One of my chores as a child was to keep an eye on the trash fire. Trash pickup where we lived was not an option: we lived well outside any urban area. Most inorganic trash was burned and someone had to keep an eye on the fire.
It was a wonder Mom and Dad ever let me have that chore. Especially after the Great Monopoly Smoke Out, when my bedspread fell victim to the candle I left burning too close in my zeal to finish the game.
But trust me with it they did.
One day, my mother sent me back out to the ash pit. This time, it was to gather the cold ashes left behind. She explained that ashes were useful in and of themselves. They could be used to create cleansing agents, neutralize orders, and serve as a nutrient for plants. That day’s ashes were bound for the garden, where they would boost new growth.
The hours-long service among the Tsachi people felt like an extended family reunion. We had the normal Oh-how-you’ve-growns (sometimes less about height and more about heft.) There were age comparisons, questions about family additions, and the inevitable How-long-has-it-beens with the equally inevitable answer: too long.
Generations spoke. The dignified elderly man who knew my parents before I did; the impish young man who confessed to many a childhood detour to my folks’ place in the hope that Mom had made banana bread.
There was laughter. Pictures – oh, so many pictures! There was mention over and over of the work my parents had done, devising an alphabet, translating the Bible, helping navigate language barriers. But mostly there was talk of their love and service.
Then we all piled into trucks, cars and vans and made our way to the tribal cemetery. It was where the Tsachila – literally, The People – wanted Mom and Dad to be: forever among their own.
Friends, tribal elders and old neighbors stepped forward to join us four siblings and as we each shared words of memory that bound us together, I understood something about ashes.
For there to be ashes, there has to have been something else, first.
And when all that can perish to fire has been consumed, what is left is what could never be taken in the first place: the stuff that makes us grow.
Ashes to ashes and life to life.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
