This weekend, four
months after my brother’s death, I travelled to northeastern Ohio for the
interment of ashes in my mother’s grave.
My mother’s grave is in a small town cemetery in her hometown, a
beautiful piece of land in a verdant river valley. Her ancestors and relatives’ graves are all
over the cemetery…many generations of German Irish people whose stories we have
heard for years fill these grassy plots…And now my mother’s ashes are crowned
with my brother’s ashes.
Any thought that
this would be less emotionally-charged than the memorial service a few months
earlier were quickly dispelled. My
nephew read the Committal of Ashes from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer,
which I had coincidentally printed out for our use. My copies were put aside for people to take
home as my nephew, a man of the cloth and wearing all black, read the service
while our extended family stood in a circle around the new grave in the
old. Several people spoke a few
words. Quiet sobs accompanied the
memories. We prayed the Our Father, and
the service was concluded.
We took family
photos. Some of us went to other parts
of the cemetery to find other relatives’ graves, and there were many – probably
five generations worth, at least.
Ultimately we caravanned to an Amish restaurant out in the country where
we had a huge long table on which an ample country meal appeared. Then we said our goodbyes to those who lived south,
in Central Ohio. Those of us from other
states – Florida, Arizona, New York, and Pennsylvania, as well as those who
lived either in town or within driving distance – drove back to our hotels
either for rest or for further visiting.
I chose to go to
the lake outside of town where all of us cousins used to vacation together
every summer. Two cousins and I headed
out to the lake with our swimming suits, looking forward to a swim on a
beautiful summer day.
As we drove through
the lovely old town that cradled our mothers, I was aware that we were treading
on hallowed ground. Sure, there were
plenty of stories that were anything but straight-laced, but the sense that we
were driving through God’s country was undisputed. Even if we did marvel at the fact that it’s a
miracle that our older brothers are still alive after driving the Ridge Road
while under the influence at high speeds…the land is still beautiful. The valleys are still green (my mother used
to love to gaze out over valleys and murmur, “How green was my valley!”), the
farms are still operating, and very little has changed.
Then, the
lake. So blue, so calm, so inviting…we
drove into the leafy green paradise that sheltered our aunts, uncles,
grandparents, and now some of our children and their children…small cottages
and some larger homes are nestled in the forested hillside that leads down to
the lake where boat slips and a small private beach beckon. The memories that this residential woodland
holds for us are endless. We walked
these roads when we were toddlers, with our parents and their parents. Now we’re the grandparents, and the little
ones at the beach are my second cousins.
We stepped into the
cool, sweet waters of the lake, and sank into the silky softness that has its
own distinctive perfume. Again, the
hilarity of the past shenanigans of our siblings – the hiding of beer under the
dock, the times we rocked the raft so hard it flipped over – the many family
reunions – echoed in our ears and hearts like the soundtrack to a very old
film. We’ve lost two cousins, all of the
aunts and uncles, and certainly our grandparents. But we’re still here – for now.
Then, a member of
the next generation offered us a ride on the family boat. Oh, yes – this would complete my total joy at
being here again. We threw some clothes
over our wet swimsuits, and climbed aboard the pontoon boat. Off onto the larger lake we went – past
forests, houses, cottages, docks, and eventually the more remote valley and
beach where we rented cottages fifty or sixty years ago. We pulled into the cove where my father kept
our little wooden rowboat, where we all fished, where my older cousins swam,
and yes, where they stashed their beer for late-night rendezvous. As we pulled out onto the larger lake once more to head back toward the glens from which we had come, I received a text that yet another relative - my husband's aunt, the last of his mother's generation, had just died up in Canada. Another soul had launched from Earth to Heaven, and coincidentally, she had been a sailor. Perhaps it was the day, or the way the wind blew, or the incredible shade of blue of both water and sky...All of the memories
coalesced into that boat ride on that gloriously beautiful summer
afternoon. My brother had been laid to
rest, it is true, but now he is part of the great heavenly host of relatives
whom I imagine are still out there enjoying the lake, the cottages, the
children, the memories. This is hallowed
ground, and holy water.
From dust we come,
and to dust we shall return. It is
true. And perhaps our tears become the
raindrops that fill the lake, and our laughter becomes the wind rustling in the
trees along those beautiful wooded lanes.
There is loss in
death, without question. But as we grow older, and as more of us pass on to the
next world, the boundaries begin to waver and fade, and our beloved family
homeland becomes a thin place, as the Irish say. A place where one can walk between worlds.
