The High and Windy Place

Her nephews carried Momma up the hill. It was more than forty years ago, but it’s as vivid in my mind as if it were yesterday.

Jim, Dennis, and David were on Momma’s left, Eddie, Skip, and Larry on her right. Behind them, shuffling slowly along was the old preacher man, assisted on his right by a hickory cane, and on his left by the arm of his son. His thin, white hair was being tormented and teased by the breezes and deep sorrow etched his face.

His heart hurt as much as any of Momma’s family, for he had known her since she was born, had baptized her, married her off to our pa, and now, in the presence of her children and parents, brothers and sisters, and other kinfolk and friends would commit her to the angels.

Waiting for the preacher man in the high windy place atop that mountain we could look in any direction and not see an acre of land that appeared to be higher than us. With nothing to slow it down the wind always blew here.

Along the north side of the burying ground were dense rows of pines. At the west end, near where Momma would lie, were banks of multi-flora roses as high as a man’s head in profusions of pink and white.

Momma loved flowers of any kind, but she especially loved roses. The big American Beauties that flourished by the corner of the house, the delicate tea roses trellised over the garden walk, and the wild roses found in unexpected places.

As the preacher man began his reading my mind wandered, back to a time when I was a youngster and my best friend lay gravely ill. I was terribly scared that he would die.

Momma had sat with me then and told me her story. Momma said that when she was eight years old she got the rheumatic fever. The sickness damaged her heart and she was so sick that the doctor told her momma and pa that she was going to die.

Momma’s favorite food was pork chops and nearly every meal she begged her momma for them. Her momma didn’t think they were the right kind of food for a very sick child, but the doctor told her momma to let her have them or any other food she wanted, if that’s what would make her happy ‘cause as bad as her heart was any meal could be her last.

Momma didn’t know if it was the pork chops or something else, but eventually she began to recover.

When she was well enough to go outside, she still was too frail to play with the other children so she would walk across the road to the church, then up the hill to the burying ground. Often she would have to stop part way to catch her breath. Then she would sit or lie on the grass near the roses and listen to the sound of the wind in the pines.

Momma said the wind sighing and whistling through the pines was the most beautiful and heavenly music to her. She said it sound like the music of angels.

Momma said that through the years whenever she was lonely, or sad, or discouraged, she would come up to what she called her high windy place and listen to the angel music in the pines.

Momma believed in angels. She said they watch over and help protect us. Momma said that some day, she didn’t know when, she would join the angels. She said I would too, and so would my friend, although she said for us she hoped it would be many, many years in the future.

Eventually Momma got well enough to go back to school.

When Momma got married the doctor told her not to have children as the strain of childbirth would likely be too much for her heart. She had three children, and raised them up according to the Good Book.

It was when her youngest child was in college that her heart got so much worse. The heart doctor said he could put a new valve in her heart to make it work better. He said if the surgery was not done, momma’s heart would give out very soon.

Momma had the operation, and the heart did pump much stronger. But a few days later other complications set in and Momma died.

One snowy morning in the winter after Momma died, brother Jake was on his way to work when his car spun out on a patch of ice, careened across the median and into the path of an oncoming semi truck. In the instant before they would have collided, a delivery van also spun into the median and sideswiped Jake’s car out of the path of the semi. Jake and the van driver miraculously escaped without injury. The only casualties were boxes of roses from the van that had been destined to florists for Valentine’s Day.


A few months after that sister Kathy and her husband Ken desperately needed to refinance their mortgage to prevent foreclosure and bankruptcy. The lady loan officer at the bank let them fill out the loan application, but strongly hinted that there was very little likelihood of approval. As they were being grilled on their finances, a messenger came to the bank, delivering a dozen roses to the banker from her boyfriend. Like the click of light switch, the lady’s mood changed. Without another question she signed off and approved the loan.

During the summer months our community presented a series of open air concerts in the park. One evening we all gathered to hear a great Celtic band. Early in the concert a thunderstorm burst upon us. Folks took shelter wherever they could. Uncle Sid had been sitting with his back to a big white oak tree. His elderly joints were creaky and he couldn’t move as quick as he should have. A bolt of lightening split down the side of the tree where he was. Amazingly, by the time we got to him he was sitting up, and just holding his head. He said he wasn’t hurt, just wanted to stop the noise of bells in his head.
Later he told us that the last thing he remembered before the lightening was the band singing My Wild Irish Rose.

Then there was the robbery. Brother Mark and his wife Amy owned a small grocery store. Both were at the counter when the robber came in. Brandishing a handgun, the robber instructed Amy to give him all the cash in the register, which she promptly did.

Raising his gun, the robber then said, "now to eliminate witnesses I’m going to have to kill you both". He aimed the gun at Mark’s forehead. They heard the gun being cocked, then instantly the gunman’s face paled and was covered by a look of fear. He dropped the gun and ran from the store.

I got there shortly after the police, who were still trying to get an accurate account of what had happened. The asked Mark and Amy to reenact the incident, from exactly where they had been, and asked if I would play the role of the gunman.

Mark told me where to stand and what to do. Using my index finger as the imaginary gun, I raised my arm and pointed it at Mark. And then I saw something on the shelf behind Mark. It took a moment to process what I was seeing. There must have been a weird look on my face, because Amy asked "what…what are you looking at?"

I was trying to comprehend it all and didn’t answer. Amy followed to where my finger was still pointing. She stared at the object, then gasped and covered her mouth. Her eyes caught mine for a fleeting second and we both knew what had happened.

Hands trembling, Amy reached behind Mark and took a small box from the shelf. She held it up to him. "This is what the gunman saw," she said, " but he didn’t see this"

"That doesn’t make sense, Amy" Mark replied. "What are you trying to say?"

The cops were as puzzled as Mark, trying to figure out what was happening.

"Mark, read the label, Mark!" She pushed the box to his face. "Mark, it says Rose Hip Tea. Can’t you see? Do you get it now? The gunman looked at the box, but what he saw was momma!"

I started to interject with the rest of the story, but Amy went right on. "Remember the Valentine’s van that saved Jakes life? That was momma! Kathy and Ken at the bank for the loan….momma was there! Momma saved Uncle Sid’s life! Momma was here!! Momma saved our lives!!

Amy threw her arms around Mark’s neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

There have been other incidents over the years. Whenever someone in our circle of family or friends is saved from imminent tragedy or catastrophe we look for some sign of a rose. When we find it, as we invariably have, we say "thank you, momma!"

A sharp gust of moisture-laden wind suggested it was time for me to go.

This was my first visit to momma’s grave in decades. I noticed the changes. The pines were long gone, replaced by trimmed hedges and flowering crab apples. The roses had been bull-dozed to make room for more burial plots.

The only flower I saw was a small budding wild rose that had rooted itself on momma’s grave.

Intuition told me that I’d likely not come again to momma’s high and windy place.

I knelt in front of her marker and wiped the granite as best I could with my handkerchief.

Then I took my penknife and cleaned moss and dirt from the carved grooves of the letters R…O...S…E.