The Weight of Ash

It was a sunny, windy day when I carried my father’s ashes to my car from the funeral home. The weight of the wooden urn and ashes nearly buckled my legs. My mother walked with me over the grey, dusty sidewalk to the paved street. As my father’s first son, it was my responsibility to carry his ashes. It may have been twenty steps from door to door, but the weight of the memories my hands, felt every bit of eighty-two years, the age of my father when he passed away.

My dad had told me nearly a year before he caught Covid, that he felt like he had another ten years in him. Although, he had slowed down, due to his arthritic hands and age, he was as sharp and productive as he had been his life. When my mother called and told me, my dad got was sick with Covid; I was terrified. It was before the vaccines were released, when hospitals were being overwhelmed, and friends and family had already died from the virus, but my dad was strong and made it through three hard weeks of illness. However, my dad said he never felt the same after, and I believe the virus weakened him until his heart grew tired and stopped. I believe Covid robbed my dad of the additional ten years he promised me.

Since my father’s death, my life has changed. I promised my dad I would take care of my mom and have since moved back in with my mom. My dad always put others before his own needs, and taking care of my mother was his first priority.

My mother and I have had to consistently make adjustments without my dad. We’re not even sure if we’re going to stay in the house he built. We may sell it. It won’t be easy to move out, after all, my father’s presence is in every room since the house was built. We all contributed, from pounding nails to painting walls, but my dad did the heavy lifting so it’s just not a house, it’s a monument of my dad’s sweat, knowledge and effort; he was a carpenter, electrician, plumber, brick-layer and mechanic, and he used every skill to construct our home.

When I walk around the yard, I expect to see my dad come out from a corner, or from behind a fence, in his faded Levi pants and worn T-shirt, where he had tools, supplies and general junk, he called valuable. I’m throwing most of it away now. Most of it is old, rusted, rotted and useless. I can almost hear my dad groan, as I load old lumber into a trailer to be taken to the dump. He could always find use for any piece of scrap metal, lumber or plastic. Mostly, I feel like I’m discarding my dad. The things covered in dust and old spider webs that defined my dad, I hold in my hands and feel the weight of them.

I try to remind myself there are many more things that my dad built, that will always be here, even if my mom and I do leave this house.

My dad built a lifetime of memories, that my mom and I talk about at the dinner table. Most times we laugh, but there are times we miss my dad and we try to hide our tears.

My mom once asked me, what is one memory that stands out for me. I told her when it was my eleventh birthday, when he gave me a choice to stay home with my mom and have a birthday party or go with him on a business trip to install machines at nearly the tip of California. I chose to go with my dad. For a week, we delivered teletype machines in small offices in Redding and other small mountain towns. I had never seen Redwood trees or smelled pine, mountain air so fresh. I was used to dessert dust and wind so I kept the window down as my dad taught me how to read a map to help navigate the tight, curvy roads. We delivered one or two machines a day. It was fascinating to see what my dad did for work, and it left an impression on me.

Many years passed, when I began working on a computer, but the trip had given us common ground, as I knew he was familiar with machines that communicated over a telephone line. As we talked and compared the computer and teletype machines, my dad often told me the same stories about the old modems he used while I showed my dad the things I could do on the computer. When I started a freelance business, my dad withdrew from his retirement and bought two computers for me. He said I should have two for safety. After thirty years of working for the telephone company my dad retired, and when he was ready ready I bought my dad a computer and he learned how to edit video. Photography and videography had always been his hobby, which was another influence on me. He said he wanted to relax and spend his time editing videos. He had just completed putting a video together of my brother and I of when we played sports, and we had planned to work on a family video together for his next project, but his time was cut short.

Jason (brother), myself, Uncle Tex

Other memories I have are when I was able to start driving in high school, my dad asked, if I wanted a car or rebuild an old work truck my dad had since I was five years old. I didn’t hesitate, I wanted to drive the ‘57 Chevy Truck! After my accident, rebuilding the truck gave me confidence that I could still work and function. While my dad handed me wrenches, he often told me stories of how his dad, used to make him help work on cars in his youth. By the time my dad reached his high school years, he knew how to build and customize his cars. Although, the knowledge came at a price, as my dad wasn’t able to play any sports because my grandfather kept my dad busy after school. As my dad told me stories on how he had to clean grease off the engines, my dad then, had me clean grease off the truck’s engine. I got the dirty jobs but I didn’t mind, I was working with my hands like my dad had done all his life. The truck took months to complete, which gave us a lot of time to talk and I learned more about my dad and grandfather.

 My grandfather was a laborer all his life. He worked in a cement plant, not really earning enough to reach middle income. He fixed cars on the side to feed his seven children, including my dad, but my dad wanted more. My dad, with encouragement from my mother, did whatever he could do to better himself and eventually, worked for a telephone company that paid for our new house. Looking back, I believe all the stories my dad told me had the same intent behind them – how to better myself.

After my accident, my dad told me, “You can’t count on your body anymore, you’ll need to use your mind.” My dad was my biggest cheerleader. He always encouraged me, to always give it my all, not to quit or become a quitter. To speak up and say something that mattered. If I was in physical pain, he told me I was strong enough to suck it up and not cry.

Looking back at my dad’s life, I could see the three rules he lived by: 1. Keep life simple 2. Enjoy life by laughing and bringing enjoyment 3. Love your family. Everything he did was in service to one of these rules, but he was happiest when he was able to combine all three at once. I felt the weight of his life.

My father, mother and father’s car “My Special Angel”

With each step, I steadied myself. If I fall my mom cannot carry me and my dad’s ashes. I had to measure my deep breadths and find my footing. I cannot fail my dad. I have to carry him home. My dad had carried me my whole life with steady guidance and support, but I feel weakened and I never thought I would have to carry my dad’s ashes in a small wooden, crafted box with a hand carved tree on it. He said he had ten more years in him. How could he be gone?

I had told my dad about my goals and how I was going to achieve them. He did all he could to help me achieve them and I took any advice he offered. I’m the first son, of the first son,, I didn’t want to achieve success just for me but for my extended family. After my accident, I aimed to reach my potential. To carry the baton I was given to the next level, because I was the grandson of Manuel Martinez Sr. who instilled a work ethic in my father, and in turn instilled a work ethic in me. I carried the family name and I felt the weight of it.

Nearly at my car door, I could feel my head spin. The walk had been both long and a blur. My mind was in a blur in my dad’s memories. I failed my dad. I didn’t reach the dreams I had envisioned to share with him. My dad was supposed to be here to witness and enjoy our success together, because when I had reached my goals it would be because my dad, but now I have neither. I want to drop onto the black pavement and the absurd nightmare that I don’t want to be real, but in my hands I feel the weight of my dad’s ashes.