My eldest sister, her grandson, my wife, daughter, and son and I began the weekend at a family reunion in north-central Arkansas. There were so many people to meet that I hadn't met, I almost wanted a seating chart in the form of a family tree, so I could figure out where to begin. I picked the oldest-looking one in the room, figuring I might not get another chance to see him.

I sat down with my father's cousin and told him who I was. As he talked about growing up with Dad, I sensed my grandfather in his every word, gesture, and inflection. Tears rolled out of me, and I just let them go. This wasn't a time for vanity, but for listening. He wanted to say more, I could tell, but like so many old people he seemed troubled that so many of his cohort were passing away of late. I thanked him and got a picture of our three generations.

a few weeks ago i spoke to the current owner of my grandfather's farm about what I wanted to do with Dad's ashes, and he responded with astonishing kindness. He said he'd leave the gates and house unlocked for us, and even mow the field where we planned to gather, so as to make it more passable. I thanked him and promised to report back to him when we were done.

My uncle B. met us at the reunion with his second wife (he lost his first to cancer some years ago). We drove north the most direct way toward the farm, and of course there is no direct way through all those hills. With two hours' drive time to think about what to say, I still had nothing by the time we arrived at the old home site; just a printout of Psalm 90 and the Book of Common Prayer. Those would have to do.

We parked along the road by the creek where we all had played as kids, and I pulled in through the gate the owner had left open for us. Uncle B. and I headed up the hill to look for the old house's remains. The land has changed significantly since my last visit 20 years ago. The woods have reclaimed most of what men had cleared over the last century; trees stand where cattle used to graze, and where gardens were once sowed and harvested. To find where the house stood would have meant slashing through thickets of young growth. We settled on a shady area between the spring and where my uncle could best recall the house had been, and called everyone together.
 
I had read Psalm 90 in church the previous week. Here is the full text. It begins, "You turn men back to dust, saying, 'Return to dust, O sons of men,'" and it seemed appropriate to this occasion. Apparently the Book of Common Prayer's writers thought so, too, because, as I paged through the book for an opening prayer, I found the same psalm in the funeral liturgy.
 
When I opened the box of ashes, Squinx asked to see. I showed her, and told her that dust is all that's left of us here on Earth when we die; our soul goes on to meet God. She's of an age that she accepts truth readily; it's when we grow up that we have difficulties with it. That is probably part of why, at moments like these, it is the adults' voices that break, not the children's.

I put the ashes along the edge of the woods. The land already knew Dad. They're just reunited now.
 
Uncle B. offered some words of remembrance, and of gratitude to see that his late brother lives on in his descendants. Sister led us in "Amazing Grace." B.'s wife, having lost her husband some time ago, lent a comforting presence to the recently aggrieved. We made our way back down to the creek.

As we reached the road, I looked up at the trees standing high over us. There, across the clear sky, a rainbow appeared.

in the creek, i washed the box the ashes had been in. The water ran cold and clear over the same stones we as children had picked over to look for gold, or crawdads, or for a round rock to skip downstream. Squeeky and I gathered all the smooth ones we could find to take home for some patio stones we'll cast later this summer. Great-nephew and Squinx competed to throw as many as they could get their hands on.

Uncle B. opened a cooler full of refreshments, and God bless him; I had only thought of our spiritual needs. He told us more stories, of fetching water from the spring, and how his brothers had looked after the farm's previous owner in his last days, for which he had repaid my grandfather with the deed to his property. I needed to visit the old place one more time, knowing full well it would not look as I'd last seen it. I just wanted one more picture to take with me. (This was a house my father had not really known, down the road from the home site where we left his ashes.)

As we got ready to go on up the road, I stuck our rental car in mud. No amount of rocking would free it. (I would later find that the traction control was stopping the drive wheels each time I started to move.) I went back up the hill and disassembled some sort of old wooden fixture I'd seen at the edge of a field. Had Dad himself nailed this together at some point? The boards were just the right length to wedge into the ruts I'd made.

Uncle B. stunned us all with his agility, wedging rocks and lumber under the tires, and with his energy in pushing the car while I worked the pedals. Eventually we turned off the traction control and got enough momentum to get out of the ruts. Trial-and-error beats technology: Dad would have been proud.

it is hard to see the house from the road now, through all the growth. Without Granddad to mow the grass and keep the ticks away from the house, we knew we would be in for it later. But I still needed to see the place up-close, so we did.

Walking up the driveway, we passed under the same big walnut tree I remember as a boy. Stone pillars, with broad, cement platforms we used to climb on, still span the old house's front porch. Its wooden planks lead down to a tall, narrow white rock at the south end, which still serves as a step I used to clamber up and down, as it was too steep for me. The carport and most of the barn are gone.

The current owner, true to his word, had left the house unlocked, and we entered to find it rearranged inside. Pictures were hard to take inside, and, honestly, I would rather remember it the way it was. The kitchen and dining room are full of bunks; it's a deer-hunting cabin now, with card tables, chairs, and a couple of appliances. I'm grateful to know that good times are still had here.

I wondered what had happened to the old cars parked way out back. In all the underbrush, all we could find was this one. It startled me, actually, as I was looking in another direction when it appeared at my side.

We gave the house one last look and headed back up to the road together. The gravel still makes that familiar crunch when walked or driven on. Otherwise, the place is quiet, as it always was on summer afternoons.

This gate, just off the driveway by the house, always seemed to call me, promising another rolling hill, one after another, off into the distance, to God knows how far. We'll all pass through a gate like that someday, in the hope that we will meet Dad, and so many more.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:10 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 1352 words, total size 9 kb.