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DOMESTIC
DISTURBANCE:
Where irises grow
I don't
remember attending very many funerals when I was a child, but as the previous
generations have aged, the number of burials has increased with each passing
year. My own children have been to so many funerals that they're almost
blasé about it. I have to admit I was a little discomfited when I
found them taking turns playing corpse while the others chanted, "Dead
man, dead man, come alive, come alive when I count to five."
One
by one my grandparents' generation is dying off; in the two and a half years
since Alec was born, Adam and I have lost four grandparents, and of my
grandmother's six siblings, only two remain. At my grandmother's
funeral last month, my cousin exclaimed, "I swear, we only see each
other at funerals," and I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that several of
us were placing morbid bets on who would be the next to pass (if we had a
family motto it would be "you have to laugh, or you'll cry.")
Although
the details differ, there's a certain sameness to these funerals. An
open casket is de rigueur, as are the assurances that the deceased
looks "beautiful" and "at peace." Inevitably,
there's a luncheon provided by the ladies of the church, with casseroles and
dumplings and deviled eggs, not to mention pies and desserts of every
description. There are children underfoot, with grass stains on their
Sunday best, and little old ladies, clutching at you with thin, frail hands.
When you shake their hands, they don't let go; they hold onto you, patting
your hand gently and insistently. There are hymns that promise heaven
and speak of blood that washes us clean as snow. Finally, there is the
irrefutable grave: a gaping hole in the manicured cemetery lawn, with the
pile of dirt beside it (discreetly covered with a green tarp). Always,
there is the necessary babble of noise and busy-ness, followed by the quiet
aftermath, when the real grieving happens.
After my grandmother's funeral, my mother and I
did what we jokingly call the cemetery tour with another cousin, walking
through three of the graveyards where my family members are buried, locating
graves and pulling away the creeping Saint Augustine grass that winds its
way over the markers. Now that most of the old folks are gone, it
seems I'm one of the only ones who remember where everyone is buried.
I spent hours in those cemeteries with my grandmother and my great-aunts,
hearing the family stories, learning the tragedies and triumphs of people
long since turned to dust. I don't have the anecdotes and names
committed to memory the way my Aunt Bernice did (she could tell you how
everyone in the cemetery was related to us, and every detail of their
heritage to boot, without ever consulting a note). But at least I can
remember where the family graves are, and I have a three-ring binder full of
cheat sheets for who's who and how we're related to the Civil War colonel
(it comes in handy whenever one of my cousins wants to join the Daughters of
the Confederacy).
When
there's not a funeral going on, the family cemeteries are quiet, peaceful
places, hidden in the woods, down winding, narrow roads. Towering
pines and creeping wisteria shade the older graves; family members have
decorated the newer graves with mementoes and reminders of their loved ones:
silk flowers, pinwheels, sun catchers -- one even sports a life-sized
plastic deer. It's rare to see other visitors; usually the only noises
I hear are birdsongs, and occasionally the high, forlorn sound of a train
whistle.
I
particularly love to visit the cemeteries in the spring, when the redbuds
and dogwoods are blooming, and wildflowers and naturalized irises provide a
frivolous contrast to the solemn grey stones. My grandmother grew
irises in her garden, and I remember how every year they spread further and
further outside their brick-edged bed; they send out rhizomes, long
horizontal roots that put out fresh stalks at every node, and given time,
they'll take over an entire yard. They may look delicate, but they're
natural survivors; driving to my grandmother's funeral, we saw the kudzu
covered remains of a house, surrounded by a field of frilly irises.
When
I was a kid, these tiny East Texas towns felt like another country,
provincial and out of step with the rest of the world. My dad was in
the Air Force, and we never lived anywhere for long. I've always joked
that I don't have a hometown, I've always felt rootless, but more and more,
I think I was wrong. I never lived in those small towns, with their
quaint brick squares and pine-shaded cemeteries, but I sprouted from those
roots and they nourish me even now.
___________
About the Author:
Melissa Lipscomb lives in Austin with her children Drew, Franny, Alec and
husband Adam. Some days she feels like she's figuring out, and others she's
just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Visit her blog.
