Our Heart (9 page)

I sat facing forward, resting my arms on the pew ahead and placing my chin on my arms. I looked up towards the altar, picturing Grandpa’s casket and all of the pictures and flowers that would soon be surrounding it. On Saturday, there would be a packed house and lots more emotional turbulence for the two of us to survive. My dad understood my need to sit there in silence. For once, it was comfortable between us. I didn’t mind having him there next to me and even began to feel some of the old comfort I used to have a long time ago. I had already decided over the past few days that it was time to let go of some my demons, put an end to the past, and let a new and better future evolve. I was finally coming to terms with my mistakes. The only chance I had for tomorrow was to leave the past behind and move forward. Withholding forgiveness was almost as bad as wanting it and not being able to get it. I understood that now. I was both a withholder and a person who desperately wanted forgiveness, yet neither willing to give it or accept it from others.

We sat there together in silence for a few more moments then my father got up and took a couple of steps towards the front of the church, before stopping several steps from the altar. I watched him as he slowly took in the scene before him. I’m sure he saw it much the same way I had been imagining it. I felt his duress, as he seemed to lose a little of his composure. His shoulders slumped, and he reached out with a shaky hand to steady himself by holding on to the back of a pew. He bowed his head and stood that way for a long time, before lifting his eyes once more and gazing towards the altar and the same stained-glass window that had drawn my attention earlier. Taking one last deep breath and letting out a noticeable sigh, he turned and faced me. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew what was on his mind. He was preparing to go back and face the others who came to give their respects. In his sullen eyes, I could see he was hoping I was ready to come too. It was time. As he walked past me, I stood and followed him out of the church. We headed back into the waning light of the day, across the street, and once again into the emotional finality that death brings to those left behind.

My father and Great Aunt Vicky had taken care of the funeral plans with my aunt the driving force. They had decided that during the funeral only four people were going to be allowed to give testament to Grandpa Jake. Aunt Marcie and my cousin Justin were going to provide the music portion of the funeral service. Grandpa Jake would be buried next to Grandma Sarah at Bristow cemetery, just south of town. They expected it to be a very large procession. This was generally the case when a small town loses a beloved, long-term resident, especially someone who was as well liked as my grandfather was. One of Grandpa’s oldest and long-time friends, Herb Jackson, would be the first to speak, followed by Great Aunt Vicky, then Samuel Preston, another of Grandpa’s friends and then finally, me. This was something I neither wanted nor looked forward to. My dad had deferred to me and would have spoken if I had chosen not to. Aunt Vicky made it clear the family should have a spokesman and most of the people would expect it to be me. Seeing the look on my face, as she told me this, caused her to back-peddle slightly. She added that they would surely understand if I chose not to. How could I say no to her request? I couldn’t….so now I only had a few days to prepare the words to eulogize a man who meant so much to me. I had no idea where to begin or what to say.

Great Aunt Vicky offered her only insight, “Speak from your heart and you’ll find the words that will calm your soul and ease your mind.”

There are times in life when the greatest emotional stresses can bring the most important revelations. When the opportunity arises to shift the mind away from personal bitterness and see through other peoples’ eyes, the world suddenly opens up, and you begin to see the futility of placing yourself in a secluded box. I had put myself in a place, hidden away emotionally from the rest of the world, a place which does not bring comforts, but instead, in isolation, perpetuates the fears that stop us from living. I had hidden too long; it was time to forgive, forget, and move on. Saturday, I would have a last opportunity to shed the dilemmas of my past and set a new path toward peaceful resolutions. There was one last place I had to visit, and I needed to do it before the last of the day’s light set for the evening. I was being called as much as directed towards the old oak tree in Murphy’s meadow.

Finally, the visitation was winding down and only a few visitors remained. I said my goodbyes and headed out the front door. Grandpa Jake’s house was only six blocks away from the funeral parlor, and I needed the opportunity to walk and collect my thoughts. I was staying in the old house with Great Aunt Vicky, Aunt Marcie, and Justin. I turned the corner on Chestnut and headed toward the Dittmers and Grandpa Jake’s house. It had been so long since I’d been back and walked the streets of my hometown. The memories closed in on me, and I remembered everything as if it had happened only yesterday. Standing here outside my old front door I felt the pains of my youth once more and I couldn’t help wondering how my life could have and might have been different. I didn’t have much light left, and I needed to change clothes to make the trek up to the old oak tree. I can’t say for sure why I felt it was someplace I needed to go, but at one point in my life, it was the one place I went when I sought comfort or needed some quiet solitude. The tree of my childhood had become the foundation of my early adult life, much like it must have done for both my father and grandfather. The history and impact of that tree contained many stories of the Owens men. Tonight, I was hoping it would offer a better ending for me than the one currently being written and playing out in real life.

Leaving the thoughts of the past behind, at least temporarily, I quickly took off my nice slacks and shirt, exchanging them for a pair of jeans, an old tee shirt, and hooded sweatshirt. I threw on my Reeboks and nearly got out the back door, when I remembered I would need a flashlight. Grandpa Jake always kept an endless supply of flashlights around. He and Grandma used to joke about the yearly budget he spent on batteries alone. She never complained on nights when a storm took out the electricity and she didn’t have to walk very far to retrieve a much-needed flashlight. Grandpa was fanatical about his need to be prepared, and then just as forgetful in his garbage duties. Grandma Sarah was always reminding him to take out the trash before the collection truck missed them for another week.

I grabbed the deluxe model that my grandfather had been so proud of. It was plugged into a wall charger, just under the kitchen cabinets and off to the side of the kitchen sink. When turned on full, it would blind anything unlucky enough to be caught in its beam. Animals would stop dead in their tracks, including the not so friendly raccoons, which, over the years had instigated too many successful forays into the garbage cans. Some nights, Grandpa would take his chair and sit out back and wait for the little nemeses to show up. He would switch on the high beams, hitting them full force in the eyes, when they were within perfect range. After a couple of bouts with the high-intensity light, the scavengers would usually head for greener pastures to find their food. Eventually, a new brood would grow up, and then Grandpa would resume his night patrol.

The air had cooled significantly, and I was glad to have my sweatshirt on. I started down the well-worn path behind the house and toward what I hoped would be some much-needed enlightenment. It didn’t take long to get to Harden Creek, and I was surprised to see a nice footbridge extending between the two banks. When I left over five years ago, it wasn’t there. Just by looking at it, I surmised Grandpa Jake must have had a little help from Larry Dittmer in building it. There would have been no one else who had a reason to do it. Someday, when I had more time, I would have to pay better attention to the construction and give it a thorough once over. Being a kid, or at least acting like one, is something that never leaves you entirely. Standing in the middle of the wooden bridge, I did what most kids do, jumped up and down to see if it had any give or movement to it. The only reward for my efforts was stability and soundness. Smiling to myself, I crossed to the other side and continued up the path through the trees.

When I was just a kid, the part of the path that ran through the timber had always seemed both exciting and daunting. I encountered lots of different animals during my many excursions, but it was always the unexplained noises that caused my heart to race and my mind to conjure up visions of grizzly bears or prehistoric and forgotten saber-toothed tigers lurking close by. There were many times when I walked this path in the dark, without the aid of a flashlight, only to end up with cuts and bruises, as I made my way blindly along. I even ran in a panic once, when my mind got the best of me and I tripped on an exposed root, taking a painful tumble to the ground. As far as Mom was concerned, it was a new scrape to add to a boy’s ever-growing collection of learning experiences. For me, I had survived unknown perils and made it home safely. I never spoke of what my mind had conjured up for fear of being seen as a chicken or fraidy-cat.

The imagination is something to marvel at. Twelve-year-old boys are at the top of their game, when it comes to the world around them and their belief in endless possibilities. My friends and I claimed these woods as our own. We spent endless hours and all summer long building tree houses and forts along the path between Harden Creek and Murphy’s meadow. The meadow was named for Zachariah Murphy who had once owned the land.

All of my yesterdays ran through my head, as I walked along the path winding through the trees. It was already dusk and getting darker by the minute. My heartbeat picked up its pace, reminding me how our youthful imagination can resurface at any time, even from the most hidden-away places, in the corners of our minds. I laughed out loud and then slowed my walking pace, which had picked up noticeably. Certain there were no aliens ready to pounce, ninjas or merciless animals stalking me within the forest, I turned my attention once again to thoughts of the tree and how it had played such a pivotal role in my past. Like seeing the Statue of Liberty or the Eiffel tower for the first time, the historic old oak tree, which dominated the meadow at the top of the hill, could be just as unforgettable at first sight.

I couldn’t explain the sensation, but I always felt the pull of the old tree, as the timber began to thin. More and more of the fading daylight filtered through the branches to caress the path in front of me. If this had been the movies, when I walked out on the hallowed site, the tree would have been encased in a spiritual glow. Dramatic music would be playing in the background, building to a crescendo, as the camera panned in on the tree. In real life, when you walked out of the forest, the oak tree sat majestically at the top of the hill overlooking the meadow. You could just make out the bottom branches, but could still not see the entire tree trunk over the rise in the hill. Tonight, as I entered the meadow, the sun was still high enough to give light to the newly-growing grass in the field. The gentle and warm breeze blew across the knee-high, spring grass, animating it with a waving motion. The top of the soft grass was still well below my waist, but in a short time, it would grow to be as high as the middle of my back. A rabbit quickly scurried away from me, as I entered into the world of the old oak tree and the meadow it reigned over.

Wildflowers of early spring were popping out in full force, dotting the picturesque landscape with vibrant purples, bright whites, and lazy yellows. I could not help but feel peaceful walking in this small, secluded part of the world. I could easily envision a great Zen master sitting beneath the tree in complete harmony with the world. He would be instructing his followers to listen to the stories of the wind. It was a magical place, and I was not the only one to have felt its power over the years. The meadow was not my family’s place alone, for so many others had also trekked to this spot. Not everyone held it in the same reverence as my family did, but nearly everyone did their best to keep it intact and as pristine as possible. There were always the stragglers, who felt the need to be destructive and abusive, but they were few and far between over the years. The meadow and tree remained much the same today, as it had been the moment when my Grandfather had first ventured into the clearing and saw it for the first time. Only time had moved on, maturing the old oak tree, until it took on the appearance of a wise ol
d
lord, overseeing Murphy’s meadow.

On the wall, in the front entrance hall of the town’s city administration building, there hangs an oil painting of the tree. None other than my Grandma Sarah had painted it. She had been an up-and
-
coming artist in her younger days, but after painting the tree, she only dabbled in her talent the rest of her life. She painted the picture during the summer of nineteen fifty-eight, just four years after she and Grandpa had gotten married and two years after my dad had been born. On any given day, you would find townsfolk and visitors standing together, deep in revelation and thought, as they stared into my grandma’s artistic rendition. In her painting, she captured the tree, much like I was seeing it tonight, in the waning light of day. The shadows were deep, and the remaining sunlight kissed the tallest branches. The grass, long and sensual, gently bent in unison to an unseen wind. Many a person had tried to get as close as their eyes would allow to try and determine who the figure was painted next to the tree. Everyone who knew my Grandma Sarah just figured it was Grandpa Jake standing there. She never did reveal who it was. The mystery figure would always be surrounded by stories and suppositions. The answer would now be the painting’s alone. With the death of my Grandparents, the truth was buried forever.