Sailing through the heavens

Today we buried Grandpa.

We lay him into the fertile farmland not ten miles from which in came, in the very month that gave him life 89 years ago. We set him down in the cemetery surrounded by family and brown corn stalks tinged with the memory of green. We listened to Taps on a lone bugle, serenaded by the whistle and hum of the 2:20 train. He would know that train. He would tap his watch to that train. He would mimic its whistle, as if to announce that which we'd already heard. Just as the VFW did when they presented Grandma with a perfectly triangulated flag on behalf of a grateful nation. It was so long ago, so deeply buried, and yet not. Still fresh. The whistle of a train. Still stuck in sorrow and honor and the knowing of that which has just passed.

My soft, sweet, gracious and ever-loving grandmother said goodbye to the good man who had held her for seven decades. The man who opened the door for her and wore the sailor's uniform of a grateful nation when she was a wavy-haired young mother standing in front of a Buick with the excitedly constant movement of her four year old boy, just as I do today. She poured her heart into that tender child and give him all her love and nutrient and heart and let him know that he was the light and love of their lives.

Together, they raised that sweet boy who would become my dad. They guided and loved others that they collected along the way; continuing to feed and harvest the fruit from their own family tree. Grandpa, with the arms and hands the size of tree limbs and the strength of a machine, could hold and hug and laugh and dance as if it were his last. And yet, it never was.

Today, as the autumn sun angled lower over the last of summer's red-ripe fruit, we put Grandpa back into the very earth that had borne him and sustained him. We honored him, loved him and recollected about him. And in that honor, we acknowledge those who created him, molded him, loved and accepted him. Those who escorted him into the dark days of passage and made his farewell a gentler goodnight.

And yet, we also say good morning. To the four year old boys who love tractors and snow plows and horses and harvesters. Good morning to the sisterhood of widows who will hug, and hold hands, and pour over the recipe books of family memory and life not yet lived.

As the County road intersects with the State highway, I merge onto something new. Just paved, fresh and dark and unmarked. The rear-view mirror reminds me of the cornfields from which I have been and the dark clouds through which I have passed. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The blinker acknowledges my airport exit and I say goodbye.

Fair winds and following seas, Grandpa Ralph. Much love and laughter to the original R.W.