Eulogy

Today's story was emailed to me today by my favorite person. So Bruce is today's guest writer (something I've never done before.
I don't think.).






Goodbye, Old Gloves

In the original Star Wars movie, A New Hope, Luke suddenly realizes that the Stormtroopers must have gone to his house. He races home, too late, to the sight of destruction and smoke streaming from the charred body of his uncle.

My gloves met the same fate.

Fortunately, just like Luke, I was not present for the attack. I only suffered the horror of returning to the same sight of desolation, the same smoky marker of sudden, senseless loss.

I got the gloves in October, my first week working in Colorado at the Adler truck yard. Until we could get new coveralls, we were to dig through a pile of old castaways and pick something usable. I found something large enough, and discovered hidden treasures in the pocket: a small notepad and a pair of used gloves. The gloves were oil-stained but in good repair, and when I slipped one on, I found it clean and perfectly broken in, even comfortable. I liked them right away, and kept them for myself.

Everyone was given a brand new pair that same day, but I decided to save the new ones for later and use the old ones as we began hauling heavy pressure hoses and operating cam locks and hammer fittings. I thought the other green hat newbies looked awkward in their ill-fitting clothes and too-new protective gear, but I worked comfortably and felt like a pro in my work-stained leather gloves.

I used my old gloves every day. I hooked up lines, too cold (or too hot) to touch with bare skin. I handled grease, oil, lube, coolant, and water. I shoveled dirt, scraped ice, and climbed metal rungs. I was careful to always have them available to wear; I conscientiously placed them with my other gear in my apartment, ready to go to work for the next shift.

As I learned my new job, I discovered right away that I could hold my gloved hands in front of the fire box, heated by the blue light of the blasting propane inferno inside, as snow melted on my shoulders. The hot, oiled leather would hold the heat, keeping my hands pleasantly warm as I worked. It was too hard to write with them on, so sometimes I would lay them in front of the fire box door to warm up, ready to comfort my hands from the bitter night cold.

A week ago I was issued a new pair of winter leather work gloves--a very nice pair, nut-brown, with the manufacturer's Canadian maple leaf emblem on the wrist. They seemed too beautiful to work in, but they were warmer and sturdier without restricting movement. I started carrying my new gloves in my pockets, but I kept my old ones for the really dirty jobs.

This morning I got to the job site, checked my pockets for my new gloves, and pulled my old standbys from my backpack. Shivering in the stiff breeze, I set my old friends in front of the burn box door, with no warning that this would be the last time I would see them whole, or touch them with the skin of my hand. I walked away, ran numbers and started the day's paperwork. Today, the burners needed to run much hotter than usual, and when I returned, my gloves were on fire, smoldering and smoking into oblivion.

I quickly donned my new gloves and brushed the carcasses into the dirt, then I shoveled more dirt on them to put them out and cool them off. I cleaned up the burn box doorway, then recovered my old friends from their grave.

They were lost. Charred, deformed, ugly. On one, I could still read my name on the unblackened wrist, written in my own hand. What had I done?

I had just gone from the panic of the emergency to the decisive moment of action, and as the calm tried to extinguish my remaining adrenaline, I wasn't sure if I was going to laugh or cry.

I chose to laugh.

I showed the twin corpses to my coworker, who laughed with me. I set them down, took a picture of them, and then tossed them in a plastic trash bag, leaving them lying in state on empty plastic water bottles and old food wrappers. Later, I saw them in the top of the bag, alone and forgotten in death.

Their loss hurts, for some reason--maybe even more so, now that I've written this eulogy. They served me well, and I appreciate their service. I'm even grateful I had them. Perhaps, the more joy I got from using them, the greater the pain at their loss. I have much better gloves now. I don't carry quite as many things to and from work as before, and I'll be more careful with that burn box.

Can a pair of old, abandoned gloves make a better life for a man?

Yes.