Two folks at a 1960's kitchen table, in Hankinson, ND. One is soon to be 92 years old, the other a month away from turning 93. Distance cousins, counting off other cousins to see 'who's left'. Matter of factly.
I remember being in Israel, in 1979; in a Bedouin emcampment. The custom, when greeting someone, was to greet as though you never expected to actually see them again. The custom when saying goodbye was to wish them well as though you would never see them again. The desert has some harsh realities.
So, back to the ND prairie....
I have those pangs of emotion in watching these interactions; talking about things that happened 40, 50, or more years ago. About Adeline's husband whose arm got caught and ripped off in farm machinery. About how Pearl kept in touch with everyone. About Edward, who's still alive but pretty crippled up. About the 640 acres that the Hohenstern's used to farm, with horses first and later with tractors. About how my dad had marveled over the number of pigs, wondering how the guys could possible tell if they'd all been fed or not. About the 11 'or so' kids that Aunt Bertha had, and how many of them didn't make it. An accounting, so to speak, of time and space and people. About how Donald doesn't mow the lawn anymore, and is seriously thinking about an assisted living apartment in Breckenridge. About how Pearl died so suddenly, in the night; and how much of a shock it was to all who relied on her to keep track of everyone. About the apples on Donald's tree; that sometimes get ripe before winter. About Donald going to war for his brother Elmer when Elmer got drafted, so that Elmer could go through with his planned marriage. How Donald just doesn't feel good going out in the heat any more. How Bertha's knees just hurt.
As I watched these two beautiful eloquent human beings, a world full of life experiences sparking between them, I couldn't help but tear up. How do you say goodbye? When you're 92 and 93? Do you say "see you on the other side?" Do you say "well, see you next time" - when the odds of a 'next time' are very tenuous? Or do you hug, and stand in the doorway for a long goodbye?
I will always fondly remember my mother standing in the door when I'd leave. Watching and waving until my car faded out of sight. Til "it's place remembers it no more."
An Old Testament verse came to mind:
...He knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
The life of mortals is like grass,
they flourish like a flower of the field;
the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.
These nonagenarians know, undoubtedly, that sooner rather than later their "places will remember them no more". If that bothers them, it certainly doesn't show. It bothers me - tears in my eyes as Donald stood in the doorway, grinning. Perhaps there is a wisdom and acceptance at 90+ years that we 50-somethings are sorely lacking.
If their places don't remember them any more, I certainly will.
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