Family Reunion
Rick Ready
Published by Rick Ready at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Rick Ready
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The June sun climbed toward its zenith, the heat having already dried the morning dew. Sweat beads rolled down my face, and the white shirt I was wearing clung to my back as I attended the first family reunion we’d had in six years. My emotions surprised me: anticipation and joy at seeing them all again, and sadness at why we were getting together.
I’d parked less than twenty feet from the gravesite so Dad wouldn’t have to walk to bury his sister. He’d broken his right foot six weeks before, and at eighty-four he didn’t heal as fast as he used to. This way he could sit in the van and still observe the service. We were the first to arrive, and the cemetery attendants finished laying the green tarp over the mound of red-and-brown dirt at the foot of the grave before walking off to wait in the shade of two massive oaks about fifty yards away. I opened all the windows and Dad's door so he could swivel around in the seat and be comfortable. He turned and placed the cast on the ground while keeping his good leg propped against the doorframe. Minutes later a slight breeze kicked up and the hearse from the funeral home arrived. I saw Dad lower his head, and I suspected he was saying a private goodbye to his sister.
I’d driven from Pace, Florida to Tallassee, Alabama to pick him up. He’d said he could drive himself to the funeral but the thought of an old man with a broken right foot driving for an hour-and-a-half on country roads frightened me and most of the populace in two Alabama counties. He was the last survivor of what was his family, his dad long gone, his mother six years ago, and now his younger sister. Sharing feelings and emotions didn’t come easy for a man who grew up during the Depression and fought his way across the Pacific islands as a marine in World War II. Watching him, I sensed his thoughts concerning his own mortality. He never expected to be the last one left.
Dad had talked a lot on the drive to Thorsby, offering comments and opinions on highways, drivers, and the way places used to look. Consciously or unconsciously, he avoided comments on death and funerals, hating to make this trip, knowing he had to. He commented on his memory, saying he might not recall what happened last week but the events from forty years ago were crystal clear. As we neared the high school football stadium in Clanton, he spoke of my playing in the first game there. He talked of playing golf at the country club next to the stadium, and of the people he used to play with.
“Most of ’em are dead now,” he said as we passed the second green. I slowed down so he’d have time to see all the old places. I don’t know what memories came to him but I know they took him to another time. I had my own memories, teenage years filled with friends, sports, and girls. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Now I wondered where all the years went. I thought of the roads I’d taken to get where I am, and I wondered about the roads Dad had taken in his life. Some I knew about. Others he'd take to his own grave.
We drove through downtown Clanton, both of us remembering how it used to be, somewhat saddened by what it now was. The attempt to revitalize the downtown area had lost its battle to the exodus of businesses seeking the dollars of the interstate traffic. One old café still catered to old men sitting around drinking coffee and eating slices of apple or coconut pies and talking about the old women that chased them. Dad pointed out the places where an old gas station used to be, now replaced by auto repair shop in desperate need of paint. Five traffic lights after we entered town, we passed the old drive-in and headed out.
The short drive from Clanton to Thorsby lasted no more than ten minutes. After a quick stop to pick up bottles of water, we pulled into the cemetery just north of town. People started showing up about five minutes after Dad finished his prayer. A few gave us long looks about where we'd parked but no one said anything. My cousins showed up within minutes of each other. We hugged and counted teeth and kept our thoughts about weight gain and hair loss and looking older to ourselves. We stood around talking about the old times, rekindling memories of when we were kids, at times sounding like our parents, whom we swore we'd never be like. My sister and I had been the country folks and they were the city folks. They liked visiting us because they could play in the woods, try to catch squirrels and chipmunks, swim in the Black Warrior River, and do other cool things. We liked visiting them because we could go to stores without having to drive twenty-five miles.
The temperature seemed to increase about a degree a minute and everyone appeared eager for the graveside service to begin and end. The preacher reminded us when my aunt had been born, where she’d grown up, and how she’d become part of the community when she’d moved to Thorsby. He told us how proud she was of her kids and how she only had to see the high school principal a couple of times concerning the behavior of her two sons, Jack and Randy. He led us in the Lord’s Prayer and we said goodbye to my aunt. Afterwards, we hugged each other again and talked about how it was a shame that the only time we got together any more was at somebody’s funeral. We invited each to visit the other and we all nodded and said we would. We each knew we wouldn’t. Dad called to me and said he was ready to go.
My two girl cousins, Richie and Sharon, gave him a hug. They seemed to hold on for a moment longer, like they were holding on to a fading memory. Richie gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him she loved him. Jack and Randy shook his hand. An awkward silence surrounded the boys grown into men. Jack and Randy turned to me and shook my hand.
“Good to see you again,” they said.
“Good to see you, too,” I replied. I marveled at how old they looked. I’m sure they had some of the same thoughts about me. I smiled because I could still see the three of us running around and causing mischief. We will always be little boys in some special place in our memories.
Richie hugged me and kissed my cheek. I held on to her longer than I should have. Memories flashed across my mind, a continuous movie played at the speed of light. Gnats or some other critter must’ve gotten in my eyes because I felt them getting wet. I released her and stared at the fine lady she’d grown up to be. We both smiled and nodded, afraid to say the words.
See you at the next family reunion.
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To my family, and to families everywhere, tell them you love them as many times as you can. Ask questions about the lives of loved ones before they are not around to ask. Record the history to pass on to the generations that follow. As time passes, memories are all we have, until they too begin to fade. Please remember, life is to be celebrated.
About the author
Rick Ready grew up in Alabama, spent 20 years in the Navy, worked for several years in the newspaper business, and worked as an education consultant for a number of years. He is a graduate of Southern Illinois University and now lives with his wife in Pace, FL spending his time writing plays, short stories, and novels. Look for his other stories to appear soon at Smashwords.com. When you go to Smashwords.com, please turn your Adult Filter to OFF to see all of his stories.