Half Life – 20 – immortality
March 19th, 2021
My pension provider’s invite to subscribe to an upcoming e-book titled “How to die well’ felt slightly tactless but did push me to think about what to do with a life’s worth accumulated junk, other than being either buried with it in huge pointy stone building or toasted with everything I own. Not content with a book title which might have been dreamt up by any number of totalitarian dictators, the book promotion promises illustrations as well as insights from ‘Experts in death’. Curiosity at how you illustrate dying well, combined with the idea that there might really be experts in death and wondering how many times they had to do it before getting good at it, made sign-up irresistible. I hope it arrives in time to be useful.
Dead people leave a lot of stuff around afterwards and headaches for those who have to deal with it. The ancient Egyptian solution of packing it all up to take with them has clear benefits, as well as stopping any discussions about who gets what, but it requires quite a lot of preparatory building work. A blazing pyre with all the belongings piled up, the body perched on top, is another option, and lays down a challenge to anyone who really wants anything from the pile as they need to jump into the flames to get it. The modern option, with days spent trawling through someone else’s life working out what to do with it all, lacks the drama, spectacle, or opportunity to build world heritage sites for tourists, but creates a taste of immortality for those who have died, and the odd mystery.
Some things left behind hold a connection to a person so deep within them that, regardless how much time passes, it’s there when you pick it up or use it. Mundane objects transform into magic memory lanterns, a tiny part of someone, secured inside forever by daily holding or use, springing out when rubbed or touched by those who knew them. Big Brown and Round Red, the two Le Creuset pans The Wife inherited from her grandmother, bring that elderly lady I never met into our lives every week. Carrying the scratches and chips of countless paprika stews and innumerable chicken soups, her slowly aging hands lifted, stirred, and served from them over and over again and made them part of her story, the same story we listen to as we use them in our house. Her extraordinary life, both before and after escaping the Nazis, is brought back as the German accent she never lost is lovingly imitated. The Boys and I hear her voice as generous servings are doled out to the hungry great-grand-children she too would have fed with passion and love.
Kept in her glasses case, my own grandmother’s ancient, brushed-steel, ballpoint pen filled out daily crosswords without fail, kept bridge scores, scribbled lists, wrote letters, and signed every card she sent. Finding its way back to the same place every day, snuggling into the curve at the bottom of the hard case, and pinned in by the folded glasses, it was never allowed to stray far. Moulded to her hand, the slender fingers wore tiny smooth patches near the tip, helped by the black coffee or watered whisky which were never far from her, depending on the time of day. Re-filled and resurrected to my desk, every note I take, or card it signs for me, brings her into view, with her face, serious in concentration as she wrote, sitting ramrod straight on a kitchen chair.
The worn, gold, wedding ring, found buried with a set of silver thimbles in a small plain jeweller’s box stuffed into the end of a thick hiking sock, nearly joined its companions in the bag destined for the charity shop, and would have made some collection depot volunteer’s day. Hidden and never mentioned, its truth will never be known, and whatever memories it holds never released or their stories told. Clearing out my grandparents’ house many years ago before its sale, to ensure the tax man got his cut, threw up the palm-sized mystery. The simple inscription on the inside of the ring reads “Für Liebe” and that’s all, no other marks or initials to help explain why ‘for love’ was written there in German; that side of my family has no German connection. The bright, shiny, colour of the metal, even with scratches from daily wear and after years in woollen footwear, gave the only clue it was gold; the width and size suggesting it was a man’s ring. The thimbles, ornate and delicate, gave nothing away either. Rubbing them brought back their shine and pulled out the detailed patterns, but no genie appeared to provide anything useful about where they came from, why they were there, or who they had belonged to. Their secret, and the hands which wore them and used them, stays closed and their forgotten owner denied the immortality of being remembered.
Reminded by my pension provider to take my duty to die well seriously, a scan of my office and the shelves around the house reveals just how many objects accumulate over years of work, travel, and adventure. Leaping back into my hand, the small wooden monkey, a netsuke, picked up in Japanese junk shop outside Kyoto, was my companion on every work trip, giving me a sense of home in soulless hotel rooms. Holding him pulls me back to evenings on my own in cities all over the world, munching mid-week room service and preparing for the next day’s meetings, kept company by CNN’s repetitive drivel in the background, the only English language channel ever available. The tactile brass-ended French penknife, bought on the same day we chose the wine for our wedding in Saint-Emilion, slips comfortably into my pocket to polish itself against my leg one more time, a trusted companion at wine events and on country walks. These small things each hold a chapter from my life, ready to be released at a touch, as long as I have told their stories. There is nothing to sort out. Cataloguing and allocating is not required, and plans for funeral pyres and giant pyramids in the garden are shelved. My gift to The Boys are these tiny time machines of immortality, my monkey, my penknife, and all the other things scattered around. They will work their magic, giving their flashes of life back to the dead, and part of me back to The Boys when they need me, but I am no longer there.
thank you for sharing your family memories, and as usual written beautifully x
Beautiful Charlie. x