Saturday, September 27, 2008

Ashes and a Class Ring

I unbuckle my seatbelt and look out the window after the aircraft has reached cruising altitude and the houses, treetops, and parking lots have all disappeared. Only blue sky and white cotton candy clouds are visible now. I lean back in my seat and think about yesterday's memorial service. I am flying back home from Kentucky, where I traveled to pay my last respects to my cousin Jeff who died a few days ago at age 57.

Jeff wanted to be cremated. A shiny brass urn containing his ashes was displayed on the church altar during his memorial service. I found it oddly comforting to be in the same room with this physical manifestation of my cousin. We were not able to visit one another in person for many years, for a variety of reasons, although we did stay in touch from time to time through telephone calls, Christmas cards, and emails. I think we both did the best we could to stay in relationship with each other.

After the service, about a dozen members of my extended family gathered in the church vestibule. I removed my mother's Pikeville High School class of 1945 ring from my hand and held it out to show to Jeff's father, my uncle Edgar. He is 83 years old. He graduated two years before my mother, in 1943. I asked him if he still has his class ring. I was not prepared for his reply. Although he didn't shed a tear during the memorial service, his eyes became misty and he said, with his voice cracking just a bit, that he sold his ring to a German soldier for a bowl of soup. My uncle was a prisoner of war in Europe in World War II.

An hush settled over my family. To the best of my knowledge, Uncle Edgar has seldom if ever talked about his experiences as a POW. I wish I could have handled his disclosure better, but there is no way I could have seen it coming. After an awkward moment, I reached over and gave his arm a gentle pat. Maybe losing his son has brought back memories of other losses he has suffered, such as his sister, his freedom during the war, and his class ring.

The day before my trip, I carefully turned the numbers of the combination lock on the fireproof safe that contains some of my most special possessions. The metal door swung open, and I retrieved a small jewelry box and lifted my mother's ring from from its cushion. I slid the bulky gold ring on the fourth finger of my right hand. Although some of its embossed details have become worn and smooth over time, the numerals "1945" are still clearly visible. I feel a little uneasy about wearing this ring, because I am not sure my mother would have wanted me to have it. She died too young to think about things like the disposition of her personal effects, so I am not sure what her wishes would have been.

At the church, a couple of elderly ladies told me a story they remembered about my mother. One sunny day they rode their bicycles down to a lake in Millard, Kentucky where they swam all day, during the summer between my mother's high school graduation and her freshman year at Pikeville College, before she met my father. My mother, a fair-skinned redhead, got a blistering sunburn that day, and spent the whole next day in bed. This story about the past made me smile. It is like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, giving me a glimpse of a picture that I have never seen whole.

In my rental car, winding my way up Mountain Parkway from Pikeville back to Bluegrass Field Airport in Lexington after the funeral, I had a chance to enjoy the early autumn scenery. It seemed exotic in contrast to the verdant Florida palmetto flats where I live. Leaves on the trees were beginning to turn shades of copper, golden ochre, russet, and burnt sienna. Vertical expanses of ancient rocky hills rose up like earthen monuments on either side of the highway, touching the sky. One farm I noticed still had tobacco leaves, brown and ruffled, hanging in the barn to dry. Other farms along the parkway, in lieu of billboards, displayed advertisments for products such as lite beer and chewing tobacco on the sides of their barns. I have happy memories of riding through these parts as a child, seeing ads for Ruby Falls and Burma Shave painted on the barns. Exit signs along the parkway for Morgan County and Hazel Green brought back fond memories of my paternal grandfather who served as a minister at Disciples of Christ churches in those areas. All of my history is here in the Eastern Kentucky foothills. I exist because of the Scots-Irish immigrants and indigenous Cherokees who wove their lives together and raised families on this land. I am a result of their circumstances, choices, successes and failures.

Sometimes I think about my mother as a girl, growing up in these Appalachian hills. I am not sure what her hopes and dreams were for her future. The demands of marriage, motherhood, and medical problems overwhelmed her. When I enrolled in college for my freshman year, my dad accompanied me on registration day. As we strolled across campus to the Registrars Office, he commented that I looked a lot like my mother when she was my age. This surprised me, as he never talked about her much after her death and I assumed that he had forgotten her. I am a continuation of my mother, but I am not sure exactly what I am continuing. I have sometimes felt as though I was left alone on this planet to invent myself, with few ties to anyone. I wonder how life would have been different if she had lived.

My family relationships often feel tenuous. I wonder if other people have similar feelings about their families. I feel happiest when I am creating something beautiful and when I’m helping other sentient beings. My watercolor paintings, my photography, my cats and dogs, Jack, my church, and my patients give my life meaning. I am connected to my family by ashes, a class ring, and being present in Pikeville for the survivors at Jeff’s memorial service, sitting shoulder to shoulder with my cousins and other kin in the reserved family section of the church.

I wonder if I will always feel as though something is missing. Maybe a good philosophy to adopt is that we are all doing the best we can, given our strengths and weaknesses, at the curent stage in our lives and our personal growth. Everything is perfect and imperfect, all at the same time. Always.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Send Replacements!

It has happened again. Threads of death have been woven all throughout the fabric of my life for awhile now. Yesterday my sweet cat Pixie went to “kitty heaven” after living with cancer for the past several months. She was ten years old.

I remember the day Pixie became a part of my family in 1998. I was living out in the country, on ten bucolic acres with a log house and a barn. Late one afternoon as I strolled through the pasture with a friend, we heard a soft plaintive “mew” coming from the barn. We went into the barn and looked around. A scrawny grayish kitten, maybe six months old, looked down at us from the hay loft. She was hungry, scared, and alone. I have no idea where she came from, or how she found her way to my barn.

I had just lost my cat Rusty a few weeks earlier. My friend smiled and said, “well, you lose one, you gain one!” I nodded and headed towards the house to get some cat food for the thin little creature crouched in the loft.

As I watched the starving kitty bolt down a dish of cat chow, I wondered whether I should keep her. Even though I had recently lost a cat, there were several others living at my house. I decided that she could stay in the barn and I would bring her food and water every day. After I headed back down the path to the house, it was only a few minutes before she followed me and curled up contently on my front porch.

My friend asked me what I was going to name the new kitty. I said “Pixie” without even thinking about it. She had a slightly “elfish” look, and the name seemed perfect for her.

Pixie’s fur was light gray flecked with pale orange and cream colored highlights. My friends described her as a dilute calico. I thought of her colors as pastel, and affectionately called her “Pixie Pastel” many times over the years. Although she could be distrustful and aggressive with other felines, Pixie was sweet, friendly, and affectionate with her human family and friends. As a former stray, I think she always longed for connection and wanted to be loved.

At the veterinary clinic yesterday, after Pixie had gone peacefully to sleep, the vet told me how sorry she was for my loss, and then added “she’ll send a replacement – they always do!” I thought about the day Pixie arrived, soon after Rusty died. My sister passed away almost a year ago, and my beloved cat Blondie died just two months ago. Another one of my kitties, Goldie, died in 2006.

I still have several pet cats and dogs. Although Jack has two sons who live in Ohio, I have no biological children. I have only fur children. My kids are “graduating” and leaving home. This makes me sad, but having fewer pet responsibilities will make it easier for Jack and me to travel in the future. I’d love to see Ireland, India, and the Grand Canyon. Jack wants to go to Poland. But the loss of my only sibling and my cats leaves big holes in my life. Who will come along to replace them? Should I volunteer at a shelter for homeless cats? How will I get another sister? Like my Pixie, I long for connection and want to be loved. I wonder when the departed members of my family, both human and non-human, will send replacements. I suppose they will find their way into my life whenever the universe decides the time is right. I will look forward to blogging about these welcome arrivals.