RETURNING HOME

Thursday

ursdayToday was the reason for my trip:  to deliver Mother to her burial place in Salem, Oregon next to my father.

The minister called me on Monday, while I was driving along the Columbia River, to review final details for her graveside service.  I told him about Mother growing up in his church (First Methodist Church of Salem), and about how her father was very active in the church.  “I’m sure there’s still a file here at the church with your grandfather’s name on it,” he said.  It was then I realized my grandfather’s letters which are currently stored in my garage probably contain details of church business back in the early 1900s.  I offered to forward the information to him after I complete her part of the family history.

We talked about how her young faith was nurtured in his church and how she had been a liberal, active Methodist her entire life.  In her later years, Mother said to me on several occasions, “Don’t put in my obituary and don’t say at my memorial service that I went home to be with Jesus.”  I took care of the obituary and during my conversation with the minister I relayed her wishes to him.  “Her idea of God and Jesus was just way broader than that,” I said.

This morning, before we left for the hour-long drive to Salem, we ordered flowers for her – a mixed spring bouquet with pink gerbera daisies, gladiolas, blue larkspur-like flowers and a single yellow sunflower.  The basket of flowers is beautiful when we pick it up.  Mother would love it.

When we get to the cemetery, we wonder if we can find the exact spot of our father’s grave.  We didn’t need to worry.  A sign is posted on the roadway directing us to the site. A canvas cover is in place to provide shade or rain protection for us.  Twelve chairs, covered in green velvet, are arranged in two rows.  A low platform is in place for her flowers and the cherry box containing her ashes.

After we verify everything is in order, we still have an hour before we meet the minister.  We drive to a nearby Starbucks and toast Mother with our mocha frappuccinos and lime coolers at an outside table. Her life was long and well-lived and worthy of our toasting.

When we return to the cemetery we still have some extra time so we search for other family graves nearby and take photos of all the markers, just for the record.  I probably took all the same photos two years ago, but I did it again, just in case I missed one.

We greet the pastor when he arrives and immediately feel comfortable with him.  We share a few stories with him while other relatives gather:  our cousin Jim and his wife Donna and our second cousin Phil and his wife Sharon.  My brothers have not seen Phil in at least fifty years so it is fun getting reacquainted.  Mother and I visited them on our last trip to Salem two years ago.  From our laughing and talking, the pastor knows this is a celebration of Mother’s life, just as I had told him on Monday.

The service is simple:  scripture and then a prayer.  The pastor offers us the opportunity to share stories about Mother and we do, laughing and remembering and realizing our opportunity to ask more questions of Mother has passed.  The pastor concluded with more scripture.  Then we circled around her ashes and flowers, holding hands, while he blessed the end of her life and her return to this place of her roots.

Then it was over.

We visited for another half hour, sharing more stories and taking photos. Phil and Sharon left for another commitment and the rest of us shared a meal at a local to commemorate the occasion.  We needed to linger a bit more.

The next day, on Friday, I heard my brother tell someone on the phone that we buried Mother yesterday.  I don’t disagree with what he said – it is the absolute truth – but his words stopped me.  My head knows very well her ashes will be placed in the ground; her date of death is already on the marker.  I know all of this.  Just before she died on May 21, 2012 I promised her one more road trip to Oregon. I have returned her to her birthplace in St. Paul, have visited with her cousins, visited with her longtime friends in Walla Walla where she lived for almost 50 years, traveled through Portland where she worked as a young woman, stopped at every view point on her beloved Oregon Coast, and finally brought her to Salem.  We travelled these last 3900 miles, together, on the very familiar highways and byways, delivering many of her belongings along the way. 

I didn’t cry at her graveside.  Perhaps it’s because I know she is not there.  Her ashes are just a reminder of her well-lived life, her impact on people we barely know about, the young children she taught, and the children she raised.  On the way home that night we reminded ourselves that all of her children and our children (her grandchildren) are doing well.  We all turned out great – because of her mothering and Dad’s fathering.  Their parenting legacy continues in the grandchildren and great-grandchildren and I suspect even beyond that.

She is on her own journey now, a journey of which I do not know the days, or the hours, or the happenings.  My role with her is finished, except for the piecing together of the family archives in my garage.  I kept a few small keepsakes of her for myself, though I don’t need to hold on to her things or to her, just as she didn’t hold on to us as we grew and matured and moved away. She cut the apron strings but our family ties remained strong. 

We didn’t bury her on Thursday.  We marked the divergence of our paths.

ursday