Remain

Monday~July13, 2009

This one is for my Aunt Elsie, my Grandpa’s lovely sister, and my friend…

We walked over hills, following a path of dirt and rocks. We wore flip flops and sandals and watched our steps closely in the minefield of cow pies. We were on a tour, sightseers of our own history.

I could feel my Grandpa there, in the place where he grew up, on this beautiful land where his roots were planted. I could finally see all of the stories he used to tell me of the beauty and simplicity of this place. He would say that my Great Grandma, his mom, would call him in from the yard for dinner. She’d say, “You’ve got ball in the head!” And he did. Oh, how he loved baseball. Even as his memory left him all those years later, his vacant eyes still lit up with news of a Twins win spoken loudly to his hearing aid.

When he told his stories, he’d talk about two horses, those he used to plow the fields, how old and slow they were. He worked those fields, sowing a crop and growing up. He would talk about this hard work of his childhood always with a smile on his face, remembering and even longing for those days. There was so much love there, he never seemed to focus on the memory of work.

Later, as his mind started to fail, this farm was the place he would go, reaching out for chicken eggs only he could see. The farm, a reprieve from his dementia, the nostalgia a balm for his soul.

Sometimes I worry that as time marches on, his stories will be forgotten, his life just a moment in time that no one recalls. I suppose this is what we fear for anyone we grieve.

But after this visit to the farm where his life began, I know even more of him than I ever have before. Yes, he’s gone now, but stories of his family history were being shared with every step on that tour, and I’m so glad I was there, listening carefully and walking the land that he loved so much.

We need to be sure to tell our stories…

This is where the first road came through Chippewa Falls. And over here was the first pipeline, because it was so close to the river…Over that fence is where your Grandpa plowed the field with two horses…

My aunts and uncles and second cousins said things like, “Do you remember how we’d race down that hill? Wow, the hill seemed so big then. Do you remember shooting out here? Here’s where Elsie would play church, standing behind her big rock pulpit, acting as pastor, soloist and congregation…yeah, she needed more friends.” And we laughed.

The stones at the base of the barn were carefully placed there with my Great Grandpa’s hands. They said he chose them from the riverbed, found their sweet spot, and with one tap, cracked them in half. He placed them with their flat side in, and cemented them in their places. I thought of those stones as the people in our family, placed there one by one with such care, cemented in with rarely a crack between us.

I don’t know if my Grandpa watched his father work those stones into place, but I do know he was witness to the unfolding generations of his family, and he loved us and cared for us with the careful eye of a mason.

And much like those stones, many of us are all still here, facing the wind and sun and speaking stories of generations. We carry the hard work, the faith, and the love of the very first of us.

So maybe one day, no one will know his name. But his legacy will remain.