Anyway, Kellie and I went to Mountain View on Saturday to our grandson Colt’s football game. After the football game, we went with my son Jesse’s family to the Case Cemetery (Is that what is still called? I did not notice.) out on Luber Road to visit Dad’s grave and, of course, the memorials of other family members and friends. When we left there, we went by Mrs. Linda Sutterfield’s house for a short, sweet visit. Oh, yeah, we met Tiger—That is Micheal Stewart for those who don’t know—on the road and talked to him for a minute or two. Then, we went by my grandma and grandpa’s old place where Edie, Mrs. Linda’s daughter, has a beautiful guest house, which we plan to try to stay in sometime. Finally, we visited with Dad’s cousin L. D. Everett and his wife Martha for about an hour before we came on home to Salem. It was a busy day, and it was a rewarding day that inspired much thought.
Basically, visiting with the folks out at Hanover reminded me that my roots are there. Of course, the Everetts are pretty close family and Mrs. Linda is related on the Thomas side not too far down the ancestral line (I think we determined that Obadiah Thomas is the common “grandpa.”), but it was more than just sitting down and talking to these people who are friends and family. I have lots of memories of Grandpa’s hayfield, the little pond up on the hillside, the High Bank Hole down on Tomahawk Creek. Much of the big scene has changed. Things do not look the way they did when I was a kid. Interestingly, the small things have not changed so much. I cannot really explain, but it felt like I had never been away from that place for any great length of time, and I have. I’ve not spent much time in the Hanover area for at least fifteen or twenty years—well, at least since I was the Richwoods water guy.
Another thing that I was reminded of yesterday was that I am never saddened when I visit Dad’s grave and memorial. I have no memories of him in that cemetery, and no emotions are evoked when I stand in the cemetery. There is a vast disconnection between memories of my dad and that cemetery. However, listening to Mrs. Linda’s voice and remembering the same voice reading The Little House on the Prairie Series to my class when I was in the first grade struck a chord in me that I had not noticed previously. I do not remember what Dad’s voice sounded like. That is very sad to me. However, I am sure that Mom has some videotapes or something on which he speaks. I need to listen to them. I cannot forget my dad’s voice.
Anyhow, I wrote a poem almost one year to the day after Dad was buried. I have reread it a few times, but I have never thought about rewriting it.
Oh, and the picture is simply one that I took this morning. I did not take a single photo in Hanover yesterday. I never even thought about it. I hope you enjoy the poem. I think that it would be nice if some of you could share some memories of my dad with me if you would like to do so.
Two Miles Down the Road
More than a year has come and gone,
As I clip and rake around a stone
Where something that was not him is
In a plot that was not and will never be his.
He once came here to do the same,
To tend the grass and dirt around a name
Or sing or cry with his brothers and sisters.
He shared songs and tears; I horde my blisters.
When I am done, I wipe away stray grass
And shine the stone as if a looking-glass,
And shake the plastic flowers in their stands
To see if they can bear the coming winds.
Storm-driven gusts rush in and I must go.
While I am here, the grass forgets to grow
Though excited by cool winds of summer,
Wicked licks of lightning, and rumbling thunder.
A curtain flows across the brown-tipped crops
And I dread the weight of the first fat drops
That bind the earth around his metal tomb,
And drive me, dripping, into a metal womb.
In here, the roar of rain makes all else dumb
As I imagine Death makes all else numb.
And on the glass, my breath becomes a cloud
That drifts before my eyes as if a shroud.
His name, his stone, his grass, I cannot see
And it’s not here for him; it’s here for me,
But the maelstrom has erased my memory.
I start the truck and turn the defrost on;
Two miles down the road, the fog is gone.
Comments