The Greatest Thing...

My life fell away before me like the rush of a river. It had ebbed and flowed, sometimes smoothly, sometimes over rocks and pitfalls. But here I was at eighty-five, barely able to heave myself out of bed. Was it fragile bones and weak muscles, or simply a lack of will? A profound weariness encompassed my entire body and soul. Was this how it was to die, to simply fall away from one's self layer upon layer until nothing was left but a hallow shell? Or did one fight, thrashing and gnashing of teeth, resisting until the bitter end? Perhaps everyone experienced something different and profound. Perhaps one's eyes were able to shed the scales of constraint and be opened to all truths of life; to the true meaning that caused each one of us to continually move forward seeking fulfillment. As I look back on my life I wondered at my own purpose. Had I done anything remarkable? Had I made this a better world in which to live? Does anyone ever know the true impact one has on another's life? There must be some who do, such as Mother Teresa or Ghandi. But what of an everyday individual, an inconspicuous C.P.A,, a banker, janitor, or homemaker? Do they too have a responsibility to leave something behind, an imprint that will last an eternity like fossils in stone? Of late so many memories flooded my mind like flashes of light on a movie screen. Perhaps it was something that needed to be done, to revisit the past in order to put my mind and body to rest. My beginnings were certainly nothing extraordinary. I had not been born into wealth, nor were my parents of nobility or notoriety. It was 1942, a year of unworthy note, at least for my unassuming parents, Frank and Paula Crandell, who had been married a scant nine months when I made my appearance. Judging only on certain references, I can only surmise it was a blow to my father's ego to have spawned a female. They both had been young when they stood before the elderly Methodist pastor and recited their vows, barely eighteen each. Later, I would wonder what had drawn them to each other; a passionate love, or simply passion? The three of us were settled into a small two bedroom bungalow, complete with white picket fence in the middle of Cleveland, Ohio. All around us were similar type houses differing only in the color of paint and lawn ornamentation. My father kept his simple, a bit of grass and colorful pansies in the front window box. A few of our neighbors were more creative, however, filling their yards with broken engine parts, old tires, and rusted beer cans. My father, Frank worked in a factory to put food on the table and pay the rent, while mother did what she could to clean house and care for me. Later I recalled the way he smelled when he came home, of grease and oil, his clothing soiled, his face and dark hair dirty. He would yell at my mother in his gruff, loud voice, demanding his supper and inquiring as to why the laundry wasn't ironed or the yellowed linoleum floor hadn't been washed. He would go to take his shower in the bathroom with the blue, cracked tiles while mother cooked on the porcelain black and white stove, her lips tight, one hand on her hip. The two of them could have been strangers, dining separately in a restaurant for all they spoke to one another. Occasionally my father would tell my mother the food was disgusting or what needed to done, or some errand he had on his mind. But in our house, mealtimes were not meant to be vehicles to discovering on another's experiences of the day or even meaningless conversation, which led to an evening of my father reading the paper while mother finished up chores of sewing or washing dishes. Of course I wasn't aware of these nuances between my parents at the time. It was only later I learned of the shallowness of their relationship because of the things my mother told me, and my own observations. When I was only a year old, my father enlisted and went off to fight in the war. My grandmother told me later my mother had cried and held onto his arm, pleading with him not to go. He had stood stoically, telling her it was his duty, he had to help rid the world of the Nazi oppression. He had given her a quick kiss, pried her hands from his arm, and was gone, walking through the white picket fence without a backward glance. Mother had stood on the front stoop, sobbing, her shoulders shaking with her tears. Perhaps she did love him, or perhaps she was more afraid of being alone.