From the Back Pew

We went Sunday  morning to the church I grew up in, which is about 25 minutes away from where we live now.  We went for Baby Wheeeel's baptism, and it was the first time I'd been there in a couple of years.  Because mama and daddy live outside of that county now, I don't go through my old hometown that often anymore, so I always enjoy seeing how things have or haven't changed.  Rarely do things change there, and while I'm sure that's frustrating for people who are in the business of economic development there, I always find great comfort in that.  I guess I like the sameness in something that was so comfortable to me while I was growing up.  It 's always good to go home.

The tall Methodist church on the corner of Ferry and 5th Streets is the church where I attended vacation bible school, went on youth skating trips as a teenager and where I got married nearly 22 years ago.  I always see a few people I know when I go there now.  They are part of the village that helped to raise me, and I always enjoy visiting with them.   I was so lucky as a child to have the kind of support I did, to have people who praised me, guided me and believed that I could do anything I dared to dream.  This time, as I sat and looked around the pews, picking out those special people, I was struck by how old they are getting.  Some of them are in their 80's now, and their health is obviously not what it once was.  That made me kind of sad, but it was still great to see them.  There's a comfort in knowing that they are still there after all these years, worshipping in the same pews.

I noticed in the bulletin that one of the retired pastors, the gentleman who was a preacher there when I was a teenager, was on the prayer list for some kind of serious illness.  I saw his daughter sitting in the choir loft.  She was a year behind me in school, and I immediately thought of those teenaged years we shared.  I made a mental note to ask mama after church what was wrong with Brother Earl.  That question was answered later in the service though, when he stepped out of the back of the choir loft to sing in a quartet with his daughter, Pastor Gary and Pastor Gary's wife.  Brother Earl's presence surprised me, given his listing on the prayer list, and it seemed to pleasantly surprise some of the regular members.  The four of them launched into a bouncy a capella song that had a strong southern Baptist flair, and his big bass voice came booming from his chest.  I had forgotten how well, and how LOW, he could sing.  And while the four of them sounded great, it was the combination of his voice and his daughter's voice that drew me in.  He sang with great strength, bouncing from note to note with his whole heart.  And when the song and the standing ovation were over, Pastor Gary spoke of how Brother Earl was doing a bit better despite his health issues.  That prompted Brother Earl to talk about his recently diagnosed cancer, his treatment, his faith and his future.  It was a great testimony of a determined hopeful spirit.  Honest testimony from a man who devoted his life to ministry and has had to face his own weaknesses in his faith.  His daughter barely managed to hold back her tears as he spoke, and I couldn't help but think about how much older she and I have become since those days of youth outings and high school classes.  And how much older our parents are now and how frail their health can become at any time.  I shed a tear because I'm a sympathy crier, but I think I also shed that tear for the journey that lies ahead of us. 

The quartet followed with another song, and I can say that I thoroughly enjoyed the special music.  Brother Earl's voice brought back so many memories of time spent in church and in other places with all of those people and friends of my youth.  As Pastor Gary prayed, my mind wandered to so much of my youth.  With my eyes closed I could see and remember so much.  I was reminded of carefree days of hanging my head out of the back window of the car, watching the countryside roll by and whiffing the smell of freshly cut weeds and summer dirt.  I could feel the shape of a lightning bug in my curled up hand, and I could see the shape of my father working underneath the hood of a car.  The thoughts rolled through my head quickly, like pages of a book, and I realized how much of my life has involved the people who still live right where they did when I was young.  It was a wonderful church service.  I didn't get much out of the sermon, not because it was a bad one.  I just got way more out of sitting in that pew in the presence of others.  It's always good to go home.    

These Old Walls

Driving through the countryside on the way to the little cemetery where we buried my uncle we passed by this old store.

Even though it's tucked in the middle of nowhere with just a grain bin and a couple of houses for neighbors, at one time, it was a very busy place. When I was a kid, daddy would sometimes take me there when he stopped in to see his farmer friends and fill up his gas tank. Regular or ethyl? Those stops usually resulted in me savoring a strawberry Crush and a Hostess cherry pie while he played cards with his buddies. If those old walls could speak they would crackle with the voices of farmers chewing the fat and solving the world's problems over lunches of ring bologna, crackers and ice cold Pepsis drawn from the chest cooler that hummed in the corner. They would spill the secrets of country wives picking up sugar and gossip and the bark of the neighborhood dog who reigned over the long gone porch. If I close my eyes and listen hard enough, I can hear the ding of the gas pump bell and the slam of the rusty screen door. And I can taste the stickiness of that cherry pie on my fingers and the tingle of that liquid strawberry as it slides down my throat.

I Just Drove By

Why is it we want certain things connected to our childhood to stay the same? Is it comforting for some things to be immune to change, to remind us of that wonderful time of life when most of us had fewer worries and challenges? As I drove to my uncle's funeral in my old hometown yesterday I drove past my grandparent's old house. I had not done that in a long time, and I felt like wading through memories a little.


For the last twenty or so years of their lives, grandma and grandpa lived in town, having moved from the family farm for their senior years. When grandpa passed away, grandma stayed there until her health forced her into a nursing home for the last months of her life. Her house was a small green structure with a wide front porch flanked by matching hydrangea bushes. It sat on a quiet street, populated mostly by widows who tended to their flower beds and kept their yards neat. It was nice, the badge of people who were not wealthy but were proud for carving out an honest living in between the Great Depression, a World War and Watergate.

When I was a child we were usually there at least once a week while Daddy mowed grandma's yard or helped around the house. I played up and down that street, bouncing between the nearby tennis courts and the alley that ran behind her house. There were a couple of kids who lived on that street and grandchildren who visited their grandparents, too. We played in backyards, chatted over fences and made playhouses out of carport sheds. It was a time when kids could play out of the sight of their parents for hours on end without the fear of abduction or the distraction of computer games. Occasionally, the ice cream truck came by and brightened our day. I have fond memories of time spent on that street. It was an enchanting place for a little girl who grew up out in the sticks with few neighbors and nary a Wal-Mart in sight.

As I turned down the street yesterday, I slowed to a stop and took a minute to absorb what has happened on 9th Street in the last decade or so. Now, I know nothing ever seems as big or grand as it did when you were a kid, but things really have changed there. It seemed so different. Run down even. Some of the homes are in disrepair, including grandma's. The beautiful hydrangeas are gone, the yard was a mismash of broken toys, and the neat little white house that used to sit across the street was gone. It seemed dirtier. The pretty brick home that used to seem so fancy when I played there with my friend K. now seems small and common. Gone is the old grocery store with the big screen door just up the block where us kids trudged up the hill with penny change in our hands to buy small pieces of candy. Time has changed the street so close to my heart, and that heart got heavier and heavier as I eased up the street.

Later at the funeral, my mind drifted briefly back to the other changes that have occurred in that small town of 6,500 people since I moved away 25 years ago. Storefronts have changed, the full service gas stations have moved aside for self service convenience stores and familiar buildings have disappeared.

On the twenty mile drive to the cemetery, the town gave way to trees and pastures as we rolled through the countryside. I saw parts of the area I haven't seen in a while but remembered as the miles ticked by. The stomping ground of my youth. My uncle was buried in a small rural cemetery that sits close to a nature preserve, the same cemetery where my other uncle was buried just a couple of weeks ago. It was a beautiful October day, the kind of day when the sky is sparkling blue with wispy clouds and the foliage is the prettiest colors in the crayon box. The weather was fitting I thought, for a man who loved the outdoors and the farmland of his southern Illinois upbringing. Perfect even. And as we drove along, every car in the oncoming lane pulled to the side, out of respect for a sweet, gentle man they didn't know but honored because it was what they were taught to do. A good old fashioned tradition that you don't often see anymore. And when I say every car pulled to the side of the road, I mean literally, every car along the thirty minute drive. Some turned on their headlights.

As we turned onto the narrow dead end road that leads to the cemetery, cheerily named Sunflower Lane, John Denver came on the radio and Back Home Again serenaded me. I smiled at the irony of that moment. When I hopped out of the car I automatically hit the door locks and then almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous need to lock a door anywhere within fifteen miles of that place. My uncle was buried with military rites since he was a World War II veteran. With the sharp crack of the rifles and the words, "A grateful nation", the soldiers honored him with their words and prayers as they gently laid the American flag in my aunt's weary hands. Most of the gentlemen were elderly, performing their duty at the funeral very seriously but very gently. Not a sound was heard while the commander spoke, except for a lone cough from the crowd, and I couldn't help but be grateful for those men who, on any given day, take time out of their lives to honor one of their own in front of grieving families. It seemed such an old fashioned and honorable thing to do. And it occurred to me on the drive home that while the buildings and streets of my childhood have changed, the people haven't. They are still hard working, common folks who hold onto traditions and rituals that are dear to them, and they care deeply for those they love. My uncle died peacefully at home because his wife and daughters worked very hard to take care of him there during his last days. Some things change on the outside, but the things that count the most don't, and for that I'm grateful. This is the stock from which I hail, and for that I'm proud.

Going Home

I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on our trip to Europe and what I learned from that adventure. Plenty I would say. Since I’ve come home I’ve tried to expand on all that wonderful French and British history I soaked up across the pond. I realized I have so much to learn! There isn’t enough time to squeeze it all in. I can be on the phone on hold and will Google something I saw on the trip and read more about it. I can’t get enough. The Tower of London, Hotel de Ville, Moliere, Napoleon, Marie Antoinette…and the list goes on and on. Fascinating. My high school history teacher would be so proud. Finally.


But that trip taught me a lot about myself. Travel does that. It helps you to find your strengths (boldness) and your weaknesses (foreign language) and shows you how self sufficient and resourceful you can be. It was one of the big reasons I wanted Teen Angel to take this trip. I wanted her to see just how capable she is. She is a quick thinker and can adapt as circumstances dictate. I like that. And I think she began to understand that just a few days into the trip. I was rather proud of the way she handled herself on the trip.

The most important thing I learned about myself though, was that I like home. Don’t get me wrong. I love traveling, and I can’t wait for the day I’ve saved enough money for a tour of Italy (I’m looking at you 2015). I definitely think I could be the backpack across Europe type of gal. I don’t need much clothing or fancy hotel rooms, and I could go for days with a Eur-Rail pass and good shoes, but it did feel good to get back home.

Home. Where iced tea comes in bucket sized glasses and I can drive anywhere I want to go. Where biscuits and jelly come with a chicken dinner and people speak to strangers like they’re old friends. But most of all, it’s where my family is.

All my life I’ve lived in the same basic area. I bounced across the Ohio River after college, but aside from college, I have always lived within thirty minutes of my parents, brothers and various assorted relatives. When I first graduated from college, I had dreams of moving to another city, but my career started here, and stayed here. Over the years, I had job offers in Nashville, Cincinnati, Louisville and Memphis, but by then I was married and had made a deal with Hubby that we would stay here to take care of his parents when they got old. Sometimes, I felt a tug of regret when I turned down those jobs, but over the years I’ve come to realize that was a blessing. I ended up in a great job where my stress level is much lower than it used to be, I’ve stayed close to many family members and Teen Angel got to have a close relationship with all four of her grandparents.

She never had to go to daycare. When she was little she spent her days at Mama J.’s and Papa T.’s and really felt like that was her second home. When Mama J. passed away, I was glad Teen Angel had gotten to enjoy her grandmother so much over the years. It certainly made up for any bumps I had along the way by living next door to my mother in law.

I realized today that I was fortunate to live so close to my many cousins, aunts and uncles. I said goodbye this afternoon to one of my favorite uncles who was not expected to live through the rest of the day. For years, he and his family lived near Chicago, but they moved back home after retirement, and I’ve been able to see them regularly for years now. I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but I have many favorites, and he’s one of them. Such a nice, sweet man with a patient loving heart and a quick wit. I love him dearly, and his death is a bit sudden. It comes during a rough month for us, and frankly, I’m tired of burying people.

As I drove away from the hospital, I thought about the cousins I have who live away from here and how that distance limited the time they could spend with certain family members, including my grandparents, and how they have fewer memories of those folks. I am lucky. I was here to see my grandpa tend to his strawberries. To watch grandma make biscuits and tend to her flowers and to have my granny at my college graduation.  I was here to laugh and joke with Uncle P. at family dinners.  My life is richer for those experiences, and I am glad for that. For me, home truly is where the heart is, and it feels good to be home. I can’t wait for future travels and adventures abroad, but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else but here.

If Heaven Had A Window

November 9, 2009

I slide into the driver’s seat and crank the ignition, leaving right on time for a change. I don’t want to be late today. It’s the day we will lay to rest a cousin who died too soon and without his freedom. Freedom lost several years ago to the lure of drug money. I’m not looking forward to another funeral on the heels of Sissy’s death. The memories of that loss still burning so hotly into my heart and the sympathy I feel for my aunt and uncle’s new burden of loss puts me in a funky mood. Funky and sentimental, but surprisingly, not terribly sad. I take a deep breath and start the task that looms ahead.

The drive gives me the rare opportunity to travel about forty five minutes through the countryside where I grew up. My path takes me through my hometown and into the back roads of southern Illinois. The roads of my youth. The roads that meander through farms and woods, past small communities that have more dogs than people. Towns whose names spring from the bible. Where the only travelers are the folks who live there. This is the land that sired my parents and grandparents. It is the land that sustains me and from which I draw my strength.

I don’t get in a hurry. A funeral day from work is a little like a snow day. It’s a legitimate reason for a break in the normal routine, a free pass for pushing deadlines aside. There is no need to rush, and it’s an opportunity to savor the season which is unusually warm and still dotted with the shades of brilliant autumn. Within fifteen minutes of leaving work, I am on a two lane highway headed north, with the window rolled down and the smell of leaves tickling my nose. It is a pretty day, a fitting day to bury someone who loved the outdoors. I drive with the comfort of knowing that despite all of the craziness in this world, not much changes around home. In fact, any changes that do occur happen so slowly you are taken by surprise when you finally realize something is different.

In my hometown of 7,500 people, the sign in front of the auto parts place notes the recent loss of the owner. The tavern at the edge of town bears the same name it has for years, and a police car cruises the main drag looking for an occasional speeder. The two lane pulls me into the countryside where the hum under my wheels seems as familiar as the houses along the road. My mind clicks off the houses where my school bus used to stop twice a day and spots the place where my childhood friend once fell from a horse. The songs on my iPod seem hand picked for the trip, even though it is randomly shuffling along, and when it shuffles into Neil Young’s Beautiful Bluebird, I can’t help but smile because it seems so fitting for the moment.

Two verses later, I pass the old feed store where daddy spent many an hour swapping lies and cards. It used to come alive at lunchtime with farmers savoring ring bologna sandwiches and sweaty cold Coca-colas, but today it sits empty, finally closed for good. A spray painted sign on the porch advertises an upcoming indoor yard sale, and I am offended by its intrusion on a sacred memory. I keep driving, looking for familiar landmarks. I am now deep into the country.

My entrance into the tiny town that hosts my large family today makes me smile at its familiarity. White clapboard houses that have looked the same since I was a child line the main drag, interrupted only by a diner, the Methodist church and the barber shop where my brother got his first haircut. I still remember watching snips of his hair fall into the floor under the watchful eye of a man who had long lost count of the young victms of his overzealous shears. Next door, I look for the doors that once housed the pool hall where daddy got an education in everything grandma didn’t want him to know, and I am pleased that the screen doors are still there, even if they are hanging on by a thread.

I am almost to the funeral home, but I’m not ready for the drive to end, and the clock tells me time is on my side, so I make a right turn onto a road I’ve never traveled. It takes me past an old box factory that stands shakily on its foundation, covered in vines and unrecognizable growth. The old railroad depot is just across the street. The windows are broken, and the roof is falling in. It hasn’t been used in years, and I know it will remain untouched until it’s gone, because like the farm store, some things around here are just sacred and are allowed to disappear on their own schedule out of respect for the role they once held in this community. I make a note to take a picture of it on my way back. I’m in wetlands territory now, where the ducks and geese will stop on their way south, where standing water sometimes creeps over the road, and rushing water sometimes takes you by surprise. I stop in the middle of the road to savor the old railroad bridge and yield to the urge to preserve the moment.

As I stand under the canopy of trees in the middle of the road, there is no traffic to worry about, only the sounds of water and birds. My head is a kaleidoscope of childhood memories, some of which include the family that is gathered in the funeral home a couple of miles away. I let the memories wash over me until I feel clean. Renewed and ready to move on. I climb in the car and head toward the funeral home, softly singing a chorus.

Beautiful bluebird

See how she flies

Looks like she's always goin' home

If heaven had a window

Where the sun came shinin' through

Like a beautiful bluebird

I'd come flyin' back to you

Parking in the grassy lot a few minutes later, I see many cousins, aunts and uncles who have traveled these same roads. I reach for the door handle but pause to think about what the people gathered there mean to me. What this area means to me. I say a quick prayer of thanks for my sturdy roots.

It is the land of my youth. It sustains me and gives me strength, and for that, I am grateful.

Homecoming

Good news! Sissy is moving home. After years of living hours away from us, she is moving up the street from us, and we couldn’t be happier. She signed a contract on a house this weekend and is making arrangements for getting her stuff moved here. We’re so glad she’s coming home. I’m especially glad because it means I get a sister.

I grew up with two brothers whom I love dearly, and that was fine by me. I wouldn’t have appreciated a sister when I was a kid. I didn’t have to fight with anyone over clothes or shoes or boys. I didn’t have to share a bedroom either. I didn’t want a sister until I was grown, so Sissy is the sister I never had in childhood. She and I are a lot alike. We are the same age and like the same stuff. Whenever I buy her Christmas present, I just pick something I would like, and I know it will be fine. We share the same taste in clothes and politics. She hates Rush, and so do I (sorry Janjanmom-I know that stings, but it’s the truth.) We like the same music and have similar tastes in food. As Forrest Gump says we’re like peas and carrots. You also never know what you’re going to get with us, too. When we’re together, the potential for mischief is pretty high.

Yes, this is gonna be fun. I won’t have to beg Hubby to go to Broadway shows at the local performing arts center anymore. Sissy loves the theater. I won’t be the only one ordering something funky off the menu when we eat out, and I’ll have someone else on my team when we start debating health care, education and global warming. Most of all, I’m just glad she’s coming home to stay. They say home is where the heart is, and our hearts are anxious for her to settle in.