Memories

Featured in The Spiritual Newsletter - 9/10/08

Rusty hinges groaned as I swung open the sagging wrought-iron gate of the ancient cemetery.  Mown grass lay in crooked swaths; ragged weeds drooped against headstones.  I remembered years past when Memorial Day mowing included carefully trimmed gravestones - a show of worker’s 'respect for the dead'. 

Slowly, I wandered past centuries-old, sandstone markers, their chiseled names and dates long weathered away.  My destination was my family's section where rested my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles as well as a few cousins.  Once surrounded by family headstones, I gazed down upon a small lamb, thinking of the infant uncle I never knew and reflecting upon my grandparents' life. 

Things had been simpler then.  Small farmers, whose children grew up, married and built homes nearby.  Family get-togethers were routine; unlike today when kids are scattered halfway around the globe; even a Christmas reunion is a logistical nightmare.

I leaned against a tombstone letting my gaze wander across the road, up the hill to the abandoned church, its once sparkling white paint grayed by years of exposure.  The rusty bell hung slightly askew in the square bell tower and the ninety-two concrete steps leading to the building had acquired a permanent tilt.  Many times as a child I’d watched six burly farmers struggle, straining and panting, to carry the casket of a neighbor up those stairs.  The plain interior of the building, always smelling of Old English Furniture Polish, had white walls with dark wooden altar, wainscoting, pews and floors.  Only the beautiful brass filigree of four chandeliers, each supporting six oil lamps, broke the austerity.  But apparently, I was not intimidated.

I remembered as a three-year-old, sitting in the corner of the front pew - my mother playing piano, my father leading the singing - swinging my legs and periodically shouting 'Amen' just like I'd heard the grownups do.  After Sunday morning services the family sometimes gathered at my grandmother's. 

When my Aunt Frieda was there, I would trail her to the chicken-house where she pursued the young rooster designated for the table.  Undaunted by the frenzied squawking and flapping wings, she zeroed in on her target.  Amid flying feathers she would grab the bony feet, raising him high.  Thus upended, the bird would give up its protests and hang motionless, as if resigned to its fate.  In horrified fascination I would watch her firmly plant her foot on the fowl's head, give its body several rapid turns followed by a quick jerk; then she would drop the headless animal to the ground where it spent several minutes flopping around in circles.  The old saying, 'running around like a chicken with its head off', needed no further explanation.

While we waited for dinner, my cousins and I played cowboys and Indians, saw who could jump farthest off the porch steps or, our favorite, rolled down the long sloping yard - totally heedless of droppings from ranging chickens. 

As we got older, I expended a lot of effort trying to avoid my younger tomboy cousin, who always challenged me to a wrestling match or dared me beat her up a tree, when such childish pursuits no longer interested me.  Instead, I preferred joining her older sister on the porch swing where we would peruse the forbidden True Story magazines and whisper about our current crush.

Sometimes even Grandma's huge dining table wasn't big enough to accommodate everyone.  On these occasions, men ate first, followed by kids.  The women were always last; even then, I didn't think it fair when they'd done all the cooking and would also be stuck cleaning up.  Yet they never seemed to mind.

Later in the afternoon, someone would go get a block of ice and they'd haul out the ice cream freezer.  Older boys vied to see who could crank the longest, but, inevitably, they’d turn it over to the men before the ice cream was ready.  When the men took over, we younger kids would gather around the freezer, each of us noisily insisting it was our turn to lick the paddles.  We were especially anxious when juicy, tree-ripened peaches were added to the mix.

As twilight descended, all of the cousins played hide-and-seek until the first flashes of 'lightning bugs' sent us searching for jars.  Running and laughing, we would attempt to outdo each other in capturing the most insects; thus having the brightest light. 

But it hadn't been all play, even for the kids.  The garden had to be hoed, vegetables picked and hay forked into the hot, stuffy haymow.  I remember my uncle teasing me with, 'sweat bees only sting lazy people'. 

One time, gathering vegetables with grandma, she pulled a large carrot, brushed off the dirt and handed it to me.  I munched happily on the sweet, crunchy fruit while we filled our baskets with makings for the evening meal.  Leaving the garden, I made the mistake of topping off the carrot with a handful of sun-warmed blackberries.  Within hours I was so sick that I still have trouble facing a raw carrot.

Life was much simpler then - not easier, but simpler.  They worked hard, never had much money, but there was always food on the table and everyone helped each other.  We kids learned to entertain ourselves playing 'store' with empty food containers or just watching the shifting clouds and making up stories inspired by their changing shapes.  I spent many hours trying to walk silently through the woods so that I could observe unaware squirrels and birds. 

When had it changed?  Was it my generation that insisted on running down the Career Path, chasing the ever-bigger paycheck regardless of where we had to go to earn it?

Sighing, I pushed away from the headstone, gave one last look at my family's markers and thought of my grandchildren.  Most waking hours spent in front of television or playing video games.  They didn't even know their cousins let alone their extended family.  At my age, what memories would they have?

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