The Other Side

It's Fathers' Day, and it will be 3 years in a few weeks since Daddy died. I sent some money to my mother last week and asked for her to buy some flowers to take down to the cemetery and to tell him they were from me. He's buried at Hopewell in Medina, TN, in the family plot. It's an old, country cemetery that dates back to the mid-1800's.

The trees in the older part have to be at least 150 years old. As are the oldest head stones. Some are so weathered, it's hard to read the carving, and some have fallen over or broken because of the harsh winters. They get a crack, it rains, then freezes and the water expands into ice and breaks them in half. Sometimes right off where they come up out of the ground.

Daddy's been there a lot less longer than some of his neighbors. His mother died in '86 and is buried a couple a spots over. As is my little brother, Douglas, who was born dead in 1969. Daddy has more family within 100 feet of him than most people even have family.

It's a nice spot with a view down the hill. It's where he grew up. And Mama, too.

I didn't realize it until Daddy died, but my parents had one of those great love affairs that you usually only see in movies. They lived through economic hardship (the 70's weren't really that pretty), raised three children and then took on two more when they finally had the house back to themselves. But they stuck together through all the bad times and turned unexpected responsibilities into good opportunities to have a richer life.

I was lucky. I got a father that taught me how to be a man. He was slow to anger and long-suffering. Between me, my two sisters and Mama, he had plenty of reasons to get irate. But he didn't. He had a special way of making us feel overwhelmingly guilty without saying a word. Just the shake of his head could send me seeking repentance and atonement for whatever I had done wrong.

All along, he relied on my mother to take care of details. He took care of generating cash, and she took care of most everything else, but they made plans for the future together. They both seemed comfortable with the arrangement, and I’d be the last person to question it. It worked well for them, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Mama's spot has been long reserved at Hopewell, next to his. We went down (about 60 miles away) when I was a kid and put out makers to delineate our family plot. According to the rules of country cemeteries, once we staked our claim, it was ours. People who have family there voluntarily contribute to its upkeep. That's the way it's been for as long as I can remember. And I've been visiting that cemetery about as long as I can remember.

I think there might have been a small church there at one time, just by the way things are laid out. There's a nice place to put one at the foot of the hill as you come in, so I guess there might have been a church years before me or Daddy or Mama was born.

It's a lovely place, one where I find peace. Church or no church, the view is lovely off the hillside. It's the one I'll end up with, one way or another. If I go before my partner, he knows where I want half of my ashes. The other half will be his to do with as he wishes. At least half of me will end up in an urn on a hillside in Tennessee at the foot of my little brother's grave.

I always wanted a little brother. Growing up in a houseful of women, me and Daddy were always outnumbered. Had he lived, he would have evened up the score. His name was Douglas, and he was born dead, but I never even saw him.

I would have been a good big brother, I think. He would have been 40 this year.

Maybe I'll get to know him on the other side.

When I left Daddy in that room in Memphis after all hope had run out, I kissed him on the forehead and told him I'd see him on the other side. Then I pulled the sheet up over his face, told him goodbye one last time and walked away.