It was a damp, cold day at the cemetery. The oak trees were bare except for a handful of tenacious brown leaves that refused to let go their hold on what used to be their life. Featureless gray clouds had hung in the sky for days making us all wonder if the sun was ever coming out again. I had only been there a few minutes and already my feet were cold.
I arrived early to start taking notes. The crew from Veldman’s Funeral Home was already set up with the artificial grass carpeting covering the mound of earth by the graveside, and the beams were set across the open grave to receive the casket when it arrived. They stood around the corner of one of the mausoleums next to the pickup truck talking amongst themselves and hunching their shoulders in their winter parkas, trying to stay warm. I sighed, my breath creating yet another cloud that silently joined the others on this gray day. This was my least favorite job as editor of the Bogwillow Journal.
* * *
“Herbert Foxwell was laid to rest yesterday afternoon at the Bogwillow Cemetery. He was 79 years old when he passed away suddenly at home from a heart attack. Dr. Woodbine was quite surprised. “I had just given him a complete physical a week earlier and he was fit as a fiddle. There are just some things that even modern science cannot explain. I guess it was just his time to go. I will miss him, he was my most challenging chess opponent.”
The funeral was attended by his widow Marita, along with many friends and family members. Her two sons, Bill and Brad and daughter Diana came all the way from Kenwood and Duncan Springs respectively. There was also a sizable contingent of long time friends from Beaver Lodge No. 109 where Herbert had been Grand Beaver from 1982 to 1986. They performed a short rite that some of you might be familiar with.
It ends with each participant slapping the back of the man next to him with the ceremonial beaver tail. It was an emotional moment.
Herbert was born and raised in Bogwillow and ran the Foxwell Hardware Store for forty-seven years. Just a few years ago he turned the management of the store over to LeRoy Helmes who has been doing a fine job. We spoke to him the day after the sad news. “Herbie said when he retired, he was going to go home and make bird houses and front porch benches with all those odd bits of leftover lumber he had collected over the years in his garage. He made that bench right out there in front of the store as a matter of fact. Everyone has had a sit-down on that thing. Especially wives waiting for their husbands while they are in here looking at the lawn mowers and what not. I am going to miss the old guy. He was a fine man, a fine man indeed.”
Word has it that several of Herbert and Marita’s family members will be in town for a few days so if anyone would like to drop in, they will be having an open house from 1 to 4 every afternoon until Wednesday. And those feeling the urge to bring food, please be reminded of Marita’s allergy to seafood of any kind."
* * *
I put my notebook away as I watched the last of the crowd leaving in their cars. I was winding my way through the headstones making for the driveway when I came upon the unusual cement slab where the ashes of the Gantry family were buried. It was in a circle with openings large enough to deposit the urns. On the outside edge of the circle, each urn had a little headstone. There were three generations of Gantry’s here and I stopped a moment to read some of the names. I knew Porter Gantry personally. He had been gone for several years now. As I walked around the slab, I noticed something odd.
There by the side of Porter’s headstone was a pile of four flat stones. The kind that you might choose from the side of the lake to skip across the water. They were about as big around as dollar pancakes, and all different colors and types of stone too, like they had come from completely different places. Now that’s odd, I thought, I wonder who piled those stones here? I bent down to look closer, and there, sticking out from under the pile was the corner of a piece of paper. I lifted the stones and slid the paper out.
There was a black and white photocopy of a book jacket. “The Catalpa Tree Spoke” by Jace Gantry. I opened up the folded paper and there in an angular but very legible hand were these words:
Sometimes it takes a very long journey for one to find out how important one’s roots are. Perhaps you have to go so far away that they actually break, to feel the loss of their nourishing flow. I just wanted you to know that I have done something with my life, and I am sorry that it took me so long to figure out that what you thought meant everything to me. Now it’s too late to share this with you face to face, but if there is life after death then you will hear these words from wherever you are. Maybe next time we will do better. Your son, Jace.
“Well, I’ll be.” I said out loud to myself. I hadn’t seen Jace Gantry in years. They had a rocky relationship those two. Porter, a pragmatic man if ever there was one and Jace with his head in the clouds, well, they never did understand each other. And when Jace was seventeen, he had run away from home. His poor mother almost lost her mind. The only communication they ever got from him was a birthday card for his mother every year. At least she knew he was alive. And the postmarks were from all over the country. They kept coming even after she passed away, and Porter had put them in the little cedar box with all the others that she had tied together with a scarlet ribbon.
I took out my notebook and jotted down the title of the book and slipped it in my pocket. I folded the note carefully and replaced it exactly as I had found it. I decided to get to the library before it closed and see if by some chance they might have this book on the shelves.
I got to the library five minutes before closing time and went straight over to the counter where Selma was putting away the days library cards in a big drawer, along with the late fine money box.
“I’m glad I caught you Selma, I am wondering if you have this book in the library.” I handed her the slip of paper.
She looked at the paper and then at me, over the tops of her reading glasses. “Let’s take a look.” She led me over to the card catalog and in a trice made the announcement. “I’m afraid we don’t have it. Do you know when it was published? It takes us a while to get the really new books in you know. We share a circulating new book collection with the other branches in the county. I could call the head librarian in the morning and check for you.”
“No thanks Selma, it was just a whim. I’ll see if I can find it on my own.”
I said, and bid her goodnight.
* * *