From the Heart: “Auntie’s Ashes” by Marguerite Schneider (Non-fiction)

Have you ever wondered whether caring for someone’s final belongings can deepen your connection with them? Writer Marguerite Schneider explores this touching experience. Read her heartfelt story to discover more.

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“It’s a big favor, but could you store my mother’s ashes while I figure out what to do with them? I would really appreciate it.”

My cousin Richard’s frantic call occurred a few days after his mother, my Aunt Helen, had passed and been cremated. As Richard and his family lived across the pond from New York in London, there was insufficient time to arrange for them to travel to New York for a funeral service. It was decided that there would be a memorial service for Helen in a few months, so that Richard’s family and many others could attend.

After emptying Helen’s apartment and dealing with legal matters that were more easily handled while in the US, Richard had to return to London due to work obligations. He at first wished to take the ashes with him on the flight to London, but was informed that transporting ashes from the US to the UK on a flight isn’t possible. He then contacted FedEx and UPS about shipping the ashes, to again be informed that this wasn’t possible.

I told Richard that I would, of course, store the ashes until a permanent arrangement was made. I would do this for virtually anyone, and Aunt Helen was one of my favorite people, someone I loved intensely throughout my life. I considered it an honor, not a burden, to store her ashes.

Helen was a bright and ambitious person, but being a woman of her generation, most of this played out in her influence on her husband. My Uncle Berkie was a very good-looking and well-spoken man who rose up the corporate ladder at RCA despite having neither formal education nor pedigree, when RCA was a major, innovative corporation. For several decades, Berkie worked in executive positions for RCA in London, overseeing their European operations. Helen has great ambitions for her only child as well as for her husband, and her determination, as well as his talent and hard work, made it so. Richard went to university in London, and became a classical conductor of note, performing and recording around the world.

Yet, Helen, who wore Dior haute couture (approximately size 2) to fundraising galas and was always glamorous, also worked hard herself. Her favorite job, which she held after she and Berkie returned from London, was being the executive assistant to the CEO of the NY Cocoa Exchange. Knowing that he really wanted her for the job, Helen negotiated to report in only three days a week, and the CEO’s chauffeur transported her to and from home on those days. Despite her petite size, Helen was a commanding presence who owned any room she was in. That CEO likely realized how fortunate he would be to have Helen represent his office and his organization, and acquiesced to her demands while admiring her tenacity.

One of Helen’s most notable characteristics was that she was kind to those who deserved it, and took no prisoners in dealing with the unkind. My mother Gloria, who was of Spanish descent, was the outcast of my father’s family. They seemed to think that their Polish peasant stock made them inherently superior to those from southern Europe. Helen favored

my mother, which reflected her noted kindness (and good taste). At family events, Helen would first join the large family group (many of whom drank too much vodka; it could get ugly) and would brag modestly about the most recent happenings in her life. She must have delighted in turning her husband’s family green with envy. Helen then spent most of her time with my mother; away from the others, for most of the event. I’ve realized that Helen was also an outcast, being Greek Orthodox rather than Polish Catholic, but she was a powerful, successful one who chose the company of other outcasts over loud, drunk bores.

As a child, I loved talking to Helen, listening to her stories of a world that was far removed from mine. I realize the influence she had on me while I was an impressionable, workingclass child, and that influence continued through my adulthood. I also am kind when I should be, but take no prisoners when dealing with self-serving, self-aggrandizing wretches. Very importantly, Helen taught me to believe that I, too, could become someone of accomplishment. She was thrilled that I earned several degrees, had a great career, married, and had children. In some ways, I perhaps was the daughter she never had.

As a woman, I enjoyed experiencing the relationship between my then-young daughters and Aunt Helen, and re-experienced my childhood through them. My daughters simply adored Helen. Whenever there was a family event, their first question was “Will Auntie Helen be there?” She was their “fancy” Auntie Helen. They were transfixed by Helen’s stories; the way she spoke, with a British accent and her characteristically sharp articulation; and her personal style, with every little detail working to create an aura of sophisticated simplicity. They felt in the presence of greatness, because they were.

When my mother passed away rather young from pancreatic cancer, Helen supported me throughout her short illness, calling me often, listening to my frustration, anger, and acceptance of what was to be. When my mother died, Helen – always being very forthright – said that she wished to remain in my life, and would gladly fill the role of my mother, as best she could, out of respect for my mother and for me. It sounded a bit odd, but I agreed.

Helen served as my beloved substitute mother for over a decade. We would discuss New York Times articles, the state of fashion, and my latest accomplishments and challenges as well as those of my husband and daughters. I listened to her concerns about money, apparently real concerns, as Berkie had spent too much and invested badly. He refused to buy their apartment when the building went co-op. It was a whopper of a mistake to not buy that Upper East Side sprawling two-bedroom, with huge terraces apartment, at the insider price. To make matters worse, while she was a widow, Helen’s rent on the place skyrocketed. I was just about to offer to pay her utility bills when her situation, which was much worse than I thought, deteriorated badly.

Advanced age and legitimate worries about money ultimately got the better of Aunt Helen. Richard placed Helen in a nursing home in Queens when she could no longer take care of herself. My last call with Helen occurred after she was placed in the home. She didn’t recognize my voice or acknowledge me, despite that I told several quick stories to awaken her memory. Helen’s last line to me was “Young lady, you seem to be quite nice but I don’t know you, so I won’t talk to you. Goodbye and please don’t call again.” The next sound was

that of the old landline phone hitting the receiver, followed by the buzzing sound indicating that the call had ended. My eyes filled with tears, as an era of my life was over.

Helen died soon after that conversation. Which returns us to the start of this story.

Richard dropped off Helen’s ashes on his way to the airport. Where to store the box was the overriding issue. We had a curious family dog, and I didn’t want Lucy sniffing about the ashes. Besides, Helen wasn’t a dog person, so she wouldn’t appreciate Lucy’s curiosity. Indeed, I recall Helen directing me several times from the great beyond, saying “My Dear, the main thing is that the dog not get into the box.” Accordingly, it needed to be stored in a clean, dry place of dignity, out of the dog’s purview. I decided on a cabinet in the living room, behind a door that was locked with a key. The cabinet was indeed a perfect temporary abode for Aunt Helen’s remains.

Within a few days, I became increasingly aware of Aunt Helen’s presence, particularly in the living room, at night. At first the left-side, logical part of my mind wrote this off as nonsense, a figment of my imagination, as it had attempted to do with her dictates about the dog. But I felt her presence so strongly that I knew that there was something to it. Helen was happy to spend time with me, especially after that last, tragic phone call. I let Helen know of my awareness of her presence while sitting there reading or watching TV, especially when watching TV. I felt that she watched along with me. Helen particularly enjoyed PBS Antiques Roadshow, which luckily is also one of my favorites.

After a few months passed, Helen’s memorial service was held, and many attended. There were lovely stories told by folks from near and far. Many relatives were in attendance whom I would never see again, as our lives had taken vastly different paths. The sense of this event being our last time together prevailed, so that all were civilized and kind, out of respect for our beloved Aunt Helen, the last of her generation to leave us. Richard arranged for a Greek Orthodox cemetery in New Jersey to be the final resting place for her ashes, alongside her husband, Berkie. I had served my interim purpose and no longer had to worry about Lucy getting into the box of Helen’s ashes.

While she was my substitute mother, on a really bad day for me, I told Helen how much I missed my mother and how much it hurt. She told me that seven years after her own mother had passed, she caught herself picking up the phone to call her mother. “These ties are very deep, my dear, one never quite gets over the death of their mother. The grief lessens, but never departs.” Helen was, of course, stunningly eloquent and absolutely spot on. My grief at losing Helen also remains, but when the grief arises I soon find my head filled with lovely, fun thoughts about “Fancy” Auntie Helen, one of the great characters of my life, whose influence shaped my life.

Writer’s Statement

“Auntie’s Ashes” tells the story of my beloved Aunt Helen and our relationship through the various stages of our lives. After my mother’s death, Helen lovingly became a substitute mother to me. Later, my daughters were equally enchanted by their “Fancy” Auntie Helen. Many people were captivated by Helen—both charmed by her warmth and quietly intimidated by her commanding presence. I always loved the effect she had on others, myself included.

There is a bittersweet quality to this story. While it celebrates the remarkable, inspiring woman Helen was, it also reflects on her rapid decline during the final stage of her life. The story begins with the temporary care of her ashes, entrusted to me by her son, who was unable to take them back with him to London immediately. A few months later, we gathered for a beautiful memorial service, and Helen’s ashes were laid to rest beside her husband in New Jersey. It was a fitting and peaceful conclusion to her remarkable life.

About Our Guest Writer

Marguerite Schneider turned to creative writing after earning multiple degrees, working in diverse professions, and building a notable academic publication record. Her fiction appears in literary magazines and anthologies. She is completing her historical mystery novel, Murder at St. Mark’s, and lives with her husband Rich and rescue dog, Murray, in New York.

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