When the Smoke Clears

Well, I am safely back from my trip to Virginia. The road called and I was able to take my time. I thought that the day away from work would be good as well and I enjoy a drive, especially a nice somewhat long drive to different places, even better when I am meandering no where near interstates, though there were a few stretches of those as well. In the end I only took 27-work related calls while driving. Nice, relaxing day away.

Partway up a long mountain pass I saw a van to the side of the road and a small contingent of girls in bonnets running up a hill while a man in a large hat and plain suit worked on the engine next to a teenager in a similar plain blue suit. I pulled over and backed up to them. Getting out I asked if I could be of any help at all or if they needed someone to go ahead to the next town and get some supplies or parts. The older man looked at me a bit distrustfully, but said, “actually, if we could get a jump off your battery, that would help since ours is a bit worn down here. The traffic on the highway was light so I managed a middle of the road on a one-way rotation and pulled on up.

I stood by as they continued to work, eventually the engine turning over and finally catching. I huge cloud of black smoke arose from their exhaust and an overflow of antifreeze gurgled forth. We disconnected the batteries, their engine still sputtering and attempting to live. The climb up the mountain passes must have put some great strain on the situation. The girls were still high up the side of the mountain looking amongst the rocks and scrub.

Stepping back I stood by. The men were quiet, still going about their tasks. Finally the older one came over to me and looked me straight in the eye. “Thanks for stopping. How much do I owe you?”

I was stunned for a moment, caught off-guard. “Oh, nothing at all, sir. Please be safe. If you don’t mind my asking, are y’all Mennonite?” In all seriousness he nodded his head. I nodded back in understanding and told him the county I grew up in in Georgia where we had a sizable Mennonite population. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he smiled in recognition. “I always had good friends in their conference so being able to help others is a blessing.”

After I started away I drove slowly to ensure they were able to keep moving. Ironically, the next large town I came across was Erwin, Tennessee, where the Good Major and I started our Appalachian Trail Adventure last summer.

Finally arriving in the remote mountain towns of Western Virginia, I was able to secure a room at the one motel in a 30 mile radius. There was also no cell coverage and no high speed internet in that radius, but it was a good place. The room held all the magic and styling of a 1950s motor lodge with cinderblock walls, hexagon bathroom tiles with the overhead heater, and simple lever switches on all the light fixtures, nothing on the walls. The owners even maintained the green astroturf outside the rooms on all the walkways.

Going through some of the family motions was a little trying. I can tell my grandmother and my father are no longer getting along at all. I tried to help her away from him some of the time in order to give them both a break.

For my Uncle Joe, it was a very simple service. He was specific in that he didn’t want much of a service, no lengthy prayers, no eulogies. Aside from the staff, 10 people showed for his funeral, mostly just the distant family members who lived in the same town, my grandmother, and Uncle Joe’s only remaining blood-relatives, my father and me. The service took all of five minutes. After Uncle Joe was secured in his crypt space, I saw my grandmother wanting to wander over to another car that had just pulled up. I feared it was some distant relative hoping to find out if they were in the will.

Instead it was two of my grandmother’s best friends from high school. They thought she might come to her brother-in-law’s funeral. It had been a while since she had her last round of medication so she was a little extra shaky from her Parkinson’s. They started talking. I stood by listening, fascinated as they began gabbing and reminiscing. It had been so long since my grandmother had really had a chance to talk with friends her own age. They started recalling stories of staying over at each other’s houses, sleeping five to a bed. I found out my grandmother was a starting forward on the basketball team back in high-school. I had no idea.

My father walked up to me to warn me to get her going otherwise she’d talk all day. I told him it was okay. “Yeah, but you have to be on the road before dark and we have to take you back to get your car.”

I said, “She needs to talk. She is smiling wider than I have seen her in a long time. I can wait.”

“She has to think about others, she’s blocking the cars.”

“The cars can go around just fine without driving over anyone. Why don’t you go have a cigarette? Let’s let her enjoy this time without any fussing or rushing.”

He wasn’t happy but went walking off.

On the ride back to her sister’s, she told me many more stories of growing up, though they were always, of course, with her negativity attached. I’ve learned to tune that out.

Finally heading home, I stopped back by the cemetery for a few more minutes at Uncle Joe’s crypt. Then I picked up a few flowers from his and took them to all of his brother’s burial places, leaving one at each, finally ending at my grandfather’s crypt. My grandmother’s name is already engraved alongside with her birthdate, only her death date left to be filled in. Something tells me I will be back again soon.

And while my blood relatives family are not as important to me as they are to so many others… considering the pain, abuse, and, quite frankly, complete bullshit of them… I will continue to respect them out of honor to my grandfather who made a request to me before he died.

It was not a joyous occasion, but Uncle Joe was someone I feel I understood. It was good to be there.

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