Honoring the Dead

A while back I wrote a social media post for the “52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks” genealogy challenge. The week’s prompt was Oldest, and I wrote about the oldest cousin on my mom’s side of the family.

Little Bill died in a tragic vehicle accident at the age of seven, leaving me as heir to the title of oldest. His siblings thanked me for memorializing someone whose life was too short to leave much of a legacy of his own.  

A friend of mine shared that the oldest child in her family had been a ‘blue baby,’ living only nine weeks. When her parents moved nearby in their later years, she learned more about the brother she never knew. She learned about her parents’ abiding love for him. She discovered he was always alive in their hearts. Now that her parents have died, too, she feels called upon to keep his memory alive. That need fuels a deep connection to this person who had never been much more than a myth to her.

I’m currently working on a book about my mother’s life and times. That means her siblings, her parents, her grandparents, too. Almost all of them are long gone from this world, so part of my process involves calling up memories, begging them to awaken from their slumber deep in the recesses of my mind, sometimes birthing random mental snapshots into full-blown narratives.

I was having trouble getting my grandparents’ story to make much sense on paper. I found myself fervently wishing they were still here for a face-to-face. (Actually, this is something I regularly wish for.)

Sometimes, it feels as if they have heard me. My eyes wander beyond the keyboard and I see their ethereal presence. It’s not my imagination; they’re there. Side by side they stand, he in his dark brown dress trousers, their legs as wide at the bottom as at the top, the way they were back in the ’50s. She’s wearing her usual fare: a cotton shirtwaist dress, small brown print on a beige background, her stockings rolled tightly an inch or two above her knees just the way I remember.

I only see my grandparents from mid-thigh down. But I feel them standing together, their arms touching, their eyes boring into the top of my head. They don’t answer my questions. But their presence is powerful. They are urging me on, assuring me if I keep at it, I’ll figure it out. But reminding me it’s all up to me now. They can only cheerlead. And they do. Silently, but hard.

I don’t dare look up. I’m so afraid the gossamer thread that binds us in this moment will drift off, my grandparents with it, and I want them to stay.

 

 

I, too, feel a deep and abiding connection to these people who no longer walk among us. They continue to have much to offer. I want to be the keeper of their flames.

Dancing Trees

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The Gnome has enjoyed playing a woodlands game with our grandchildren during their respective toddlerhoods. He’ll pick them up, hold them in his arms, and place their ears next to one of the large trees in our small forest. “Shh,” he’ll say, in his own hushed voice. “Listen.” After a few pregnant seconds, he asks if they can hear the tree.

Inevitably, they do. Is the unfettered imagination of childhood innocence at work, or are the sounds real? Whatever, watching a small child’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across a lollipop-cheeked face—such moments are pure magic.

On these spring days and nights when the wind skims across the peaks of our mountains in its furious attempt to get who-knows-where, it leaves a few things in its wake.

The crack of still-bare limbs clanging against each other as if they’re engaged in some ancient battle, wooden branches as swords, breaks the silence. Sometimes, one cuts the other to the quick, sending it crashing through other branches on the way to its final destination below.

The wind has an entirely different effect on other trees. Norway spruce and Fraser firs we once imagined growing into a profitable Christmas tree business overwhelmed us—and everything else around. Today, they are jolly evergreen giants, having grown to eighty feet or more, long branches drooping under their own verdant weight.

Wind bends, but never breaks, these resilient trees. Instead, they nod their heads to each other in rhythmic time, their outstretched branches bowing and swaying as if in some sort of complicated old folk dance. It seems they’re almost smiling, wordlessly saying, “It’s okay. I’ve got you covered.”

And they have, in a way. In such close proximity, each supports and shelters its neighbors from the wind’s potential danger. Even more, they create a haven for the wildlife that give us so much pleasure: deer, bears, the squirrels who race through branches in the height of their springtime romantic frenzies, hoppy rabbits, stripey skunks, and of course, the myriad songbirds who seek solace and grow little bird families in the protection of their branches.

 

The long, graceful, ballerina arms of our tallest neighbors wave at me through the glass door that defends me from wind’s ravages. They invite me to join their happy dance. And I do, if only with a smile as I wave back.

Summertime

(Well, this is embarrassing. For reasons too complicated to explain here, I’m not sure whether the following piece is mine or if it’s a compilation of some of my fellow writers. Logic dictates it’s mine, yet it doesn’t feel as familiar as it should. But since summer, in all its fullness, is officially just around the bend, I want to share. So, here goes—with sincere apologies if I’ve inadvertently plagiarized.)

Summertime

Summer is the most voluptuous season.

Summer is like

. . . a rainbow, bright and colorful after a dark storm;

. . . . wide open spaces with no boundaries;

. . . imagination with endless possibility.

Summer is like like the blinding light of a camera flash, the scent of singed skin, the music of Beethoven; it’s like life at full maturity—gone is the perky innocence of youth as hints of age peek through its brilliance.

Summer is like lemonade—sunshiny bright, sweet and tangy, liquid in a sweating glass.

Interpretations of a Snapshot

I tried an experiment a few weeks back when I posted a photo on social media and asked my friends to study its details and tell me what they saw. I said nothing about the photo itself, though a few immediately knew it was a picture of my mom in her teenage years.

I conducted this inquiry for a couple of reasons. It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to do something besides tell how my mother is the best in the world. I hope there are millions of people who believe that about their own moms; we don’t have to compete. But maybe I could get people to spend a few minutes studying her—a different kind of tribute.

I had another reason for seeking input. I’m writing a book about my mom’s life and times, and photographs will be a big part of the story. I love pictures; I’ve probably spent more hours poring over Mom’s photo albums than everyone else in my family together, including my mother. Predictably, my attention is usually drawn to the intended subject of the photos, and I realized I may be missing some important details. Like the fact that the shrubbery and lawn in this picture seem unkempt. There’s a story there, and I’d never even noticed it before I took a long, hard look a few weeks ago. I wondered what others might see that I was still missing and how their attention might hone my own visual sensibilities.

Just the way people expressed themselves caught my interest. Some comments were more emotional and personal while others attempted complete objectivity. Some were philosophical; others whimsical. Here are excerpts from some of the varied insights. Maybe you’ll find the process as interesting as I did. I learned a lot. I hope I’ll never look at a snapshot the same again.

  • I’m noticing the trees or bushes that are behind her—but I can’t name them! I see the pillar is handmade using REAL stones. I think this photo may have previously been in a photo album that had black pages.
  • The photo was taken at mid-day, because shadows are short. The house has a deep porch. It looks like creek rocks were used instead of field stones. One of the trees behind her to the left looks like a young poplar. The tall bush on her left looks like a privet, allowed to grow tall. She is wearing laced shoes and bobby socks. Her dress has a subtle print to it, but the photo is underexposed, so the print does not show well. She has a short vest. It is summer.
  • It asks me the question: Why is this person trying to blend in with the shrubbery?
  • She is standing near a porch and a porch pillar that is encompassed with overgrown bushes. I wonder about the things I can’t see. I can’t see the house, even though I see the rock pillar and the ceiling of what I perceive to be the porch. And I wonder who is taking the picture. And what is in her hand that she is holding up? Her mouth is slightly open, so she must be saying something to the photographer. I like that this photo has lots of plants and less hardscaping than the modern houses have. She is wearing a dress, and ankle socks with her shoes.
  • I see determination and strength.
  • I wonder what she is pointing at with her raised right arm. Is it the vining plant above her finger?
  • I have a thing with black/white photos. I ‘know’ the colours (at least I think I do) and your mom’s dress/bolero is light yellow with a white blouse or front piece. I believe it is all one piece with the bolero attached.
  • She’s standing beside what appears to be an Italian Cypress and pointing to something behind her. If you note the angle of her finger—she is not pointing straight up, but up and behind. The yard she is in is not kept.

And in response to that last comment came these two:

  • Maybe in the 30s and 40s yards were just not manicured to the extent to which we have grown accustomed.
  • I agree. We mowed and trimmed much less back then—no power tools! Not enough time, either; we focused on chicken flocks and large gardens.

I also appreciated that my commenters offered the following perceptions, which have nothing much to do with my photograph but remind me of other important points worth pondering.

  • I am drawn to the torn corner of the photo. It’s sad somehow. It fragments the photo, makes it not whole, much like memory itself—remnants of time, fleeting glimpses into something long past. Photos freeze a moment forever, but like the memory of that moment they will change over time; fade, become fragmented and develop holes that leave out bits of information.
  • When I’m getting ready to do something with a “vintage” photo, I try to do only as much cropping as is truly necessary. My thinking is that I need to preserve the surroundings as much as possible. Even if they don’t seem important to me, they might be significant to future generations.
  • I often try to cut out or hide parts [of a photo] that I don’t think are pretty or don’t make for a good composition. But I need to think more about how to “preserve the surroundings.”

Then there was this one. May we all heed its lesson. “My neighbor used to look at a daylily and point out every little nuance—color, pattern, edge, shape, sizes, etc. She made me look at each flower individually, and the unique beauty of that flower. My desire is to look at people in that manner.”