Hello and welcome to a super hot Saturday here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is July 17th.
This weekend, I'm writing from a cozy little A-frame at The Woods, just south of Merrifield and about five miles north of Brainerd, Minnesota. A fun fact about me is that my parents are from this area. I, myself, attended Nisswa Elementary School and 6th grade at Washington Middle School in Brainerd before moving to Duluth where I finished junior and senior high school. (Go, Greyhounds!)
My parents grew up in the time of mom-and-pop resorts. Flipping through photo albums of their childhoods, the setting behind those smiling faces of family anglers holding up strings of fish is either a lake or a pink cabin. Sometimes both. The nostalgia warms me as I imagine happy times from my parents' childhood and as I think of happy times from my own. Basically, this is a special place.
Whenever I come to town, I usually stay close to the HWY 371 north-south vein, but on this trip, it's all County Road 3, the north-south stretch on the other side of my well-known chain of lakes, between the popular Breezy Point (my grandmother cleaned and waitressed there in her youth) and Brainerd. This road is less familiar to me, but, oh, how the memories came anyway.
Dropping my friend off for a poet's gathering at Horseshoe Lake Friday morning, I spotted a sign pointing to Crosslake, just five miles up the road. Crosslake is where my father is buried. It occurred to me that I had not been to his grave since Spring 2017.
Four years ago.
Had it really been that long?
In four years, we'd acquired two fully-licensed drivers and one permit-carrying teen. One high school graduate, with another rising senior on the way. Puberty for all! The littles became old enough to attend school. I grew a business. At least one annual trek to the lone family cabin, but no time to hop over to Crosslake for a little visit. So much living in such a short time.
Driving back from Horseshoe Lake to the A-frame, I spotted Dobbins Road. This is where my uncle lived. The one who passed away in January. He'd devoted a life time of lakehome maintenance for his family, only to retreat to a little home in the quiet woods of Merrifield upon retirement.
On my way to Brainerd for a business lunch, I passed Memorial Gardens cemetery, and recalled this is the place where another relative who passed away just a few months ago is buried.
When I had lunch with my mother, today, I shared these realizations with her. We jokingly referred to County Road 3 as "Death Row."
Death is something I think we've all experienced more of in this past year. I, personally, am not good with death. I don't want to think about dying and I've yet to reach any sense of peace on the subject that "when it's my time, it's my time." No thank you. I will fight death tooth and nail because I have people I'm responsible for and plenty to do yet with this earthly body.
And it's precisely because of my discomfort with death that I knew I had to go visit my father and stepmother. As I age, I know that death is imminent. Intellectually, I know that death isn't just for the aged.
And so today, when I dropped my friend off for the second day of her poetry gathering, I went the five extra miles north to Crosslake to see my dad.
Hi, Dad, I thought as soon as I spotted his tombstone. The Pinewood Cemetery was so tiny, I didn't even have to look. It was right there, the second tombstone in from the road and on the left.
What does one do at a cemetery when visiting loved ones? The night before, I'd imagined lying prone on the ground. I thought I might sit awhile and write. Was it weird to write in a cemetery? Too much like the movies, maybe?
I admired the plastic flowers and the love tokens left by others: two toy cars for him, a kitty with wings statue for her. Some tears started to brim. Of course. They'd already started the day before. With two teen sons growing up so fast and wanting to learn all things cars (my dad loved and knew all things cars), I've been thinking about my dad a lot in the past few weeks - memories which had no doubt primed the pump for the waterworks.
And then my phone rang. It was a client that I'd just spent the past week working with on a booklet. A project that both of us were so very proud of. I answered.
Is it weird to answer a phone call in a cemetery?
She and I spoke for over an hour. And while we spoke, I walked through the shaded sections of the cemetery. I sat on a bench. I noticed a tombstone of a woman who died exactly one year ago today and felt drawn to rest my hand on her tombstone and hold her space for a thought or two. I didn't know you, but I am here, today, to remember you.
I walked back to my own father's tombstone and sat down, rested my back against it. I draped my arm across the black marble, like my dad used to do when I'd snuggle up alongside him on the couch.
Hi, Dad.
I stayed in that cemetery for almost ninety minutes. When I hung up, I noticed my angst and sadness had given way to a satiated sense of calm.
How long would I have stayed had I not taken the call? Five minutes? How much would I have cried? How would I have felt upon leaving?
The gift of the phone call was time.
I'm not good with things involving dying and death. But today I took one small step and learned this: take the time. Grab that discomfort and go sit with your loved ones anyway.
On This Day
Remembering You
Kim
Death is the ultimate grounding
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