Deep Peace

Saturday, Oct. 11, 2003 - 7:22 a.m.

I woke up at around four in the morning on Friday. I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies to bring with me. It was a clear day, with a breeze blowing from the northwest. John and I dressed in our best black, and we left San Francisco at around a quarter of nine, expecting to be in Yuba City by elevenish.

Naturally, the gods had other ideas.

We headed out, across the Golden Gate Bridge, intending to take 101 to 37, across the top of the bay and on over to 80.

At nine o clock sharp, about ten miles north of home, we hit the backup caused by a gravel truck spill.

We were in the backup until around ten fifteen. Then John announced "I have to -go-", and pulled off and found a Chevron. He gave me fifty cents and I called my sister-in-law collect to let her know that there'd been a traffic delay, and to please have the reverend wait until we got there, because we wouldn't be more than about fifteen minutes late, and that we'd simply meet them at the cemetery instead of driving over with them.

The backup was taken care of by the time we were on the road again, and from there, no problems presented themselves, trafficwise. However, once we got over into the central valley, the wind became mercilessly strong; the heat wasn't that hot -- only in the 70s -- but the wind turned the entire drive into a convection oven. We could smell the harvested hay and grasses; it's always been a smell that reminds me of bread baking, due to the seeds parching in the sunshine. There were also several sizeable dust storms from the recently harvested fields. The fallow fields that had weeds in them were more stable and less dusty.

While we were on 505, we did bend the speeding law a little. But that's the only place we dared to do that, because the roads between Sacramento and Chico are famous speed traps. Knights Landing has a speed limit of 25 miles per hour through town, and They Really Mean It.

We did eventually get to Yuba City, and suddenly everything became familiar to me. I still become hopelessly confused in San Francisco even after twelve years of residency -- but the roads in the town where I grew up are imprinted on my memory like a family crest on a drop of sealing wax.

I remembered a shortcut out to the cemetery, and we were only about five minutes late. And at last, among the harvested fields, like an oasis, the green and tranquil grounds of Sutter Cemetery came into view. Here was my mother's family. My grandfather arrived here first, back in 1981 at the age of 73. Uncle Marvin and Aunt Mary were next, followed by Uncle Joe in 2002, and finally, my gran, who was placed next to her husband.

To my burgeoning disgust, the reverend had already begun speaking. I was told later by my sister-in-law that my brother had beseeched him to wait; and that the reverend seemed put out at the thought. But then she added that he was just 'gassing', aka saying nothing of particular interest before we arrived. :)

We were handed the memorial booklet, and we took our seats. Shelley moved over, put Heather in her lap, and two adjacent seats in the front row were left; I had the comforting privelege of sitting between my brother Jon, and my husband John. I didn't notice which family members were also in the seats until after the service.

After a blessedly brief time, the reverend opened the floor to anybody who wished to speak, and we heard our family and friends share their memories of her. After everybody else had an opportunity to say something if they wanted to, my brother Jon and I stood up, faced the assemblage, and each recited a verse of the following poem, attributed to Robert Hepburn:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry --
I am not there. I did not die.

I looked at the people there, and zeroed in on the very welcome and calming and loving gaze of people I hadn't seen in twenty years.

Then the reverend gave his concluding remarks, and we all stood up, and I went around visiting with everybody. Luis was there and introduced me to his wife. I held his hand while we spoke, and we both agreed that this day was beautiful, but still so surreal. I gave him the advice I received from Jon and Shelley, namely, the next time he could make a moment, to come on over, and sit in Gran's chair for a few minutes and look at the room from there. I saw a passel of cousins from my grandfather's side, including Charles, who looks almost exactly like my grandfather, and cousin Bobby, whom I absolutely could not resist approaching for a hug. He was stunned to find that I remembered him, and also stunned to find out I had a crush on him when I was six and he was seventeen. "Bob," I asked, "Were you born in 1954 or 1955?" I asked this because I knew he had a January birthday like my husband. "'54," he replied. "What day in January, hon?" I asked. And he told me. Get this: He's ten days older than my husband. So I guess it's true what they say about certain patterns getting set at an early age.:)

I also managed to antagonize cousin Anne by calling her by her mother's name. I *knew* exactly who she was, but when I opened my mouth, the wrong name came tumbling out. I'm guessing by the look on her face that at that moment, she wished for a rolled up newspaper so she could swat me across the nose, but fortunately for me, there were none to be found.

But I think my greatest surprise and joy was found at seeing my father's younger sister there. For this reason and that, I never seem to get to spend as much time as I want to with Aunt Marcia; she's always been one of my cornerstones; dependable and kind, and just -there-. And gods be praised she's got my father's sense of humor. I was glad she was there to represent his branch of the family.

Jon and I invited everybody over to what used to be Gran's house, where Shelley had prepared a luncheon for everybody who wanted to eat and continue their visiting. Aunt Marcia -- and Ken Cole, who used to be our next door neighbor Way Back When -- made it over, but somehow the rest of the family forgot how to get there.

When we got to Gran's house, and I stepped inside, I realized that this house was still alive. There was so much evidence of life, past and present; the kids were playing, their cats were padding around, and in general, the atmosphere was as vital and as loving as it had ever been when Gran was still living. Jon and Shelley's presence there is a testament to my grandmother's existence, especially Shelley, who by cooking so much excellent food memorialized Gran in what may have been the best way -- namely making sure nobody left the house without a meal that day.

Jon showed me a box of items that Gran had kept through the years; she had a report card from her grade school; she had her high school diploma which she earned in 1953; birthday cards to her daughter from Great Grandma Taylor; my grandfather's draft notice, and there were several photographs in the box; we recognized one of them as Uncle Joe when he was in the service during World War II, and we -think- one of them was my Gran's sister, Aunt Roberta -- but at that moment, Jon and I looked up at each other with the same thought -- there was probably nobody left in California who could tell us for sure. There was also a stack of letters from Uncle Joe to his sis which had come from him while he was in the service. He was the other family member who was eager to document his life and times -- a fact for which I am so very grateful now.

The afternoon passed, in loving fellowship. Aunt Marcia stayed until three in the afternoon. I also got to meet and spend time with Shelley's sister Belinda, and Belinda's husband Steve. They're both kind and gracious, and Belinda had helped her sister with the lion's share of that day's work. Shelley wouldn't allow me to lift a finger in the kitchen -- but, again, this seems to have been her way of doing things the way Gran would have wanted it. By shooing me out of the kitchen, it did in fact give me more time to visit with my brother and my aunt.

The neighbors from across the street, Buddy and Jan, came over and visited. Buddy had been in Viet Nam, and when he found out about the letters from Uncle Joe, he said we needed to document them and contact Stars And Stripes. So that's what I'm going to do.:) Buddy also has the hobby of acquiring knowledge about local history and he's very aware of the significant and unique history of the Yuba Sutter area. One of the last things he did for us was bring us a photocopy of Gran's obituary, which I greatly appreciated.

Finally, the visit wound down. And that is when we discovered that we'd forgotten to turn off our headlights after the drive from the cemetery, and that the car's battery was as flat as a pancake. Steve and Jon and John monkeyed around with jumper cables and got our car started for us, though.

We drove away waving and smiling.

The winds had died down, and so the overwhelming scent was not just dirt. We could smell the fields, and when we passed any land that had recently been watered, the exquisite scent that John simply calls 'meadow' drifted into the car.

Our drive home was much less eventful than the drive there had been. The sunset was spectacular, with the darkening blue sky full of pink and purple and peach cirrus clouds. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the Full Blood Moon, yellow and huge and heavy and close to the horizon, as it was rising -- a lovely end to a lovely day.

When the day had started, I didn't know how I was going to get through it. I did bring special things with me, though; Cheri's tissues, and Paul's E necklace and his son's rock, and pictures of my friends -- and one more thing that I thought had been lost over a decade ago, which was the last time I saw it: When I called things off with Scott Hysmith, he sent me a package with some items in it that he was returning, or no longer wished to have. One of those items was an onyx ring that I had purchased for him. I had not asked for it back, but it was one of the things he sent to me. I was looking for something else in one of the jewelry boxes in my altar -- a brooch that my grandmother had worn to my mother's wedding, which I did find and bring with me -- and I found that ring. So, with my husband's consent, I put it on yesterday, on my right hand middle finger, adjacent to the claddagh ring I wear for Jamie.

We got home, and were grateful for the comfort of our reclining chairs, and the television, and the pizza delivery later, and the reflection on the day's events.

It was a good day.

Deep peace of the running wave to you, Gran.

---

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