t matter how small, or how plain, I could have sworn they were the prettiest things Grandma had ever seen in her life. Sometimes I pushed her up people’s walkways when she wanted to smell an especially fragrant variety. I hoped nobody noticed the awkward tweenager and his crazy Grandmother poking about their yard. But if they did, they didn’t seem to mind.
We chatted about dating mostly. I had never been on a date, but was excited to start wooing the ladies. Grandma was equally excited for me to start wooing the ladies, and spared no effort in telling me all the different ways to accomplish this important feat of manhood.
The blue sky held two lazy clouds and yellow sun. We talked and laughed underneath them and smelled each and every bright colored specimen on each side of the street. Grandmother noted all along which flowers would be the most impressive to women. She explained how to take off thorns before bestowing them upon all my adoring acquaintances.
In the evenings, we practiced dancing. It was imperative to dance well if you wanted to impress women. At her direction I did the basic swing step everywhere in the house. I waltzed from my bedroom to the bathroom, and cha-chaed while raiding the cupboards and fridge. She told me the way Grandpa had danced. About camping trips they had gone on, Hawaii honeymoons, and sacrifices he had made to impress her.
Fall arrived with Kelsi and me in Grandmother’s front room. Grandma had a hard time moving around her home then. She got tired easily, and had trouble putting addresses on envelopes. We bought a cheap microphone and plugged it into a laptop. For eight hours spread over two days, we asked random questions and Grandmother gave us specific stories I had heard before, and impromptu recitals of memories long past. We sat and basked in a lifetime of experience, recording adventures and belief, testimony and practical jokes.
With salmon baking in the oven I asked about her and Grandpa’s fishing days. She retold some of my favorites I heard years before, and some I had never heard. Catch and release at deep sea, Grandpa saving fish from a hungry bear, Grandmother out-fishing burly men. The stories just kept bubbling to memory, Grandma smiling all the while. Woven through all the stories was a tale of romance which transcended the grave. Of love and sacrifice for family, and of having fun while living a life full of God’s abundant blessings.
Under a Post-Autumn-Not-Quite-Winter sky, my dog stops to do his business. I toy with the leash and untie the plastic doggy bag knotted over the end. The grass is soggy and cold, but not frozen enough to walk on without getting my feet muddy.
I ponder on Grandmother’s happy stories. Not so much what she said though, more I ponder what she didn’t say, or chose to only mention in passing. I think of miscarriages, economic hardship, the loss of her dearly beloved, and a host of other things I learned about her. I ask myself the same question that I have asked many times.
What’s with all the rose-filtered stories?
I give my neighbor a fake smile as we pass and a courtesy chuckle for something I didn’t hear. Slushy rain slops over the side of my shoe as I absent-mindedly step in the gutter.
I wonder what my life story would be like if I painted everything that happened to me with the perpetually Easter pastels my grandmother used. What if I linked each and every memory to some way that God had blessed me, or shown His love for me. Impossible, no doubt. Choose not to see darkness when it stares you in the face? Choose to see roses and beauty… always?
I ponder the idea, and laugh to myself. You’d have to be one tough cookie.
We complete a circle and arrive back at the Arby’s bag. It’s still there. Still soggy. The curly-fries container still advertizes an unknown dollar-ninety-nine heartburn.
As I think about Grandma, her laughter, her roses, her testimony, and her stories, the world inverts itself. Before my eyes, much like the optical illusion with a candlestick and two faces, I see a “Grandmother Lore World”. Reflections become the focus, and the trash dissolves. Instead of Arby’s, for a moment I see the yellow light of a street lamp reflected in the water around the trash. In order to see it I have to change my focal point, which blurs the trash in the foreground. A beam shines in a broad line down the broken surface of the puddle, like a sunset over the ocean. Drops of falling water shimmer the golden surface of the flowing puddle. I see rivulets of amber water flowing between cracks. Lightning eclipses the night sky. The flash reflects off drops of water in the air, making them visible for an instant, as if thousands of glass beads were suspended in the air by an army of fireflies.
Rainwater pitter-patters a gentle tune like a thousand laughing children.
I’m not sure when Winter will bring resolution. When the temperature will drop low enough to freeze the mud, when white dust will cover the trees with a thin sheen of brilliant powder. When warm memories will take heart deeply enough to outweigh the pain and loss of the slushy freezing rain that comes between Autumn and Winter. One day, I suppose, a white-washed winter and a glowing fire will triumph over the ugly loss of color and warmth.
But the Grandma that I knew wouldn’t wait for Winter. She would tell me to plant an indoor flower. To trust in the God of sun and snow and sleet. To get out my rubber boots and parka.
And dance in the rain.
