Years later, remembering the sense of loss I felt upon returning to my hometown, this quote in a review of the book The Return, by Hisham Matar, leaped out at me: “What you have left behind has dissolved. Return and you will face the absence or the defacement of what you treasured.” And once more I felt anew a sense of loss as I remembered our town’s diminished Main Street and those flat fields stripped of their houses and barns.
On that first trip, a few miles before we reached our destination, we were lured by a sign that pointed to an antique store. It was situated on a thriving farm with a large barn and a modern house. Ethel, the woman in charge, had filled the original house with dishes, kitchen utensils, aprons, crystal and china, paintings, photographs, books, and more, much more. When she invited us in, Helen and I stepped into our childhood.
Within the crowded rooms, the spaces between the overladen dressers, tables, and bookcases were narrow. A handwritten sign warned, “If you break it, you buy it.” Helen and I looked at each other.
“I’ll take our purses to the car,” I said. Helen nodded and gave me hers.
Helen and Ethel were about the same age, and soon they set about establishing whom they knew in common. As I browsed, a chorus of “Oh, I didn’t know So-and-So married So-and-So’s sister!” and “How terrible that he died so young!” followed me as I worked my way room after room.
The first room had originally been a porch; in the process of remodeling—perhaps in the ’60s—open spaces had been enclosed with glass. It was light and airy. This room contained paraphernalia that had been essential in the preparation and serving of meals during the first half of the twentieth century. In late afternoon, the low angle of the sun’s rays glinted off polished surfaces as I marveled at the variety. I spotted a large Fiestaware bowl, the same size as the one my mother had always used to make bread. This one was blue; hers had been yellow.
The next room held crystal, china, and myriad knickknacks. Sitting on a shelf was a white covered dish in the shape of a hen sitting on her eggs. I have an identical one. It was my Great Aunt Tillie’s. She always kept her keys in it.
On one of our trips (of course, stopping at Ethel’s became an integral part of that tradition), I found a packet of Christmas cards from the ’20s. When I removed the rubber band that held them together and turned over individual ones, I was startled to see that my father’s cousin had been the recipient of all of them.
I held the bundle in my hand and hesitated. It had been only a few months since I’d had to empty our country house of all of its furnishings, some of which had been part of my life for decades. The details and colors were exquisite, much finer than those of our contemporary holiday cards. I was torn. Should I buy the entire packet, making it impossible for a stranger to possess any of them? But in doing so I’d be accumulating more things of sentimental value that, in time, I’d have to relinquish. In the end, I selected only three, replaced the rubber band, and reluctantly put the stack back into the basket.
When we quizzed Ethel about her business, she explained that she regularly attended farm and estate sales. With a trained eye, she picked things that she could squeeze into her already stuffed rooms, ones that would appeal to tourists and antique dealers. Her business was a way station where personal treasures from those disappeared farmhouses that Helen and I mourned were transferred to the next generation. Ethel marketed nostalgia.
When Helen and I stepped outside to load our treasures (of course each of us had bought a few things), we paused to admire the farmyard. Grass, mowed and clipped, ran up to the large white house. Tractors and other pieces of farm equipment were parked neatly beside the barn. All was well maintained, all in order. We turned to the view. The shallow valley to the south that began at the edge of the property stretched green for miles, and then we noticed it. There, at the edge of the farmstead, was a silo. The once elegant structure stood roofless, and growing from its open top was a very tall, very spindly box elder tree that reached toward the sky. The silo with a tree growing through its top became a benchmark for us. Year after year, we’d check to see if the silo still stood, if the tree remained green.
And then there was the barn we grew to love. Much as aunts, who have no parental rights and therefore must remain silent, root for their nieces and nephews to succeed, to keep going despite setbacks, we rooted for this barn. It was very old, built of exceptionally wide boards, and showed no sign that it had ever been painted. It snuggled into a small scoop of the otherwise flat terrain. We watched in very slow motion—these were annual trips, after all—as it began to list a few feet off plumb. Each successive trip, we could not deny the fact that it was slipping farther and farther. Then one year, with alarm, we saw that someone had stripped the barn of its beautiful oversize siding. Shingles on the roof had been blown off long ago by harsh north winds. It had continued to stand through blizzards and hailstorms. It was just an outline now. But posts still held up beams, rafters still rose to the ridgeline. It was naked and it was beautiful—a work of art. It became the Skeleton Barn.
It had been built well. It continued to stand. Each year, as we approached the highway curve that would swoop down to allow a view, we’d ask, “Do you think the Skeleton Barn is still standing?”
Each time we were relieved, until 2012, that is. When we rounded the curve and looked down, we saw only a mass of debris.
Helen and I, daughters of a farmer, compulsively inspected the crops beside the road as we drove along. We’d note the results of too much rain: corn leaves yellow, stalks short; too little rain: the leaves not a vibrant green but rather brownish and curled at the edges. We’d empathize with and admonish the owners, “Harvest that wheat, now. You’ll lose it all if a strong wind hits.”
And, with regret, we saw the changes in the kinds of crops that were grown. It was no longer profitable to grow flax, and I was disheartened when I realized that never again would I see huge fields of uninterrupted azure when the grain blossomed. Later, some of those fields were planted with sunflowers, but, though the vivid yellow of their large blossoms offered some solace, it seemed a meager consolation prize.
For miles and miles, gangly irrigation pipes began to be suspended above the fields, adding an unwelcome mechanical element to the verdant scene. No longer were there unimpeded views of nature where crops met sky.
The small towns changed also: family-owned stores closed, fast-food chains moved in, FOR SALE signs appeared on front lawns, parishes reverted to mission status, populations shrank.
And, of course, the cemeteries grew.
CARTING GOOSEBERRIES AND CHANDELIERS
In a large part of the United States, from Chicago westward through Minnesota and the Dakotas, people are busy carting treasured items from one household to another. About fifteen years ago, after a trip back to visit old friends and members of my scattered family, I came away with a vision of people in continual movement, like ants, carrying things to one another. In my mind’s eye, I see families opening car doors and trunks, carefully placing packages within, arriving at doorways with jars of newly preserved fruits and vegetables, handing over bundles of newspapers with green sprigs poking out.
No one met anyone without handing over some thing. These were not hostess gifts as we think of them in the East. There was no feeling of obligation on the part of the giver, and many of these were given not by guest to hostess but rather from hostess to guest. On that journey, from the suburbs of Chicago to my hometown, I saw this sharing of abundance. In some cases, it was a casting-off of what one person didn’t want to someone who seemed to want it desperately.
At my brother Bill’s house, before we drove over to visit his daughter, this custom required that Bill use a hand truck to haul a large pot of thriving mint from the patio to the driveway. Then, using two-by-fours, he improvised a ramp with which to load the mint into the car. Arrival at my niece’s home included, of course, the challenge of removing the forty-pound tub of earth and fragrance from the trunk.
B
efore I left Bill’s, my sister-in-law Ruth gave me a small book of her family’s favorite recipes and sayings. Also a T-shirt that announced in bold colors, IF AGING IMPROVES THINGS, I’M APPROACHING MAGNIFICENCE!
My next stop was Minneapolis, where my lifelong friend Josie greeted me at the airport. We met the first day of first grade at the only school in our small town and have been remeeting in real cities around the world ever since—from Minneapolis to Milwaukee, San Francisco to Boston, Tehran to Beirut.
We picked up my sister Helen at her home near Annandale, northwest of Minneapolis. There, Helen presented me with a set of three old mixing bowls she had found, one blue, one green, one yellow. Helen had found a yellow bowl identical to one our mother had used! She’d keep her eyes open for the fourth in the set, red. She also gave me a shirt of fine white cotton with pleats down the front from her closet to shield me from the summer sun.
Our destination, of course, was Big Stone City. It takes a great deal of emotional courage to return to that spot where we grew up. The state of current agricultural economics has taken its toll. Like many small towns, Big Stone has lost banks and businesses. The lumberyard is closed now, and the old building that housed the grocery store stands empty and neglected. The main street reminds me of an old mouth, smiling, with several teeth missing. And, of course, there are more personal losses as well. The people we pay our respects to in the cemetery now number more than those we visit in their homes. Making the trip with people you love helps.
My brother John and his wife arrived shortly after we did. Following dinner that night, John announced that he had something for Helen. He pulled his car up next to Josie’s. Then, in the motel parking lot, a full moon enhancing the dim wattage of the outdoor lights, we made room in the trunk of Josie’s car for a strangely shaped cast-iron piece, some three feet across. Found in the attic of a niece’s new house in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, the best guess was that it was a part of an old ceiling fan. In the backseat, we carefully secured a l920s brass-and-porcelain chandelier from the receiver of the mint’s house in River Forest, Illinois. These two items had traveled the farthest and still had more than a hundred miles to go. From Illinois they’d been carted to John’s house in Indiana, then through Iowa into mideastern South Dakota, where John attended his class reunion, and on up to Big Stone City to link up with Helen and a ride to her little antique shop.
With that accomplished, John announced that he had brought something for me. I was happy to see that the package was small. When I opened it, I found a mug from his class reunion (we share the same alma mater). It fit neatly into the glove compartment.
The next day, we visited relatives and friends and took a long, thoughtful walk through the cemetery. Before we left town, we stopped at the house where Josie grew up. Her brother lives there now. With his blessing, we dug ferns from his garden for Josie to plant in hers. Wrapping the roots carefully to keep them moist, we tucked the plants between the chandelier’s arms. We also gathered rhubarb, selecting young stalks with a perfect ratio of red to green.
And we packed gooseberries. A two-gallon bucket of gooseberries. Only if you have picked gooseberries can you appreciate that amount. All three of us picked these in Josie’s sister-in-law’s garden. Helen said picking those berries was the highlight of her visit. As children we picked wild gooseberries, few larger than a pea, from thorn-filled branches amid clouds of mosquitoes on hot July days in spots where there never seemed to be a breeze. Two of us could pick for hours and return home with only a quart of the hard little whiskered berries. In this lush garden in Big Stone City, with a view of the beautiful lake a few hundred yards away, we would lift a long branch of the tall hybrid bushes and see berries hanging down like bunches of grapes. They were large, easy to grasp by the handful, and they’d plunk, noisily, satisfyingly, into the bucket. More than one berry measured an inch across.
By the time the three of us piled into Josie’s Honda to make the return journey from Big Stone City to Minneapolis, the trunk was stuffed with our luggage and the mystery piece of cast iron. Into the last available nook, we put the paper bag containing the rhubarb. We struggled to keep enough room for Helen in the backseat, where we placed the bucket of gooseberries on the floor beneath the chandelier. Heading east, we sometimes hit rough spots on the highway. Then the chandelier chimed gently and the lacy green stems of the fern waved at the window.
Following their air-conditioned ride, the gooseberries arrived in Josie’s kitchen, where, after hours of work (there is only one way to remove those whiskers, and that is berry by berry), she made wonderful tart-sweet gooseberry jam.
Of course I carted my accumulated treasures back to New York. The set of mixing bowls and the college mug, I had packed and shipped. I put the white shirt, the T-shirt, and the book of recipes in my suitcase. And in my backpack, along with my journal and writing, I placed a small jar of Josie’s gooseberry jam.
Too soon I was back at my regular life and work. During one of those hot, muggy July days in New York, I wasn’t feeling well. I left work early with a terrible headache. The apartment was quiet and cool, easy on my pounding head. I went to the kitchen and put on some water for tea, then opened the refrigerator. There was the jar of Josie’s creation. Plugging in the toaster, I made some whole-wheat toast and slathered on the gooseberry jam.
FINAL DETAILS
The weatherman had been right. In Manhattan, rain had turned to sleet. Bits of ice ping-pinged on my umbrella, and I saw that the sidewalk was beginning to freeze over. I chose my steps carefully as I walked two blocks to meet my friend Diana. When I’d heard the revised forecast that morning, I’d suggested to her that we postpone the meeting, but Diana wouldn’t hear of it.
“You need to get this done and over with,” she said.
Oh well—the weather fit the task ahead. Both were going to present challenges. After some time, we managed to hail a cab and slip and slide our way to its door. It was a slow ride the twelve blocks to the funeral home, but we were only a few minutes late for my appointment.
We were escorted into a large office with lots of dark wood and introduced to Skip, our assigned counselor. After I was queried and answered a lot of questions, Skip took us to a lower level and showed us into a room crowded with rows and rows of caskets.
“This is one of our most popular models,” Skip said. “It’s simple, with a recessed carrying ledge. That way, there’s no need for a lot of hardware.”
“The wood is mahogany,” he continued, pointing to a glossy deep brown—almost black—model.
I didn’t respond, and Diana, standing by my side, was quiet also. No sounds from outside, either. We were in a well-lit, well-cushioned room one level below the street.
“Now, that one is also a popular model,” Skip continued, pointing to another sample. “It’s walnut.”
Joe and I had just stepped into our seventies, and his health was in rapid decline. I was doing this—preplanning, it’s called—because I didn’t want my sons to experience what we’d had to do a lifetime earlier when Joe’s mother had passed away.
Those many years before, we’d flown from LaGuardia to Minneapolis with Peter, four years old, and Stephen, just a year old. We rented a car at the airport and then drove four hours west to Big Stone City.
There, we greeted and tried to comfort Joe’s father, a hollowed-out version of the man we knew. And we learned that we had to choose a casket for my mother-in-law that very evening. Somehow I found a woman willing to sit with the boys. Then Joe and I drove another fifteen miles, arriving late in the evening at the funeral home, which had been reopened just for us. Exhausted and grieving, we entered, met the director, and did our best to choose a casket that my mother-in-law, a perfectionist, would have approved of.
Here in New York, in the room near Madison Avenue, Skip was waiting for my reaction. The walnut sample looked faded, without character.
“What about this one?” I said, pointing to one in the corner.
“Oh, th
at’s smaller. Jewish cemeteries often require a smaller size.”
“I like this wood more. But would it be large enough?”
“Is your husband a large man?”
“No. We’re about the same size.”
“Diana, would I look crowded in there?”
A look of dismay crossed her face. I knew what had happened. She’d been keeping her emotional distance, viewing this as an exercise for Joe, not me. But, of course, we both knew that I’d be doing this only once.
“No, you would fit.” After a pause, she added, “Comfortably.” She tried to smile.
“I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” Skip said.
“I know none of this really matters,” I said to Diana, “but I don’t like any of them. That one looks like a supersized men’s patent leather shoe, and that one looks like it’s been standing out in the sun and rain for a month. And the small one … At the service it may look … Oh, I don’t know—minimal, inconsequential. Maybe the point is that I shouldn’t like them.”
“Any decision?” Skip was back.
“Barbara doesn’t care for these,” Diana told him. “Perhaps you have some others?”
“Oh, we do. Come with me.” He led us to another room. “These are our less expensive models.”
Diana and I gave each other a look. I walked to the far corner.
“I like this one. Look at the beautiful grain! You couldn’t see the grain on the others.”
I turned to Skip. “My husband worked with wood. Both of our sons do also. We all love wood.”
I thought of the hours Joe and I had spent choosing just the right woods when we designed our house: Douglas fir for the soaring beams, cherry for the kitchen cabinets, wide-board red oak for the floors, quarter-sawn white oak for the dressing room cabinets. Each piece of wood, and its finish, used in building our house had been chosen with deliberate and loving care. And, of course, the same was true for each piece of furniture.
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