As Samhuinn approaches, we are encouraged to think about our departed loved ones, and our ancestors - and I do. I think about them often, anyway. However, I've never been a visitor of graves. My strong belief is that this is probably the last place I am going to find my departed loved ones. I've lived about five miles from my parents graves for the past few years, but I never went there - until yesterday.
I suddenly took a notion. I showered and put on clean clothes. I gathered up some bread I'd baked, some spring water, some fruit juice and a poem I'd written, got in the truck and went. Finding the cemetery was easy but I had no idea where to find the grave. I remembered my father saying more than once that he didn't want to be buried on this dry, lonely and desolate hill. My cousin said there was a "simple stone, nothing fancy". Fortunately, it's a small place. I thought I would find it by instinct, but that didn't work, so I started methodically up and down the rows. I grew up in this tiny town. There were a lot of names I knew, quite a lot of people I knew as a child, too. I'd stop and try to picture them in my mind. The place was a bit overgrown and I was a little anxious about missing the stone. My socks got full of prickly tumbleweed thorns. I walked and walked, up and down the rows of the dead. Not another living soul was about, which suited me fine.
I suddenly took a notion. I showered and put on clean clothes. I gathered up some bread I'd baked, some spring water, some fruit juice and a poem I'd written, got in the truck and went. Finding the cemetery was easy but I had no idea where to find the grave. I remembered my father saying more than once that he didn't want to be buried on this dry, lonely and desolate hill. My cousin said there was a "simple stone, nothing fancy". Fortunately, it's a small place. I thought I would find it by instinct, but that didn't work, so I started methodically up and down the rows. I grew up in this tiny town. There were a lot of names I knew, quite a lot of people I knew as a child, too. I'd stop and try to picture them in my mind. The place was a bit overgrown and I was a little anxious about missing the stone. My socks got full of prickly tumbleweed thorns. I walked and walked, up and down the rows of the dead. Not another living soul was about, which suited me fine.
Some of the graves were well tended, some less so. A few were quirky. Some were overgrown and others were absolute shrines to what seemed like a prideful grief. I pondered on the question of whether a well-tended grave honoured the dead or merely served as a statement of propriety by the living. If the dead live on, I believe it is in telling their stories to future generations or in making use of the legacy of wisdom, love and material possessions they leave us.
Finally, I turned a corner and there it was. Now what? I had planned a simple ritual in my mind. I said an informal hello and chatted briefly. I read my poem. There was no applause. I took out the bread, broke some off and put it near the stone - which turned out to be fairly substantial and "fancy" by my standards. I poured some juice into the quaich I'd brought with me, splashed some out, drank some, and again with the water. I ate some bread, too, and cast some to the four directions. I asked to be given more wisdom. I tried to think suitable thoughts. One stone, one grave, for the two of them. How did I feel about that? They didn't really get along too well, but they stayed together - so why not?
I hung around for awhile. The view was magnificent, in spite of my father's remarks. I knew that he would have preferred to have been buried next to his kin, back in the green, rolling hills of eastern Kansas. Would it have mattered? I had a little twinge of longing to go to that place and see it. I imagined the road trip that would be! Well, time to go. To be honest, I hadn't felt much. Maybe a little pompous at my own ritual. My family. It was what it was, and I've learned to appreciate it for the good and understand the not-so-good as best I can.
It was only as I was getting back near my car that I felt a bit emotional. Walking away was hard. Then I realised - walking away from a grave is nothing, when the person lives on in your thoughts.
Finally, I turned a corner and there it was. Now what? I had planned a simple ritual in my mind. I said an informal hello and chatted briefly. I read my poem. There was no applause. I took out the bread, broke some off and put it near the stone - which turned out to be fairly substantial and "fancy" by my standards. I poured some juice into the quaich I'd brought with me, splashed some out, drank some, and again with the water. I ate some bread, too, and cast some to the four directions. I asked to be given more wisdom. I tried to think suitable thoughts. One stone, one grave, for the two of them. How did I feel about that? They didn't really get along too well, but they stayed together - so why not?
I hung around for awhile. The view was magnificent, in spite of my father's remarks. I knew that he would have preferred to have been buried next to his kin, back in the green, rolling hills of eastern Kansas. Would it have mattered? I had a little twinge of longing to go to that place and see it. I imagined the road trip that would be! Well, time to go. To be honest, I hadn't felt much. Maybe a little pompous at my own ritual. My family. It was what it was, and I've learned to appreciate it for the good and understand the not-so-good as best I can.
It was only as I was getting back near my car that I felt a bit emotional. Walking away was hard. Then I realised - walking away from a grave is nothing, when the person lives on in your thoughts.
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