What remains

Dad was a gentle man. Softspoken and kind, he preferred to coexist with the mice in his home than trap them or kill them. In spite of his eccentricities, he was so generous and warm that he made many faithful friends. He loved the Bible and Emily Dickinson. He lived quietly with his own thoughts for the most part, writing pages of letters and detailed notes about everything. He loved leather moccasins and rolling his own cigarettes. He loved his two cats, and he was happy to let the raccoons share their food.

We started cleaning out his trailer about two weeks ago, after a ten hour drive from our front door into the southern Ohio countryside. We took his clothes into the nearest town to wash and donate. We marveled at the stacks of books and papers that we found, still smelling like tobacco smoke, and mildewy from months of moisture. He hadn't lived here for several months, since beginning cancer treatments in the city back in the spring. Since we were miles away from any recycling or trash dumps, we built a fire and started burning the books that were water damaged, dirty, or torn.

It was a numbing task. We became cold and methodical, sorting through things and passing judgment on them: This item can be donated to Goodwill, but this one must be destroyed or thrown away. We set aside just a few items to bring back with us: A chainsaw that Andrew had given him for Christmas, that had never even been taken out of the box; a meaningful letter; a piece of wood that Dad had painted with bright colors. As I stood tossing things into the fire, a couple of times I glanced up, expecting to see Dad suddenly standing over us, asking softly, "Why are you burning my books? What did you do with my clothes?"

If holding onto all that stuff could somehow keep Dad alive with us, we would do it. If only keeping it just as it was could entice him back, so he could live there again. But all those papers, rusty tools, and stained clothes didn't feel alive anymore. We camped in a tent on Dad's land that night, and we woke up in the cold morning air. We felt alive.

In loving memory
WILLIAM RICHARD ARMSTRONG
February 14, 1946 - September 4, 2008

(Posted by Irene)