This past week I took part of my mother up to Kentucky with me. I took her to my grandfather's gravesite, eulogized her . . . and then I told her goodbye and I left her there.
Now that you are totally confused, let me explain.
My mother died back in November, 2017. She asked to be cremated, probably because she'd had enough emotional turmoil dealing with my father's funeral, my grandmother's, and my aunt's (her sister) over the last several years and she didn't want my sister and me to deal with that sort of turmoil. My sister honored her wishes. She asked if I wanted a small urn with some of my mother's ashes, and I said yes.
This past July, I visited my sister briefly and she gave me the urn. It's about 3-4 inches tall, blue-green in color, with a dolphin decorating the front. I thought it was appropriate because green was my mother's favorite color, she lived in Florida (famous for dolphins) and my very first favorite TV show was Flipper, about a dolphin.
I decided that since my mother was born in Kentucky, I would take part of her ashes and scatter them at the cemetery where my grandfather--her father--is buried. In a sense, it would be bringing her home.
It took several months to arrange this trip, mostly because I didn't want to drive up there during winter weather. But I finally figured out a time I could go, which was this past week, made reservations, and started getting ready.
The weirdest part was dealing with the actual ashes. When I'd first gotten the urn home, I twisted the top to see if it would open, or it if would be hard to open. The top twisted . . . but I could not bring myself to lift the lid and see what the ashes looked like. Instead, I put the urn in my china cabinet.
Last Monday, while I was alone in the house, I took the urn from the china cabinet. It was heavier that I thought it would be, probably because it was full. Then I took the top off and found myself looking at what is best described as sandy gray ashes. I put a portion in an old medicine bottle.
I left last Wednesday, driving up I-75, the road we'd travel when we'd head for Kentucky on vacation. I'm old enough to remember when you had to get off I-75 in certain places and use US 41 in Georgia and US 11 in Tennessee. I can also remember a handmade sign on the side of the road marking the exit to Plains, Georgia, the hometown of Jimmy Carter. These days, there is no missing the exit to Plains.
My cousin Susie used her iPhone to keep track of where I was. When I stopped in Knoxville for lunch, I saw her message that "I think you might be lost." I said, "I'm not lost. This is the way we always came on road trips." She said, thank God because my map shows you heading to Nashville!
I drove up State Road 33, up through Manyardville, New Tazewell, and Tazewell, over the Clinch River and near Norris Lake, where we've gone with our cousins on our mother's side, where they've waterskied (and I've tried and failed), where we've gone swimming, picked blackberries, and camped out.
In Harrogate, I made a pit stop (after a previous stop for gas in Tazewell and at a Walmart across the street for three pots of flowers). That pit stop was the Scott Cemetery, where my mother's maternal grandparents are buried. I left flowers, which was not the easiest thing to do because a) the cemetery is a small rural one which is maintained by donations and is "cataloged" online by volunteers, and b) my mother's grandparents are not buried together. My great-grandmother is buried next to a baby. There was no room for my great-grandfather. So he's buried apart from her. He was easy to find. She was not. Just as I feared that I would have to leave both sets of flowers at my great-grandfather's grave, I came around the side of a gravestone and found the woman I was looking for. One pot of flowers sits on top of my great-grandmother's grave. The other pot sits on top of my great-grandfather's.
I drove through the Cumberland Gap Tunnel, which wasn't there during the years when we made our road trips. We had to climb 25E through Virginia, past Cudjo's Cavern, then past a large sign announcing, "Welcome To Kentucky" with a picture of a horse on it.
When I got to my hotel in Harlan, I dropped off my stuff and then drove out to Rosspoint, about 10 minutes or so from where I was staying. I went looking for the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, and I found it almost by accident. This is not the first time I've ever been to my grandfather's grave. I had visited at least once before, back in 1989; but I also remembered going there as a very young child. I don't recall anyone telling me that "we're going to where your grandfather is buried", and since I would have been about four in this particular memory, I doubt if it would have registered. My maternal grandfather died in October of 1962. I was born in October of 1963, so I never knew my maternal grandfather.
Rose Lawn Cemetery, where my grandfather is buried, is another small, rural cemetery with no formal upkeep. The area around it has changed over the years, but the two landmarks that have not changed there are the two statues of Jesus. One is at the front of the cemetery, Jesus standing with his arms at his sides, his hands spread out. The other is in the middle of the cemetery, and it's Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Engraved underneath are the words "Not my will but Thine be done." I remember playing on that statue while my mother and grandmother were over at my grandfather's grave. (My grandmother's brother and sister, along with their spouses, are also buried here.)
When I saw the statues of Jesus, I knew I'd found the right place.
So I pulled down a dirt and gravel road, parked, took my mother's ashes, the third pot of flowers I'd bought at the Walmart in Tazewell, and a copy of
her eulogy (posted here), and went to my grandfather's gravestone.
I put the flowerpot right above the gravestone, and then, opened the bottle with my mother's ashes and scattered them on the grass.
Then I took Mom's eulogy and read it aloud.
I sat and I listened to the buzzing of a bee, felt the warmth of an April afternoon. The weather cooperated with me nicely. The forecast had called for rain during the days I planned to be there, and then the forecast changed. I got warm, dry weather.
And then I left my mother's ashes behind and went back to the car.
There were other things I did in Kentucky this past week, but none as important to me as this was.
I don't know if my mother ever wanted to come back to Kentucky. She didn't have as much of a tie to Harlan as my father did, because her sister lived first in Ohio and then in Florida, very near us, and her brother also lived in Ohio.
But for me, I thought that at least part of her needed to come home.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
