| Title: | What's all this fuss about 'sax and violins'? |
| Notice: | Archived V1 - Current conference is QUARK::HUMAN_RELATIONS |
| Moderator: | ELESYS::JASNIEWSKI |
| Created: | Fri May 09 1986 |
| Last Modified: | Wed Jun 26 1996 |
| Last Successful Update: | Fri Jun 06 1997 |
| Number of topics: | 1327 |
| Total number of notes: | 28298 |
Planting Geraniums
---
For three months now, Eric has been asking to go look at
the old graveyard at Exit 8 near the Interstate that
runs through our town. Well, actually it runs around the
town, I guess.
And for three months, I have put him off. It was too
cold; there was still snow; it was raining...whatever.
But last week, there was a day that I was home early and he
didn't have Little League practice, and he and I went to
explore the graveyard.
The graveyard perches on a hardwood knoll, and the
Interstate undercuts it on the left and Route 103
squeezes by it on the right. You get into it by taking a
quick switch-back right. The rutted road led straight up
over a hill. I decided that backing out of the
switch-back was a better gamble than driving straight
over into oblivion, so I parked at the bottom. Just as
well, the boulder that sat just over the ridge wouldn't
have bothered a pickup, but it would have been
embarrassing to have to call a tow truck to get the
Mercedes back out.
The flag holders were all empty
and the last year's leaves were still laying about,
plastered by wind and rain against the stones and
between the rotting iron fence. It had that
fallen-down-at-the-knees look that old graveyards
get when their stones are loose like old teeth;
leaning this way and that, and wobbly when you touch
them.
But the previous years' leaves were gone, so someone
must groom it at least occasionally. And the grass,
although unkempt, was not hay...so someone has to mow it
now and then.
"Let's go see who's buried here!", Eric says.
This while his back disappeared over the top of the
in-ground tomb marked "1783".
"Be careful not to hurt any of the stones..." I
admonish my now absent son.
I take the sedate path, up the rutted road into the
place, after all, I have seen a number of old graveyards
before. Underfoot the way is rocky and covered with
low-growing New England undergrowth. There are
checker berries; I can see their dark green leaves and
their single bright berries.
---
I remember checker berries. They always remind
me of planting geraniums on graves in the Spring.
When I was little, about a week before Memorial Day, my
Dad would gather us all together, and we would go plant
flowers on all the graves of the Sawyers and Batchelders
and Graves' in Maine.
This was an all-week event which included preparing
bedding flats for 15 graves and water in gallon jugs and
sharpening grass clippers and fitting the old push mower
into the trunk of the Oldsmobile. It never fit, but each
year Dad would try to make it fit; and then grumbling
resort to tying it down.
Then, the weekend before Memorial Day, there were the trips
to graveyards in three towns. Dad explained how it was
very important to make sure that the graves looked all
neat and cared for...how each grave should have its flag
flying if the person buried there had fought in any
American wars. I would check out all the flag holders
and he would tell me about whatever war was listed
there.
I felt very important when I was seven, and was finally
old enough to wield the grass clippers.
We would drive down the old rutted road into the center
of the graveyard where Dad would stop the car. [Why, I
wonder are roads into graveyards always rutted? The
cemetery in Portland has paved roads and road signs,
even. It always felt wrong to me, somehow...embarrassing
to have such things in a graveyard. Of course, they
would have been appalled if they caught me calling the
cemetery in Portland a 'graveyard'...it was way too
pretentious for 'graveyard'...]
We would pile out and Mother and Penny would prepare the flowers
while Dad hauled the old push-mower out of the back and
I would grab the clippers.
When we left, each grave would have pretty flowers and
the grass cut so you could read the inscription. I felt
very proud.
---
I bent down and picked a checker berry.
"What's that, Mom?"
"Here, taste it."
"What is it?"...backing away a look of terror on his
face...
"I'm not going to poison you! Just taste it."
"Hey this tastes like chicle!....How did you know about
them?"
"They're checker berries, Eric. Grumpy used to pick them
for me to eat...", he is gone running to look at graves.
"Hey Mom!"
I wonder what he could have found that is so
interesting...various forms of small and gooshie
wildlife come to mind. But, he is standing in front of a
large upright grace stone...you know, the kind that look
like towers...
"Hmmmm? What is it?"
"Mom, it says 'Sawyer'..."
"Really? Let me see."
Sure enough....Joshua Sawyer. A sea captain...and his
wife and several daughters and a son.
A letter from a distant [unknown but heard from] cousin
who was tracing our family comes into my mind.
"Eric, this is your relative."
"He is?!"
"Hmmm...I remember a lady who wrote to me. She was
asking about your Grumpy's relatives, but she told me
that we had relatives in Warner. That we should check
out the grave yards and look them up. She said one was a
sea captain....and here he is."
"Boy, this place is a mess. Do you think we could come
back and rake it or cut the grass?"
"Sure, if you would like."
"That would be neat...maybe we could plant a
flower...you have a lot for the window boxes."
"I guess you could...why not?"
"Could I plant a red one?"
"Those are geraniums Eric...and yes, you can plant one
of those."
"Do we have any other graves that need flowers?"
"The ones in Maine."
"Can we go plant flowers on them too?"
I give up whatever thoughts I had about not repeating
history..."Sure, I will call Nana this weekend and we
will go Saturday."
---
The Gorham plots are in the North Street Grave Yard.
They sit right next to Phinney's lumbar yard and have
since I was old enough to remember.
Here is where the Batchelders and Graves' are buried.
I listen to Eric and his grandmother.
"Who is this Nana?"
"That is your great grandfather...my Father."
"Where did he come from?"
"Oh, when he was 19, he and his brother and his Father
and Mother moved from North Adams to Maine."
"And where did they come from?"
"His Father came from England."
"Where?"
"I have the name at home. Would you like it?"
"Yeah!"
We planted pansies and left flats and trimmed grass. And
after we finished we took the left-hand fork and drove
by the farm where Mother was born. Then we went to her
apartment Nana's and had take-out pizza
and talked about the Graveses and the Batchelders until
Eric fell asleep on the couch.
On Sunday we drove north to Augusta.
Saint Mary's cemetery was never very posh, but since it
filled up and was closed for any new burials about
twenty years ago, it has declined from hap-hazard to shoddy.
But we trimmed and planted anyway.
"Nana?"
"Yes, Eric?"
"Someone should take care of this place."
"You are right, but they won't."
"But Nana, it isn't right that no one should take care of
the graves...I mean they took care of people when they
were alive...someone should take care of the graveyard."
Mother looked up at me, "I don't know what to say."
She mouths silently.
"Eric," I sigh.
"Ya?"
"Eric, you know how far we drove to do this today?"
"A long way."
"I bet most of the people who have relatives in this old
graveyard may live even farther away than that. Maybe if
they were closer, they would take care of the graves.",
a little lie, I think, will not hurt.
"Well, they should call someone up and ask them..."
I forget how logical children can be. I don't know how I
forget, since I live with one every day...but I do, just
the same.
"Mom?"
"Hmmm?"
"How long do you think it would take to trim all these
graves?"
It took too long. But we did it anyway.
"Mom!"
"Yes, Eric?..."I am getting very tired and very sore and
have now memorized the epitaphs on at least twenty
graves.
"Mom, I found checker berries!"
There were enough for three, so we sat on Jebediah Frazer's
grave and shared them. I don't think he would have minded.
| T.R | Title | User | Personal Name | Date | Lines |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1018.1 | Yes! | PNEUMA::JOHNSON | Thu Jun 07 1990 16:44 | 5 | |
Glad you put this in, Mel!
bj
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| 1018.2 | JJLIET::JUDY | York beach boogyin with the band | Thu Jun 07 1990 16:59 | 5 | |
wonderful.....simply wonderful.
| |||||
| 1018.3 | MCIS2::JPERRY | Thu Jun 14 1990 04:23 | 1 | ||
VERY nice.... | |||||
| 1018.4 | NYEM1::COHEN | In search of something wonderful | Thu Jun 14 1990 12:34 | 12 | |
THANKS.....more than you can know!
| |||||
| 1018.5 | A real talent | AIADM::MALLORY | I am what I am | Fri Jun 15 1990 11:39 | 8 |
Another fan signing in, but you already knew that :-)
Beautiful !!
wes
| |||||
| 1018.6 | And then in another vein... | SUPER::REGNELL | Smile!--Payback is a MOTHER! | Fri Jun 15 1990 20:21 | 276 |
Race Fever
---
In 1971, I was standing on the roof of our van
in the infield at Watkin's Glenn Speedway in upper-state
New York and watched Francois Severte come out of the 9th
turn at about 145 miles per hour and glance off the
cement retaining wall. He and his race car toppled ass
over tea-kettle three times before they both came apart
in small pieces.
It rained all weekend that year at the Glenn. The bog
party was flooded; the water stopped working in the
infield, it was cold.
I haven't thought about that race in years.
---
I realized last night, that I have spent the better part
of about 12 years in and around race tracks with Nils.
He doesn't race, (thank God), but his business interests
have always had connections to racing. He has
always been either a sponsor or a vendor or a member of
a pit crew.
I have never really sat in the bleachers. Even at the
races where I didn't spend my time sitting on the back
of the van selling spark plugs or fan belts, I didn't
get to sit in the bleachers. I sat, instead, in race
cars, or in tow trucks or push vehicles. There was a
time when I knew every modified and super-modified racer
in New England by name, and they knew me.
Armand Holly would come over just before each race and chat
while his crew warmed up his car. Junior Landry would
arrive at the race after his crew had already run the
heats for him. He would saunter by the back of the van
and get his face-shield washed. Brought him luck, he
would say.
Howard Brown, on the other hand, walk by and nod a greeting.
This was a lot for the 'Old Man'...he didn't talk much
to anyone. And Ollie Silver would come by and sit on the
back with me and drink a Coke...to calm his nerves. I
was never quite sure sure how Coke was going to 'calm'
his nerves, but I used to smoke Marlboroughs and drink
ginger ale to clear my throat before going on stage, so
who am I to talk?
Ollie was a looker in those days. Six foot two with
dark good looks and black hair. He and Junior, along
with Armand and the 'Old Man' were the grand old
men of racing in those days...and they were all sitting
on the back of our truck and talking to me. I was some
impressed, let me tell you. More importantly, everyone
else was impressed. And that was good for business.
I was secretly in love with Armand. He wasn't the best
looking, but there was something that lurked behind
his eyes that pulled on my heart strings, and I would
swoon every time he came by. And while he talked to me,
his face would smile, but his eyes were somewhere else,
and they did not.
I guess I wanted to cuddle him and make it better. I
have learned over and over that this approach does not
work unless what you are cuddling is three years old and
what you are making better is a scun knee; but that has
never prevented me from 'wanting' to, none-the-less.
We would sit and talk about the weather or the racing
stats, there on the back of the truck and then he would
pat me on the head and go climb into his race car.
You know, it's funny. I have come very close several
several times in my life to de-balling that particular
sub-species of male that finds it necessary to pat
diminutive women on the head like puppies. And, I
don't think Armand was that much different from the ones
that flirted with becoming sopranos, coming, as he did
from a very French, very conservative background. I
suspect the difference was that I 'liked' Armand. But I
would be careful not to admit that in public.
Anyway, I wanted him to win very much, but he never did.
The guys said (when they could be enticed into saying
anything about a legend that walked among them), that he
was the best there ever was until he ran a young driver
into the wall.
Armand spent several months in the hospital recovering
from his injuries. He broke his jaw, and several ribs
and his hip, and crushed an ankle. They said that when
he came out, he was never the same. He didn't run so
hard into the corners anymore; he didn't run the outside
car up in the turns. He didn't have that 'edge' that got
you the checkered flag. They said, this was because he
was so badly hurt.
I don't know, but I don't think his injuries had
anything to do with it. I always thought it had
something to do with the fact that the young driver was
killed. I don't think he ever wanted to be the 'other
driver', ever again.
But, He was my favorite anyway. And when he stopped racing,
I missed him very badly.
And, of course, there were the young drivers. The ones
who drove the street stocks and chargers. I wouldn't
have trusted any one of the cars they drove to get me
to the corner store and back, but they'ld come coughing
and sputtering down pit road every Saturday at 4pm when
the pits opened and spend all night beating on those
machines to get them to run around the track.
They were our bread and butter customers. The big boys,
they came with four sets of tires and an extra engine
and enough parts to stock a repair center. Their stops
by the truck were of a social, soon-to-be-legendary
nature.
The little guys, they were at the back of the truck all
night buying this and buying that to try and make it
through the race.
I always wondered about the money they spent. Ollie or
Armand, they were lucky if they had a quarter in their
pockets. They didn't intend to have to buy anything.
Not that they didn't have money, they just didn't carry
it to the track.
These other guys, they'ld come flash a wad of twenties
and start buying.
I asked Nils about it once. He said,
"Thursday is payday."
"Fine, but what do they live on the rest of the week?"
"Sometimes, they win."
"Sometimes, they don't!"
He just looked at me. I chalked it up to another little
piece of male magic that I would never understand. Sort
of like peacock strutting and tail fluffing...you know?
One night, a woman I didn't recognize came to the back
of the truck with her 'driver'. They had three little
kids tagging along behind and she carried another on her
hip.
"How much for a set of plugs?", the guy asks.
Nils looked up and said, "Sixteen."
This guy looks at the woman and she hands him the kid.
She digs in her pockets and comes up with two fives and
four ones.
They trade the kid back again.
He empties his pockets and comes up with one dollar and
69 cents.
Nils handed him the plugs and says, "Why don't you pay
me after the race?"
"Thanks!", he smiles a mouthful of rotten teeth at us,
and off they go.
The guy went out in the race and made ten laps before
the engine went down belching smoke and oil.
But they were there, right after the last feature,
fifteen dollars and 69 cents in hand.
"What can I do for you?" says Nils, shutting the back of
his truck.
"I owe you for the plugs."
"What plugs?"
"I bought plugs from you..."
"Nope, I didn't sell any plugs tonight."
Ollie was parked next to us that night.
"Go on kid, he's doing you a favor...get lost"
"Yes sir, thanks..."
And the legend that I was a part of and didn't even
recognize started to grow.
"Now Reggie," (They all called him Reggie...Regnell
being to foreign for their taste...), "about
those plugs that I bought from you...hey Mike,
give Reggie 20 bucks, will you? I bought some plugs from
him."
"Huh? We didn't buy any plugs..."
"Mike...I said I bought some plugs...pay the man."
"Sure Ollie, no problem."
----
In 1980, Ollie lost his touch and ran his super into the
wall coming out of the second turn at Star Speedway. He
wasn't killed; he even came back to race one more
season, but it wasn't the same.
He is still suave and good looking, his hair is still
black with a touch of gray at the temples. But his eyes
are those of a stranger and his speech is halting. And
every once in awhile he loses track of what you are talking
about and you have to remind him.
And quietly, in private moments in small groups, the
guys remark that perhaps he would have been better dead.
They don't much like their heroes to be human.
Howard Brown died before his car hit the wall at Hudson.
The heart attack he suffered claiming him before the
wreckage burst into flame, but not before he watched his
oldest son burn to death in a crash at Lee Speedway the
year before. They say something went out of the 'Old
Man' after that; they say he drove like he was trying to
get himself killed.
And Junior Landry gave up racing. He said he was too busy in
public, but in private he admitted that too many of the
old crowd had died or worse behind the wheel.
-----
We don't spend all our Saturday's between April and
October at race tracks anymore. Nils is still into
racing, but along with his business, his legend has
grown also. He plays in the big boys' league
now...sponsors "Clean Car Awards" at the Northern NASCAR
races and gets to wine and dine with guys like Petty
and Allison when they come North.
And these days, when he stops by a small track the guys
in the pits go all quiet just like they used to for
Ollie and Armand. And now, he is one of the folks who
stops by someone's hauler or truck and sits to have a
chat before he moves on.
And, I notice that It's race season again.
A guy was killed last weekend at Beech Ridge Speedway.
He brought his late-model onto the track and made two laps
before his accelerator jammed and he roared into the
wall on the third turn. The roll-cage that was there
to protect him collapsed and crushed him. It took
them three hours to pry his body from the wreckage, so
SportsWay Scene said. They had a moment of silence on the
start line in his memory; and then they went racing.
I didn't recognize his name. Somehow, that bothered me.
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