slowed to a stop on the far side of the cemetery. After a
moment, Phyllis Ross emerged. I waved, but she did not see me. She
pulled a spade and a colorful arrangement of wildflowers out of the trunk of
the car and carried it to a nearby headstone. For the next several
minutes, I watched Phyllis do the meticulous work of planting those flowers by
the grave of her deceased husband PJ. She worked quietly,
effortlessly. After tenderly tamping down the earth around the flowers,
she returned the spade to the trunk of the car and brought back a water pail,
which she filled at a nearby pump. After watering the flowers, she
brushed off her knees, washed her hands, and shook them dry. In front of
the grave with hands clasped together loosely – back bent from the years it
carried and the burdens it bore - she looked down with the warm smile that
she’d been wearing all along. When
she left, I went over to PJ’s headstone.
Beloved Husband and Father
Peter Ross, Jr. “PJ”
1911-1995
Beloved . There it was again. That was the
thing, wasn’t it? Daughter, husband, father, whatever. Year of birth, year of death, the dash in-between.
If you were beloved, then, man, you had done something, hadn’t you? I
thought about Beatrice Hart and her little girl Laura Jane, whose obituary was
folded inside my wallet even now. That little girl who hadn’t lived to
see the age of four had changed me forever. And so had
PJ Ross who had lived to eighty-four. Once
beloved, always beloved.
I had a pen, a notebook, and a vodka tonic. The
paper remained blank until I figured out that what I actually needed was a pen,
a notebook, and two vodka tonics. But it was the third drink that
loosened the lid on my emotions and by the fourth that popped it off. I
tilted my head back in my chair, closed my eyes, and let the vodka remember
what it wanted to remember. Let it feel what it wanted to feel. The
past swirled before me and I began to write. I thought about good old PJ
and jotted down the memories that came. Coaching my
Farm League baseball team when I was six. Greeting
me with a handshake and a warm smile every time he saw me in church.
How he could click a little wink at you and make you feel like he knew you
inside and out and liked you anyway. Its okay, we all make mistakes. I like
you. You’re a good person. I
pictured him bouncing along on his John Deere tractor out in his fields of
corn. Planting in the spring, harvesting in the fall.
I thought of that old tractor sitting in a dark barn, covered with cobwebs and
buried in dust. As unliving as old PJ himself and rightly so.
By my sixth vodka tonic, I had managed to put words to
the slideshow in my head. I carefully folded the letter with sharp even
creases and slid it into an envelope that I did not seal. I couldn’t wait
for morning. I left right then and there and again walked the half-mile
to that dark and lifeless lot. Old Man Moon shined down a little light
for me and I was able to find PJ fairly easily. I stood in front of the
headstone with my hands clasped together in front of me the same way that
Phyllis had earlier that same day. Then I pulled the envelope out of my
back pocket and paper-clipped it to receptive flowery fingers.
I went out to the cemetery every day that week.
Talked to Ethan and Katie, and kept watch on the letter I had left for
Phyllis. By Saturday afternoon it was gone and so Sunday morning I
decided to go to church just to see if Phyllis Ross looked different
somehow. She didn’t. I thought maybe she’d raise her hand during
joys and concerns time and tell the congregation about the letter, but she
didn’t and it saddened me. My joy was all wrapped up in hers.
In the fellowship hall after the service, I was
listening to Albert Todd talk about how the Church Trustees Committee was in
search of a back-up generator so if
you know anybody who has one or wants
moment, Phyllis Ross emerged. I waved, but she did not see me. She
pulled a spade and a colorful arrangement of wildflowers out of the trunk of
the car and carried it to a nearby headstone. For the next several
minutes, I watched Phyllis do the meticulous work of planting those flowers by
the grave of her deceased husband PJ. She worked quietly,
effortlessly. After tenderly tamping down the earth around the flowers,
she returned the spade to the trunk of the car and brought back a water pail,
which she filled at a nearby pump. After watering the flowers, she
brushed off her knees, washed her hands, and shook them dry. In front of
the grave with hands clasped together loosely – back bent from the years it
carried and the burdens it bore - she looked down with the warm smile that
she’d been wearing all along. When
she left, I went over to PJ’s headstone.
Beloved Husband and Father
Peter Ross, Jr. “PJ”
1911-1995
Beloved . There it was again. That was the
thing, wasn’t it? Daughter, husband, father, whatever. Year of birth, year of death, the dash in-between.
If you were beloved, then, man, you had done something, hadn’t you? I
thought about Beatrice Hart and her little girl Laura Jane, whose obituary was
folded inside my wallet even now. That little girl who hadn’t lived to
see the age of four had changed me forever. And so had
PJ Ross who had lived to eighty-four. Once
beloved, always beloved.
I had a pen, a notebook, and a vodka tonic. The
paper remained blank until I figured out that what I actually needed was a pen,
a notebook, and two vodka tonics. But it was the third drink that
loosened the lid on my emotions and by the fourth that popped it off. I
tilted my head back in my chair, closed my eyes, and let the vodka remember
what it wanted to remember. Let it feel what it wanted to feel. The
past swirled before me and I began to write. I thought about good old PJ
and jotted down the memories that came. Coaching my
Farm League baseball team when I was six. Greeting
me with a handshake and a warm smile every time he saw me in church.
How he could click a little wink at you and make you feel like he knew you
inside and out and liked you anyway. Its okay, we all make mistakes. I like
you. You’re a good person. I
pictured him bouncing along on his John Deere tractor out in his fields of
corn. Planting in the spring, harvesting in the fall.
I thought of that old tractor sitting in a dark barn, covered with cobwebs and
buried in dust. As unliving as old PJ himself and rightly so.
By my sixth vodka tonic, I had managed to put words to
the slideshow in my head. I carefully folded the letter with sharp even
creases and slid it into an envelope that I did not seal. I couldn’t wait
for morning. I left right then and there and again walked the half-mile
to that dark and lifeless lot. Old Man Moon shined down a little light
for me and I was able to find PJ fairly easily. I stood in front of the
headstone with my hands clasped together in front of me the same way that
Phyllis had earlier that same day. Then I pulled the envelope out of my
back pocket and paper-clipped it to receptive flowery fingers.
I went out to the cemetery every day that week.
Talked to Ethan and Katie, and kept watch on the letter I had left for
Phyllis. By Saturday afternoon it was gone and so Sunday morning I
decided to go to church just to see if Phyllis Ross looked different
somehow. She didn’t. I thought maybe she’d raise her hand during
joys and concerns time and tell the congregation about the letter, but she
didn’t and it saddened me. My joy was all wrapped up in hers.
In the fellowship hall after the service, I was
listening to Albert Todd talk about how the Church Trustees Committee was in
search of a back-up generator so if
you know anybody who has one or wants
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