Stories in the Ashes
I take my grandson by the hand and lead him through the trees. “This is the fire pit where your mom scooted so close to the fire that her sleeping bag melted,” I say. “We used to have picnics here, and there was a tire swing hanging from this tree.”
I yearn with every bit of my heart to convey all the sentiment wrapped up in the places I’m showing him.
I know he can’t value these places the way I do, or even the way his mother does. He wasn’t there, in those days, so many years ago. He didn’t help carry stone after stone to build the fire pit, or work with his sister to drag logs close, to use as benches.
He was not threatened by the cold or burned by the fire.
All he sees is a ring of rocks with a few old logs surrounding it, and weeds growing up through the bed of ashes. The tree that held the swing is mostly dead, and holds no interest for him. There are newer trees, the challenge of climbing them much more enticing to him than the swing of twenty years ago.
Even though he’d rather be climbing the trees, I’m telling him the story of Grandma and Grandpa’s place. I hope someday he’ll look back and realize what it took to have a place like this where he could climb trees.
Unless he understands what it cost us, he may never understand the value of what he enjoys today.
So I’m telling him how we dressed our children in hand-me-downs because there was no clothing budget.
How we struggled to grow a garden in lousy soil, fighting the wind and the short growing season to save on groceries.
How we chopped and hauled and burned firewood to save on heating bills.
He’s too young to understand the work involved and the sacrifices we made, and won’t until he makes sacrifices of his own someday.
But as his grandmother, and as a storyteller, it’s my responsibility to make sure our family’s story is told and remembered by those who come after.
If we don’t want new generations to view their heritage as nothing more than a crumbling memory overgrown with weeds, we have to tell our stories…
…of those who left their homeland for the chance to someday let their grandchildren climb trees on land they own
…of men and women and children who fought the wind and drought to scrape a living from that land
…of those whose hands and backs bowed from laboring long hours day after day, year after year, in a factory, or in a mine, or building houses, hoarding every possible cent so their children and grandchildren could have a better life
…of those whose sacrifice is wrapped in a flag folded into a three-cornered bundle and handed to the person who still loves them, while bugles play “Taps” and rifles fire twenty-one shots into the air…
Are they hearing the stories? Are we taking the time to tell them?
Without the stories, is there any way they will understand the sacrifices made and how long it took to get where we are now?
Because if the coming generations do not understand the cost, how can they understand the value of what we have even though it isn’t finished? How will they know how vital it is to protect what’s been built so they have the foundation on which to build a better tomorrow?
And how will they tell the stories to their children?
What will happen if the accomplishments of generations before are as meaningless to them as a pit lined with smoke-scarred stones around ashes long grown cold?
How else will they know that they come from a long line of people who rose to the challenges that faced them? That we are resilient, and resourceful, and aren’t afraid to sacrifice comfort for the sake of those who come after us.
There is no doubt that the challenges facing the coming generations will be just as daunting as the ones that came before. They will have to rise up and meet them.
And if they know the stories, they’ll understand why they should.
Perhaps you know this story. It’s a good one to begin with. I’ll start it, and you can finish it. Tell it to yourself, or your kids, or your grandchildren. Because the events of that day changed the world, and it has never been the same since. The challenge ignited still smolders in the ashes.
Ground Zero Memorial
The story goes like this: One bright, sunny Tuesday morning, on September 11, 2001…
