As I was driving to the family reunion it crossed my mind, ‘They’re gonna ask me to say grace.’ That put a kink in my stomach.
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There Is A Book Of Names
When I was a young boy we lived in the little red house, on what our family thinks of as the ole home place…and one year there was a fuss, the grass had to be cut just right, the fence painted, and on the Saturday before Labor Day they began to arrive…
It was our first family reunion. I am named after the patriarch, and his home still stood, just a little east of our house, and here they came, all his children, my grandfather’s generation, and their children, my father’s generation, and us, all the kids…and there were many…
…and yes, there was a book, and everybody signed it, name and age. My grandmother was 66, my grandfather was 74. My father was 44 and still had hair.
Every year, another family reunion, new pages, people getting older; being young I didn’t notice all the deaths, until it hit close.
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They’re There…And Then They’re Not
My grandfather fell off first. He never signed his own name. My grandmother, who went all-the-way to the sixth grade, signed for him… and then there’s that page, when it’s just her…
Time passed, and all of my grandparent’s generation exited life, for the Great Waiting. It was time for my father’s generation to age, and age they did. They’d be there, sitting because the joints hurt, gray because our family just takes age as it comes, and they’d talk about their childhood Sundays, everybody gathering at the ole home place, men on the porch and the women in the kitchen, spooning out sweet potato to children to keep them hushed.
As my father’s generation began to die off it took fewer pages for everyone to sign in at our reunions. The book was aging, and so was I. Years ago the book was History, and then it became Sentimental, but a few years ago something switched inside me, and the book became BitterSweet.
I’d always start at the first page, and then skip through the years, watching as names dropped off… Last year I paid attention to the signature of my grandmother. There, there again, still there…and then no entry.
Last year Aunt Vivian did more sitting than standing. Last thing she said to me was, “This getting old stuff is no fun.” Last year Dad and I left the reunion and went to the family cemetery. His quote, “I feel good, but you never know what lil t’ing is growing inside you.”
Within a month, both Aunt Vivian and my father were diagnosed with cancer. She left before Christmas; Dad made it to early January.
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And Now It’s This Year’s Reunion And Dad No More
I went. That’s how our family does stuff. We just go on and get it over with. We have faith in that approach; over and over again the Big Bad Wolf is only big in the dreading, rarely the facing.
Sure ‘nough, they asked me to say grace. That was Dad’s job, from age 44 to age 84…and they were looking to me… When we were on the death watch, one of Dad’s old friends looked at me over the hospital bed and told me I’d have to fill his shoes; o yeah, like I’m qualified! I spoke at Dad’s funeral, before hundreds of people, and now here, with maybe twenty people, I couldn’t say a word. I passed the honor to someone else.
This reunion was mostly my generation. We don’t descend from wealth or status. Our starting point is a simple farmer, and his wife. Poll any of us and you’ll find that we grade ourselves not on our peers, but on our ancestors. We’re here because there is a great comfort in being in a room with people who share your values, especially the rare and sacred ones.
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This Time Last Year He Thought He Was Just Old
There’s Dad’s signature, in his messy, left-handed scratch. There is great power in seeing his name, in his handwriting. In this name is Consistency, Commitment, and Character the like I would not believe existed, had I not been a witness.
He didn’t know he was dying when he signed last year.
There is power in his name. Were Dad reading this I know what he’d do: he’d point a finger Up and say, “The power is in His name.”
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Go On
After the family reunion we went by the cemetery. Dad has his name there too. There’s a vapor about doing These Things after we’ve lost the reasons for doing These Things. Just as Dad is there, but not there, so am I. O, to be elsewhere, but where else?
His mother, my Maw-Maw, is buried just down the row from him. O the times she said to me, “Cher enfant,” dear child. She of so few words, what would she say to me now, except “Allez!” Go on! Just go on.
…and by Go On she didn’t mean go on pretty, or go on triumphant, just go on, in faith, in toughness, like she did, all that matters is that we Go On, and give God a chance to reveal that his eye really is on the sparrow…
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where we think the writer is hoping that he gets asked again, next year, to say grace…
Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories are posted on Eighty-one’s Facebook page. He can be reached at 81creativity@gmail.com.
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