I attended a funeral this weekend. There was no coffin, there was no body: that was taken care of two years ago. This weekend, I watched the emptying of the last of my uncle and grandmother's possessions: the couches, chairs, pots, pans, paintings, rugs and other items that signified a life; the old photos, awards, diplomas and news clippings signifying attainments and fragments of memories, leaving only the ghosts of dreams and shadowy remnants of days long past.
I attended this funeral not in a suit but work clothes, carrying boxes of stuff that was the only tangible remains of two lives lived.
Inside this empty house, void of any sound except my own breathing, I could still hear my grandmother's voice, inviting me to sit and have a piece of angel cake while my uncle taught trombone in his study.
I thought about the months of sitting next to my ailing uncle, talking about music, about the students he helped get into college and excel in their life after his tutelage. We talked about the anti-semitism he experienced growing up and his days in the army. He regaled me with stories of the great musicians he met and played with, the entertainers he played behind. He shared stories of his hard life and his consuming drive to be the best. He was strong, tough and quirky, a loving and caring man underneath a crusty outer shell.
I watched people carrying lamps and odd pieces of bric-a-brac that once held great value now being purchased for pennies. I wondered if these eager buyers had any clue about the miracles created in those old glass pie pans and worn pots. I pondered if they even cared about the history those plates witnessed, the family dinners noisy with people talking over one another, the pride my grandmother displayed at being able to possess bone china.
The Persian carpet, once the centerpiece of the living room where I spent countless hours as a child, is now being carted away by a rug dealer who exclaims as the carpet is hastily rolled up how lousy the rug market is. With the carpet gone, the house is now empty. There is not a shred of evidence to prove that two lives inhabited this space. The smells of fresh-baked pastry, homemade preserves and foods that defy description are now forever gone from the small kitchen. The music room is empty of the plaques, pictures, records, desk, music stand and old recliner. Only the ghosts of memory remain.
What does one take from such a house? I filled a small bag with some photographs, my father and uncle's grammar school diplomas and two wooden spoons, which had been simultaneously used by my grandmother to make wondrous dishes and mete out swift punishment. This bag and my heart and mind are filled with lessons learned, stories of courage, pain, loss and most of all resiliency and love.
In a few weeks, new lives will walk in the door and rejuvenate this dead space, making it their own. They will cook their meals, raise their children and create a footprint of memories that will be left for some future generation to clean out. That is the way of life.