Sisters, Antique Cemetaries, and Other Things

Well, my sister is back at work after all of the chemo and then a well deserved get away to the Cape. At the very least, she will be able to regain some of her stamina and strength before the need for any further treatments. I hope this is the last she, and thereby all of us, will ever see of the leukemia. I still worry though. Perhaps it is merely the burden or habit of most older sisters or maybe it is just my tendancy to worry as I would rather worry and find nothing wrong than not worry and be caught short when something does happen because life throws things at you, some times more than others, simply because that's what happens and there's no helping it for the most part. But, with all of the philosophical aspects duly noted and recorded here, I will still worry about her. I will worry that she, being the very strong and independant type, will overdo things and end up sick from exhaustion, stress, or some other yet unforeseen potential problem. I will worry that the kids are sliding back into their very comfortable world of Mom taking care of everything and forget how fragile a life is, that they need to help their mom at every possible turn from now on, that they came far too close to losing the one person in their lives they have always been able to count on for acceptance, love, and moral support. Patty's hair will grow back, the color will return to her cheeks without having to be assisted by a fever, and life will - somehow - become "normal" again. The resilience of humans, to know what we have been through - what we might yet have to deal with again, is nothing short of amazing. We, as a world family, survive and thrive despite terrorists, wars, and politics (not to mention politicians!) and are able to find happiness again, at least a great many of us do. So, there will be (I hope) a happy Thanksgiving and Christmas time, even if Patty has to start some new treatment before that. I think I will try to do a few extra things to make the season more fun. If God is truly considerate, I will have more non-caffiene induced energy than I will know what to do with and, thereby, be more of a help to my sister and the kids, my brother, and my Dad and step-mother. I may also be able to include my grandmother in that but, as she is not robust enough for too energetic a whirl, I will have to slow down by the time I get to see her. Maybe we can somehow manage a family get together again this year for all of us - at least as many as can make it -and get one last chance to chat and relax together, play a few hands of cards, a round or two of Scrabble, and find the beauty that is so present in New England at that time of year. Special gifts, chosen or constructed after much careful thought, should be the rule for times like these - at all times, if possible - especially now, under these circumstances. It is unusual to have what could even come close to being described as a "perfect" holiday, but perhaps we can manage it somehow, this once. Like Christmas sweaters, the love should be soft and fuzzy, without too much wine or egg nog, and the company should be convivial with all differences and arguments set aside for the span of the holidays, although with any teenagers around that may just be a pipe dream.

I have come to a transition in my writing here that I am hard pressed to make smoothly, relating one subject to the other and skillfully wording things so this one entry is a cohesive and sensible whole. I may figure it out as I type, but I hardly know where to begin to make the transition from a rhapsodic Christmas scene to an old cemetary, in the grey of a New England rainy day, on Cape Cod. They may not seem at all related but they truly are, as both of the subjects as discussed are intimately related to my family.

The cemetary I am thinking of is in Wellfleet, well past the one where Deborah Hopkins Snow is supposed to be buried but still along the GAR Highway. The cemetary of which I speak is further along the Cape to be found near the narrowest neck of land between Chatham and Truro; between ocean and bay. It is not very obvious, sitting atop a slight hill with sparse sea grasses sprouting at intervals along an old fence. You might drive past it a hundred times without ever really being aware of its existence, but it is there and in it sleep those in our family, though far from all of them, who have gone before. If you enter the cemetary and then turn back around to face the highway, you cannot see what was an inlet from the bay at one time, but you can feel its presence nearby.* It was kept open in the early 1900s by the use of dredges in order to allow sailboats inland access to their owners' docks, just off of their yards. I know this because some of the people with the sailboats were progenitors of mine and my siblings. It is funny to realize that I always picture these sailboats and people in black and white, like their photographs, even though I have seen the clear blue sky over the water there sparkling with the gemstone colors of the setting sun, grasses both green and sear waving in the breezes that carry the scents of ocean and other growing things with them. Turning back to the cemetary can be difficult at times like these, but those times also mean the light is fading and the visit to the cemetary, and my near ancestors graves, must be hastened or lost to the dusk. Several steps into the cemetary, I think, perhaps, a little to the left (or is it to the right?) is a small, unpreposessing plot that is the site of many graves despite its occupant-deprived appearance. My great-grandfather is there, my Aunt Camilla - who was known as "Sissy" her entire life, also rests there, and next to her is my Grandmother, still guarding her injured eldest child; still close. Other spaces, not too well marked unless one of my cousins decided to remedy the situation without telling us, contain the mortal elements of elderly cousins, great-aunts and great-uncles, lost children and, perhaps, a few others. It is a ragtag group and I only know for certain which part of the plot encloses those to whom I am most intimately related. Further along, to the right and down an incline lay the remains of another cousin and her beloved husband. I think that her parents may also be there. In the Spring there are wild roses and grass flowers; beach plums and honey bees. In the Autumn there is soft grey fog and rain; damp salt air and drizzle. All of this is enveloped quietly but definitely in the close proximity to the salt waters on either side of the Cape. When Winter winds blow across the land, they pass more swiftly over this spot than anywhere else and when the storm waters roar and surge on the ocean side, it is one of the least protected areas on the bay-side of the Cape, although even the Atlantic has not yet breached the peace to be found there at any particular moment in time. It really takes a map to appreciate the relative situation of this part of the geology of Cape Cod. On any sufficiently detailed map or aerial photograph, the narrowness of this piece of land, its closeness to the waters on both sides of the Cape, are very evident and the sight of this vulnerability merely adds to the poignancy of the place. Some day, perhaps during a hurricane or storm coming off of the ocean, I expect to hear that the little cemetary has been washed out to sea, that the lower Cape has become an island and the land prices have doubled, effective immediately, for the privilege of getting to live on an island with ocean views instead of a penninsula with a highway practically in your front yard. This would not be that much of a suprise given that the Cape has lost land many times before in this same, or similar, fashion and it seems a fitting denouement for a small and ancient plot of burial ground such as this; a return to elemental roots as determined by nature, the elements and time. Perhaps, if that time comes, somehow, during my lifetime, I will make every effort to be there to say my good-byes. I think I will stand on the peninsular side of the break and recall the stark, other-worldly peace and beauty I found standing amongst the slowly disintigrating stones and memories. I will be wearing a heavy sweater in all likelihood, as ocean winds blow cold most of the year, and I will wrap the sweater and my arms about myself and close my eyes. The winds and smells and sounds of ocean and the Cape will rush past me, running to fill up the bay on the other side and I will pick up, in that rush of current and air, the sounds of the voices of those whose graves have been reclaimed by the same elements that caused them to be created there in the first place. I will say a final fare-thee-well to my relatives, God-speed, and realize that there could truly be no more appropriate, fitting end to such a spot. I will throw wild roses on the waters, if they are blooming then, and perhaps write a little something, a note to my grandmother and aunt, and allow the tidal flow to claim my words, too. Of all the places I have been and known, of all the impressions I have formed or discovered, this place is nearest to my thoughts, my heart, and I will always treasure the memories of this one small antique cemetary along with the thoughts of those people there to whom I owe my existence.

*This inlet to the salt marsh may not be visible from the cemetary's highway facing side, as I wrote. My memory and its attendant inaccuracies may have you looking for a salt marsh that is actually located further along the GAR highway toward Wellfleet center and Truro. Both, however, are there and both are close enough for Mother Nature to take a serious hand in rearranging if that is destined to be the case.