Home
It's been a year this week since my surrogate grandmother passed. I've done my grieving, as much as I ever do, and am not exceptionally depressed. However, to the rest of her family, this week holds exceptional significance. They are strongly sentimental people and she was the matriarch around whom their lives revolved. Last week, we got a call from "Aunt" B, telling us that they were putting together a memorial dinner, and they really wanted us to come. Seumas was invited as well. Animals are always welcome on the farm.
In an uncharacteristic fashion, I actually managed to get there ridiculously early. It was a total accident, because when I was calculating the time it would take to drive down there and when I would have to get up, I neglected to account for the hour between eleven and noon. So, I made it down there an hour before I was supposed to arrive. Rather than insert myself in a cooking process that is traditionally something I'm not a part of, I drove down town and took Seumas to walk the streets of my home.
There's something that happens to me down there. All I need is a moment standing on a street corner, looking up at the hills, and a whiff of Spring air. Suddenly, the weight leaves my shoulders and the bindings around my chest loosen. There's no debt, no bipolar, no crazy pills, no bills, no work, no lost loves, just me and my river. It's like a heroine dream that I jones for every moment I'm gone. I know that if I moved back, real life would come traipsing in and leave its muddy footprints all over my nostalgic paradise. It doesn't mean I'm not sorely tempted. I do want to go back someday, but I want to make sure it's for the right reason and not some misplaced attempt to recapture my childhood. It is, after all, a good place to raise children.
One of my dear friends once wrote a piece on Appalachian roots, about 'places our bones recognize'. Half of my kin are nomadic, which is where I inherited my wanderlust from. The other half, my father's side, have inhabited the Yankee Appalachian foothills since helping to establish Fort Pitt in the French and Indian War. Unlike that friend, we have not owned a homestead for that long, but we remained grounded in the same geographic area, which is about the best preachers' families can hope for. I suspect that a significant number of the strands that bind me to southwestern Pennsylvania originate from the blood that lived and died in these hills. I know that when I lived in Minnesota and Erie, I felt exposed in the flat land of endless sky.
The walk was pleasant enough, but much shorter than I'd anticipated. It's funny how distances that seemed eternal when you're a child are only a few short blocks. After an hour of meandering through a poorer neighborhood of victorian houses in various states of disrepair, I pulled myself away, and we headed back to the farm.
This was the first time I'd driven down on my own. I arrived two hours ahead of my parents, as Pop has church duties on Sunday mornings. I quickly made myself useful. I haven't really spent that much time with everyone as an adult, so it was really nice to relate to them on a different level. Seumas made friends with the rat terrier, jack russell, and border collie mix. The dogs were constantly underfoot, racing around the house at breakneck speed. The farm family deftly stepped around the animals in their dinner preparations, while I constantly tripped over them.
In some ways, it was just like always. We feasted on all Grandma J's favorites: roast beef, mashed potatoes, zucchini stuffing, Swiss chard, sweet and sour meatballs, jello salads, bread, and pickled beans. Pop and I sat with the remains of the dessert, sipping sweet tea and talked dairy farming and milk prices with "Uncle" M. Mom helped "Aunt" B and "Aunt" J, while getting the latest gossip on old friends and the church we once called home.
Yet, it wasn't the same. Grandma J wasn't there. Her absence was a gaping chasm that had set the family adrift. This dinner pulled us all together against the tides that dragged us apart. They said they felt her presence. I felt the love we have for her momentarily dull the emptiness of her passing, without completely filling the hole. This afternoon, we were together again, but it couldn't last. For that, I still grieve.
Later, some of my surrogate cousins and I brought Seumas out to the barn to meet the cows. I hadn't been to the barn in years.** Much of my childhood had been spent playing with calves and clambering over rusting hulks of broken farm machinery sitting harmlessly in the driveway. I ruined many a pair of pants in that barn.
I couldn't even get Seumas through the door of the section housing the cows. He got one sniff of cow and he huddled next to my legs. He took a few cautious steps in the direction of the room that housed the barn cats, but a good look from a mama cat sent him right back to my feet. Dulce, one of the calves that likes to play with dogs pushed his way through the door, but Seumas was having none of it. I gave Dulce some scritches behind the ear, before giving up and heading back to the house.
Upon our return, the cousins disappeared upstairs to go through Grandma J's possessions. They dug out a cross Grandma J'd meant me to have after she was gone. I'm going to need to get a new chain for it, as it's sterling silver and I'm allergic to the alloy. When I do, I'll wear it every day, not because I care anything about Christianity, but because it was hers and she wanted me to have it.
I would like to believe this is something Grandma J would have wanted; that she was joyfully watching the proceedings from above. I've said it before and it remains true: I miss the days when I had faith in something. I wish there was a loving God and a heaven.
In my dreams, when I die, I'll go to a timeless valley town, built around a snaking river. The pizza joint will serve the best hand tossed New York style pie outside the Big Apple. Skynyrd and Rush are on the radio blaring out a passing truck window. There's a fifty foot pine tree to climb, a lawnmower named Alice, and two boys who always get me into trouble. Everyone I've ever loved will visit and dine with me in my victorian house. I'll be standing barefoot in the river with my father, fishing for anything we can catch. We'll all watch the sun set behind the hills, long before the light disappears from the sky and count the stars when they come out.
**I spent a very short portion of my early twenties paranoid about cows (probably due to less successful attempts at medication, don't ask me why). Once past that, I just never really had a reason to go down.
In an uncharacteristic fashion, I actually managed to get there ridiculously early. It was a total accident, because when I was calculating the time it would take to drive down there and when I would have to get up, I neglected to account for the hour between eleven and noon. So, I made it down there an hour before I was supposed to arrive. Rather than insert myself in a cooking process that is traditionally something I'm not a part of, I drove down town and took Seumas to walk the streets of my home.
There's something that happens to me down there. All I need is a moment standing on a street corner, looking up at the hills, and a whiff of Spring air. Suddenly, the weight leaves my shoulders and the bindings around my chest loosen. There's no debt, no bipolar, no crazy pills, no bills, no work, no lost loves, just me and my river. It's like a heroine dream that I jones for every moment I'm gone. I know that if I moved back, real life would come traipsing in and leave its muddy footprints all over my nostalgic paradise. It doesn't mean I'm not sorely tempted. I do want to go back someday, but I want to make sure it's for the right reason and not some misplaced attempt to recapture my childhood. It is, after all, a good place to raise children.
One of my dear friends once wrote a piece on Appalachian roots, about 'places our bones recognize'. Half of my kin are nomadic, which is where I inherited my wanderlust from. The other half, my father's side, have inhabited the Yankee Appalachian foothills since helping to establish Fort Pitt in the French and Indian War. Unlike that friend, we have not owned a homestead for that long, but we remained grounded in the same geographic area, which is about the best preachers' families can hope for. I suspect that a significant number of the strands that bind me to southwestern Pennsylvania originate from the blood that lived and died in these hills. I know that when I lived in Minnesota and Erie, I felt exposed in the flat land of endless sky.
The walk was pleasant enough, but much shorter than I'd anticipated. It's funny how distances that seemed eternal when you're a child are only a few short blocks. After an hour of meandering through a poorer neighborhood of victorian houses in various states of disrepair, I pulled myself away, and we headed back to the farm.
This was the first time I'd driven down on my own. I arrived two hours ahead of my parents, as Pop has church duties on Sunday mornings. I quickly made myself useful. I haven't really spent that much time with everyone as an adult, so it was really nice to relate to them on a different level. Seumas made friends with the rat terrier, jack russell, and border collie mix. The dogs were constantly underfoot, racing around the house at breakneck speed. The farm family deftly stepped around the animals in their dinner preparations, while I constantly tripped over them.
In some ways, it was just like always. We feasted on all Grandma J's favorites: roast beef, mashed potatoes, zucchini stuffing, Swiss chard, sweet and sour meatballs, jello salads, bread, and pickled beans. Pop and I sat with the remains of the dessert, sipping sweet tea and talked dairy farming and milk prices with "Uncle" M. Mom helped "Aunt" B and "Aunt" J, while getting the latest gossip on old friends and the church we once called home.
Yet, it wasn't the same. Grandma J wasn't there. Her absence was a gaping chasm that had set the family adrift. This dinner pulled us all together against the tides that dragged us apart. They said they felt her presence. I felt the love we have for her momentarily dull the emptiness of her passing, without completely filling the hole. This afternoon, we were together again, but it couldn't last. For that, I still grieve.
Later, some of my surrogate cousins and I brought Seumas out to the barn to meet the cows. I hadn't been to the barn in years.** Much of my childhood had been spent playing with calves and clambering over rusting hulks of broken farm machinery sitting harmlessly in the driveway. I ruined many a pair of pants in that barn.
I couldn't even get Seumas through the door of the section housing the cows. He got one sniff of cow and he huddled next to my legs. He took a few cautious steps in the direction of the room that housed the barn cats, but a good look from a mama cat sent him right back to my feet. Dulce, one of the calves that likes to play with dogs pushed his way through the door, but Seumas was having none of it. I gave Dulce some scritches behind the ear, before giving up and heading back to the house.
Upon our return, the cousins disappeared upstairs to go through Grandma J's possessions. They dug out a cross Grandma J'd meant me to have after she was gone. I'm going to need to get a new chain for it, as it's sterling silver and I'm allergic to the alloy. When I do, I'll wear it every day, not because I care anything about Christianity, but because it was hers and she wanted me to have it.
I would like to believe this is something Grandma J would have wanted; that she was joyfully watching the proceedings from above. I've said it before and it remains true: I miss the days when I had faith in something. I wish there was a loving God and a heaven.
In my dreams, when I die, I'll go to a timeless valley town, built around a snaking river. The pizza joint will serve the best hand tossed New York style pie outside the Big Apple. Skynyrd and Rush are on the radio blaring out a passing truck window. There's a fifty foot pine tree to climb, a lawnmower named Alice, and two boys who always get me into trouble. Everyone I've ever loved will visit and dine with me in my victorian house. I'll be standing barefoot in the river with my father, fishing for anything we can catch. We'll all watch the sun set behind the hills, long before the light disappears from the sky and count the stars when they come out.
**I spent a very short portion of my early twenties paranoid about cows (probably due to less successful attempts at medication, don't ask me why). Once past that, I just never really had a reason to go down.