I enjoyed seeing my relatives from that part of the country again. Many of them now reside elsewhere, but I still associate them with that place, where I most often saw them. Pleasant as it was, the experience was still unsettling in a way.
I'm really not that close to most of my family, even my father and sisters. I'm not "estranged" either--but with a few exceptions, I have not managed my relationships well. And those exceptions may well exist in my mind only. Gathering for the funeral and the meal afterward, though, I felt drawn strongly to my aunt, uncles, and cousins, probably from remembrance of the larger, more regular role they had in my life, albeit many years ago. They certainly didn't act as if they'd grown estranged from me. I wondered what my life would be like if I had remained closer to them.
After the post-funeral lunch, I went with some of them for a drive out to the farm where my dad grew up and to the churchyard nearby where many of his forbears are laid. My main reason for going along was to show Kristine the place, as she'd never been there, but the outing made me think of a deeper sense of connectedness.
At the churchyard, my father and my aunt told stories about some of the family members buried there, and I learned some new tidbits of family history. He mentioned that a home next to the church that now houses a preschool was where my grandfather and grandmother lived when they first married. One of my dad's cousins lived on a hill overlooking the site that is now her grave. Her husband settled down below first, and for years afterward she walked down to visit his grave each day. An adjacent field where two horses grazed was once pasture to my grandfather's cattle. Every year, my dad's family would cut a cedar from the hill across from the churchyard for their Christmas tree. Of course, there were many recollection of farm work, of neighbors, of memorable quirks in the people now six feet beneath us.
Listening to all this, I began wondering what it would be like to would be like to be rooted in a place that way, to live and die in a small, somewhat isolated area like that, and to know of generations before who had done the same. As a student of environmental thought and writing, I run into those notions a lot, and I will admit to more than a little sentimental attraction towards them. My fantasies about my future focus mostly on realizing that life to the degree I can; on living closely--in body, mind, and spirit--to some place I care about. Dwelling there, in the sense described by the philosopher Heidegger. Such ideas seemed more concrete and realistic there today than they usually do. Made me wonder if there's such a thing as genetic memory, giving me a somatic attraction to the ground where we stood. Maybe the family stories simply gave those ideas a depth they ususally lack. Whatever the reason, at least I can say I come by my desires for that life honestly. Go far enough back and we all could, of course.
The countryside around there did a lot to stoke these thoughts. Hills small and large, mostly well wooded, interspersed with pastures and crop fields. Narrow winding roads, many old farmsteads and a few newer homes, but no subdvisions. Knobs of sandstone scattered about. Swift flowing if muddy rivers, cutting deep gorges in a few spots. Seeing those things made the side trip worthwhile. Driving home, though, I thought less about the scenery than about the different shapes my life might have taken, maybe better and maybe not.
Of course, none of those rivers in the ancestral stomping grounds contain trout, more or less ruling out my settling there. If things go well, I will get somewhere for part of this next week where they are in abundance.
No comments:
Post a Comment