Chords

Walking up to the top of the Fannin Eldgridge Cemetery, you climb and climb the hill. Walking on a dirt road, there are trees and ferns, wildflowers and moss, on both sides. Thick green growth with butterflies who fly more like dive bombers than the expected flitting creatures are accompanied by a few bees buzzing about. If you come a little late, or are a slower hill walker-upper than others, when you near the top third of the climb, the sounds of the singing occurring at the top seems to just be a sweet breath of air. It washes over you, flowing past and into you as you climb.

Yesterday, I made such a climb. We started out on time. Then, the realization hit that the box of hymnals that had been packed so that everyone could sing along, had been forgotten at the church. A quick trip back to retrieve those left us walking up the hill and listening to that singing. It’s not about how fast you climb the hill; it’s not even about how easy it is to climb the hill. Instead, this hill seems to be a badge of honor. The elderly used to state that if they could climb the hill one more year, then they must be doing all right with their health and would live another year. At the top, there was a small service with a short message and then more singing. Tall pine trees stood like sentinels around us, green and fragrant. Mosses of different kinds created soft and cushy spots on the ground. A rosebush was blooming pink blossoms. The tombstones needed to have the old flowers removed and the new flowers placed.
I enjoy the whole process, except perhaps for knowing that there are snakes in those woods. But, it is the music floating back down the rough dirt road that is something that stands out. Voices blend in different harmonies. Some voices are on key while others are off. Staccato or legato phrasing can be heard, with either sharp and quick words, smooth pronouncements, or something in between occurring. Some voices are very pure, others are nasal. The bass is present, the tenor, the alto, and the soprano. The harmony bends and sways with the music depending on how familiar everyone is with the piece. Sometimes notes are off and do not blend or perhaps are not resolved well. Others can barely be heard as they try to be invisible in their vocal contribution. The words are not always known, or how the parts split out to do their own thing. This can result in a momentary confusion and unsure sense of what to do next.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I really thought about the music and how family is a lot like that. Some come into this world with a beautiful tone, on pitch and pleasant to the ears. They are the encouragers, the ones who can make children laugh, or can speak softly to those who are frightened. Others can squall out a tune which will make the least of the vocally trained dive for cover. Sang with great gusto and absolute disregard for the others around them, the pitch wavers and jumps up to hide the softer. Those who are barely making any sound at all are there, even if they are difficult to hear. They may have the most beautiful harmony of all, but without additional courage no one will ever hear it. Harmonizers can move between parts and add an additional layer to what is there, building the strength of the music.
Family is a lot like this. Perhaps you can realize yourself in the midst of that. I watched children play and they were in a moment of harmony. Their squeals and laughter, mixed with the sound of the creek running around their toes was beautiful. It was a part of the music filled with little bubbles of sweetness and joy. At other times, the music was more somber. A cemetery was looked out over and those who had finished singing their music here and were leaving only their echoing themes were remembered.
There are signs commonly found about not getting to pick your family. Well, that is true. There will be discord from time to time. The very quiet one may grow louder and be tired of the one who always sings loud claiming all of the part. They will have to determine the new blend and start a new theme. Family is messy; there are many discords, many unresolved notes. But it is a symphony of sound, of tightly interlaced chords.

Blueberry Garden Dreams

Yesterday it was the first day of visiting family, a whirlwind set of visits really. First it was a visit on a front porch with great coffee, after having a delightfully long sleeping-in morning time. Then a quick (perhaps the driver, who was not me, was speeding a bit) drive to a neighboring town for a lunch visit. After that, a stop to visit one set of grandparents, led to a visit with an aunt, uncle, and cousin. This was followed by a visit with the other set of grandparents, aunt, and cousin, and then dinner at a cemetery. I craved a nap around three which never occurred and enjoyed the day thoroughly.

I have to laugh at the themes that seem to have run commonly throughout the day, blueberries being one of them. At each stop blueberries seemed to come up as a topic of “brain food”. Apparently there has been some sort of recent scientific breakthrough on the importance of blueberries, which I have completely missed. Each group seemed to be laughing and discussing how they needed to remember to eat blueberries, kind of like people have joked about the need to remember to take ginko-biloba for memory. The thing I found funny is that it seemed to fit in every single conversation today at least once. How? I don’t know. I wonder if we are really running in these parallel and interlacing topic conversations all the time and just don’t stop talking long enough to listen and realize it, and enjoy it. The world got a little smaller.

The majority of the day was spent with one set of grandparents in particular. As a variety of health issues have kept them unable to visit us eight hours away, these are precious and a little bit sad times. They are precious because they run deep with memories and emotions, sad because every time I come the aging process can strike me when I least expect it. I walked my grandma’s beautiful yard today. She has so many flowers, snowball bushes that make the whole yard filled with a delicate fragrance and the most beautiful rusty red roses you have ever seen. I noticed how large the pine trees were, pine trees that I remember having branches cut off at Christmas when I was a little girl. Grandma would turn me loose with a pine branch, somewhat precariously arranged, in the living room to decorate. She would pull out all the old ornaments she could find and let me decorate it as I wished. There was no hint at going back and rearranging to suit a sense of balance on her part, but it was always something I felt she thought was beautiful just as it was. I have memories of family gatherings in the yard; summers spent smelling the snowball bush every time I walked out of the kitchen door. The memories were as fragrant as that bush and hit me with such a whoosh that I was grateful for the sunglasses hiding the rim of wetness in my eyes.

Finally it was a dinner at the cemetery. On the drive there, grandma shared a dream of all the flat roofed buildings being made into garden areas. She has such a green thumb and love of plants, that I can see how that would have been her dream long before green spaces became the popular thing to do. Sitting in the backseat, the conversation sound moved in and out, and I let myself drift away from that and think of the beauty of flattop roof gardens. Not just produce for restaurants that may be below, but think of how nice it would be step into a garden on a work break, or at a retirement center. Then, we passed the hospital, which is very large and very flat roofed, what a beautiful place that could be for patients and staff to rest and recuperate, either from a medical procedure or just from stress.

But, I mentioned dinner at the cemetery. That may sound strange to you, even a bit morbid. I can offer assurances that it is anything but that. We all showed up with lawn chairs, or a blanket, something to eat, and sat around and talked. There was some memory times being shared, photos, and even a poem and a song. There was laughter and there were tears wiped away. That’s okay; it’s a safe place to wipe those tears. Fears were shared of future ailments and difficulties being walked through in quieter tones as some moved short distances away to talk in the private. A little boy found an excellent climbing tree and took great delight in watching the branches sway above our heads. I sat at one point and listened to four different conversations going on around me, one about genealogy, another about pets, telling stories on children and family gatherings past, and another telling stories on siblings sitting right there. I laughed when I heard blueberries. I have lived away from my “home” long enough that I know that this will seem a strange thing, disrespectful in some circles and perhaps bordering on outrageous in others. It is healing though. I don’t grieve for the great grandmother, great uncle, or cousin buried there. I grieve for us who are left, the son without his mother, the three sisters who miss their mommy, the father and mother missing their daughter. It is okay to grieve them, it is okay to hurt. It is also okay to share our grief in a different way, celebrating not only their lives, but their legacy.

The legacy they leave us, of lessons taught, stories told, songs favored, favorites and dislikes are a powerful thing. Standing in the hallway of my grandparents’ home, I was reminded of one of the legacies they are leaving us – learning, family, memory making, and of course enjoying the beauty of life, be it snowball bush, child, or blueberry. It makes me think a little deeper, plan a little harder and a little more purposefully on what type of legacy I am leaving those around me.

Can’t I Pack the Kitchen Sink Too?

Yesterdat was the day to finish all the preparation for the trip before the trip actually begins. That wouldn’t be too bad if coming home from work, I had actually the bags upstairs and had things in them. I did however, have a list of what needs packed. I love lists, actually I love crossing things off lists. As the to do’s get shifted into the all done it is a happy thing.

      But, I digress…
I am leaving for the better part of a week, heading home to Ohio and Kentucky. Ohio is where I was born and where the majority of my family lives. Kentucky is the family home. I know I have never lived in that part of Kentucky, but somehow that mineral rich soil has soaked into our blood stream and made it home. There are reunions planned, visits with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Cleaning off the head stones from last year and putting on new flowers for this year, the children will be brought into the process as this helps them learn to remember their ancestors and history. So, what do I take on such a trip jumping from suburbia to the beautiful foot hills? Well clothes, toothpaste, shampoo, and socks of course. And lotion, my camera, bug spray, and make up as well. But, there are other things that get packed – a shovel and trash bags to sit plants in and bring home. Music for the van is an absolute necessity, but it requires forethought. Not only does something for the road demand energy, but when we pull around the bend and watch the foothills appear – that is when the correct music must be available, something delicate and yet strong.
There are some other things that get packed, stories of the past, memories, hopes for renewal during family times, and time to just stroll around grandma’s yard breathing deeply of the pines and snowball bushes. So much is going to be stuffed into that van, surely the kitchen sink will be in there somewhere as well.