I was skeptical that the wood would be too damp, but since it was New Year’s Eve, I needed a fire.
It took a few minutes, but the leaves, pine straw and a suggestion of fat lighter overcame their resistance to the laws of nature and the materials at least tried to fulfill their calling. There was a cheery little blaze as some rotten pine convinced a knotted piece of oak to try to compete with the sunset in a coloring competition.
I half-sat, half-slouched on the antique glider, noting again that it needed some sandpaper and spray paint, and laughed at myself. I remembered the Old Man sitting in the exact spot more than 25 years ago, asking Miss Lois what colors she thought would look best.
That glider has held the rumps of a lot of Weavers and Coverts, having come from Uncle Bob and Aunt Doris when cousins Terri and Candy and I were kids. It has accompanied Rhonda and me from Clinton to Lagoon to Clarkton to Hallsboro. It’s a solid old piece, and designed for setting and thinking.
Thinking of my aunt, uncle and parents reminded me how many times Papa and I sat there remembering folks who had gone on. One particular year, we sat there after a funeral, ties loose and coats off. He remarked how the biggest problem with getting older was not old bones and failing bodies, but the loss of friends. As always, the Old Man was wiser than I realized.
Five people close to me passed this year; some were expected, some were not. Some fought, some went gently into the night, ignoring the poet’s entreaty to do otherwise.
One who fought and spent some time on that very glider with me was R.G. Milar. We met through a mutual friend under the most unlikely circumstances, and became fast friends, closer to brothers, really. I was honored.
When our home flooded during Hurricane Matthew, I was literally standing in water above my ankles in our living room, tying to determine what could be saved, and RG called me. I was falling apart; those of you who have been there understand. He helped ground me in a way I am sure he used when he was an EMT and later, a sheriff’s deputy. I got to know his family, his animals, and part of him a lot of folks never saw.
He fought cancer with a stubbornness that was worthy of an epic Viking poem, and that was one reason his send-off was part Viking funeral, part worship service, part celebration, and all loving fellowship. He loved his wife of only a year with an absolute burning passion and devotion. We burned his ashes in a boat on the water in a place he loved, and when the boat wouldn’t completely burn, we riddled the remains with bullets — which I am sure he would have loved.
It was through RG that I became friends with Big Mike; while I never met his mom, it broke my heart for my brother when she passed, having dealt with the evils of dementia and then a cancer of her own. Miss Ann was the kind of mother we need more of, having raised a man who is closer to me than some of my own kin. I could see my own mother every time Mike talked about how Miss Ann got upset when she wasn’t put together with her hair fixed — not out of vanity, but because she was a lady, and didn’t want anyone to doubt that. She retired from one job and went to work full time in another because she was needed and had the opportunity to help others.
We lost Miss Ann at almost the same time on the same day that we lost another precious lady, Wanda. She and her husband Rob dedicated their lives to helping and protecting others, in emergency medicine, law enforcement and the military. Wanda never failed to ask about my wife, my animals and my own health, even when she was in worse shape than I was. We joked about having three-legged races — on our canes. She was the kind of soft-spoken gentle lady who got up at 3 a.m. to fix biscuits and coffee for Rob when he was going to work, so they could have some extra time together. She had a sharp wit, but could be a lioness when necessary. She would have enjoyed my fire, since it was a cool day and she didn’t like the cold.
Another that we lost actually taught me how to build a fire.
My brother-in-law Gil spent time with his little brother and me when he was supposed to be courting my sister. It was at his direction I fired my first rifle, one which eventually came too live with me, and which I still use on a regular basis. He taught us to hunt and identify snakes and track and look for arrowheads and be stewards of nature. While my daddy taught me to fish, Gil helped me fine tune my angling skills. He was never too busy for a couple of pesky little boys.
He passed on around the same time as RG; there was no way I could get to Louisiana for the funeral, but I was touched to find out his fishing buddies sent my sister videos and photos of a fishing trip they held in his honor.
My father-in-law Ralph was a fisherman as well, and loved a cold pier blowing with saltwater spray as the spots and mullets ran wild, or walking a big blue out of the surf in the face of an oncoming storm. The cruelty of dementia took him, too, robbing him of the joy of delivering God’s word from a pulpit, even after he retired from full-time preaching.
Uncle Ralph, as I called him, sat on that glider with my Old Man for about an hour one day when Papa was sick. I disremember the exact month, but it was warm. Papa was frustrated but resigned, and tired of dragging his oxygen tank around. I do know they both fussed at me, gently, since they had both long since quit smoking, but they also agreed it would be the hardest thing I ever did. I still haven’t but that’s beside the point.
My fire was like the year that was winding down — less than impressive, disappointing in some ways, but better than the alternative. I stretched, tossed the dregs from my coffee cup, and whistled up the dogs. I was stiff and sore from chores that wouldn’t have been a challenge a couple decades back, before injuries and the onset of the latter part of middle age.
For just a moment, I longed for one of RG’s ridiculous pranks, or Gil showing me how to tie a better knot, or Uncle Ralph clearing up a theological point. I longed for Wanda’s gentle laugh, and for the touch of Miss Ann’s hand, which I am sure was as soft as that of my own mother.
For just a moment there was an ache, but then I remembered something. If someone is saved, we have the promise of seeing them again, and that’s what is most important. But here on earth, folks are only dead when they’re forgotten by those who loved them.
The Old Man was right, as he almost always was. The hardest part isn’t the aches and pains, but saying goodbye to those who matter.
