I was fishing my way up a tiny stream, barely more than a precocious rill, that flows through a remote hollow in Ohio’s hill country. Rugged land, with high, steep hills, deep ravines, and all heavily forested.
The little brook is a feeder branch to a larger creek a couple of miles downstream. That more robust stream twists and turns for another dozen miles, heading south, picking up tributaries along the way, and eventually donates its watery accumulation into the mighty Ohio River.
Once spring arrives hereabouts, these woodlands quickly leaf out. Sounds are muted. A green roof closes overhead, until looking up, you can’t see the sky. Only much-dimmed light manages to find its way through the dense canopy.
It was a glorious, late-May morning. The big woods rang with bird-song. Jewels of lingering dew sparkled in the shadows. And the soft, dampish air held that sweet robustious perfume of burgeoning life.
The rivulet’s moving water sparkled in the cloistered hollow’s dim light, burbling as it tumbled downhill over rocks and ledges. There were rock bass in every pool and feisty sunfish. If a shadowy hole afforded sufficient depth, a resident smallmouth bass sometimes agreed to a waltz.
But this isn’t trophy water. I don’t ever expect to tangle with fish over a foot in length and a pound in weight.
I’m here for the beauty and ambiance—the comforting way the old wooded hills enfold me in their sweet green embrace. It’s like entering a cathedral. A place of refuge and solace. Fishing is just an excuse.
About midmorning, a flicker of motion caught my eye. Looking around, I was startled to see an elderly couple gingerly making their way down the nearby hillside. They were following a steep path that paralleled the creek and led onward to the head of the long hollow.
Both were white-headed. I guessed them closer to eighty than seventy. He had on faded blue overalls and a long-sleeved white shirt. She wore a pink-and-blue dress, and carried a woven basket filled with cut flowers.
The old man led, bracing himself with a stout cane. When they encountered a rough spot or slippery patch, he would turn and take the woman’s hand, steadying her descent. A courtly gesture, filled with devotion and the unspoken understanding of aging’s obdurate infirmities.
Picking their way slowly downhill, they spoke quietly to one another.
You can often discern the treasure of a long and happy marriage by listening to a pair of old folks converse. I was too far away to catch more than a murmur of words, but I recognized in their gentle familiarity the unmistakable tones of enduring intimacy.
What had brought them along this risky trail into this remote hollow?
When the path leveled off, the old man looked up and saw me standing near the tail of the small pool.
“Oh,” he said, “we didn’t mean to disturb your fishing.”
I smiled and shook my head. “You haven’t bothered me a bit.”
“We’re headin’ to the old Dodson graveyard,” the woman explained. She gestured towards her husband. “Robert has family buried up there.”
“A brother,” the man said. “Horse throwed him when he was nine, the year before I was born.”
“I didn’t know there was a cemetery nearby,” I told them.
“Not much of one, really,” the man replied. “A dozen stones, most too faded to read. My uncle Gene is buried there, too, he died before I was born…but we’ve never been able to figure out which is his marker.”
“We just bring enough flowers for every stone,” the woman said, lifting her basket of purple irises, pink peonies, and dainty ruby roses.
“On Decoration Day,” the old man said, “we remember them all and do our best. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “I surely do.”
He gave me a thoughtful look, then nodded before taking his wife’s hand and turning to continue on their way.
I did, indeed, understand.
Remembering matters. Every year I make the rounds—stopping awhile at several cemeteries scattered across a couple of counties. A circuit that takes my wife and me most of the day.
Most years my yard plants aren’t yet up to the task of yielding sufficient blooms. So I begin my mission armed with a huge bundle of colorful and real-looking artificial flowers.
At each stop, whether its family or friend, I place a flower on their grave. Memory endures. I knew these folks, and remember their tastes and favorite colors. So I’m picky about which blooms to place on whose plot.
Several graveyards account for multiple flowers. As the day progresses, and the miles and stopovers increase, my flower bundle dwindles.
A bothersome thought is the fact that with just one or two exceptions, the flowers I leave will be the only ones those gravesites receive. But I try to not dwell on what that implies—or worry about the time when I’ve become a member of the Eternal Rest Club myself and no one steps up to fill the gap.
Does it matter?
Regardless, for now, it’s always both my duty and honor to make this annual bittersweet journey—to deliver and place these small tokens of remembrance and respect.
It’s way more than just ingrained tradition or not forgetting—it’s caring and acknowledging.
And that matters.
Like the old man said, every year, I do the best I can….
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
