in the land that made me me

I am winding down another visit to my hometown where there are less and less living people that I knew growing up; most of them I visit at the cemetery on my morning run. It has been weirdly hot and humid for May here, when a lot of the time the dregs of winter are still hanging around. And apparently it is wood tick season. I found one on my clothes and my brother has had several.

In a small town, you can bury your own dead. Barb, Ray and I finally buried my mom's ashes next to my dad's, after a year, where she sat on her dresser - or at least her "cremains" did as they call them. My brother, played Pall Bearer and carried the ashes down to the cemetery (about a mile away), while I ran there. The pretty cemetery is getting decorated for memorial day but no one is there at 8AM so Ray dug a hole, after a little discussion (or familial argument) about where she should go and where exactly we had placed my dad; and we rather unceremoniously placed her ashes there. Our family has never been much for ceremony or showing too much emotion. - we were brought up to be tough Finn Yoopers for God's sake! Barb walked back to the car, a little grumpy (to cover up her feelings maybe) and I threw a clump of dirt into the grave cause I thought one was supposed to do that. Raymond shoveled in the rest of the rocky dirt, dry because of the lack of rain and hot weather. I imagined my mom saying "Jesus Christ Ray" as soon as she found herself next to him. Even when both of them were alive, they did not spend much time next to each other. But hell, those are her ashes and not her. No one offered a prayer - at least not out loud. Our family has never been much for praying out loud either.

(This is the grave with a Finnish flag and Cubs Flag)

My brother used to bring my mom's ashes out from their place on her dresser and place them on her chair in the living room. "Those are not her" I would say to him. But he found comfort in them somehow and on mother's day, let the ashes sit there all day. My brother's movie as he calls his life and what he chooses to do with it, is all reruns of what used to be. He is pretty much afraid of living in the moment - so he drinks. At least that is my theory of his movie.

I have detached myself from my mom's house as nothing in it is her any more. I think this is pretty normal but it is weird. I didn't even want to stay there and stayed with Barb and Siggie and it was nice waking up and hearing the quiet, and the birds sing, and the cats with stomach upsets wail as they made their way to the litter box. "Don't make me poop", they seemed to say. Willie the dog waited patiently for me to get up and let him out to pee for the first time of the day. I "put the coffee going" and sometimes went over to have a cup with Ray if he was around.

Poo the dog waited till I was there a few days and then quietly died behind the couch after eating a pretty good last meal of roasted chicken. She was living on borrowed time and Barb and siggie gave this pampered Pomeranian a good life - rescuing her from an abusive situation 10 or so years ago where she was almost starved to death. Raymond also got to dig that grave and we buried her- pretty much as unceremoniously as we buried my mom's ashes. Rest in peace, Poo. Barb will find a wild rosebush to plant on her grave. This is Poo.

I walked Willie around the town a few hours before I left. I got hugs from two people who said "I hope you come back". It is nice to be welcomed so warmly by people who you know and who know your history - and it is nice to be missed by them too. I mentioned to one of them "Even if many of the people I love are not here anymore, I still love to come back". She nodded and responded "But the love is still here".

She is right. There's a lot of love in that little town. And a lot of memories. But the present has it's love too and that's where we need to live.