Sing Them Home

by Stephanie Kallos

  “But it’s lovely, Llewellyn, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged and I let it go.

  We pulled up at L.’s folks’ house around 2:30, well after lunch—or rather, “dinner,” since that is what they call the noontime meal here. It’s the biggest of the day and much was made of our having missed it. Lillian’s feelings seemed hurt, and Papa Jones was obviously angry. Lillian had kept plates warm for us, however. She loaded us up the moment we arrived with pot roast, potatoes, gravy, cooked veg, all very heavy. (L. has already warned me about Welsh cooking. “Save room for the Welsh cakes,” he said. “Everything else tastes like a punishment.”)

  Lillian and L.’s father sat with us as we ate. There was a decidedly odd lack of feeling in the room. L.’s dad kept looking at his watch. “Let me know when you’re done,” he kept saying, as if he wasn’t monitoring L.’s every mouthful. “You and I have to get over to Mal’s and back here no later than four.”

  “I know, Dad,” L. said. He was wolfing down his food like a teenager. I didn’t understand the rush.

  After L. and Papa Jones left, I asked Lillian about it. She explained that—much as L. had intimated—Emlyn Springs has specific, hard-and-fast rules governing the mourning process, and all mourning customs must commence exactly thirty-two hours after the death. The mandate for this doesn’t seem to arise from religious law, but has evolved in some other way.

  The point is that the immediate family is expected to view the dead at the mortuary within the first thirty-two hours. “You’re expected to see the deceased,” Lillian said seriously, “as soon after the death as possible.” I had to stifle a smile at this; it seems so punitive, a way of scolding people who move too far away or can’t extricate themselves from their lives immediately, can’t put the dead in front of the living.

  Lillian asked me if I knew what else to expect.

  “Well,” I stammered, not wanting to get L. into any trouble by saying “No, not exactly, since your son is the most tight-lipped man I’ve ever known.” Instead, I said, “I’d love to hear about it from you.”

  She went on to tell me that the family would be remaining in the house for three days without emerging for so much as a trip to the grocery store. People would be bringing food and running any other sorts of errands that might be required. No gossip, no talk of sports scores, all conversation strictly limited to stories about Grandma Elinor, words of praise, and barring that, respectful silence. No radios, no television, mirrors and windows draped in black, and no other occupation. Just sitting and listening.

  Furthermore, during these three days, the family is to remain completely silent (!), listening only to words of praise for L.’s grandmother, whether they be uttered as song or poetry or story.

  “How do you communicate?”

  “We don’t. If we need anything—say, something from the drugstore that isn’t already in the house—we are allowed to write it down. But the expectation is that we will ask for as little as possible.”

  Once again, I was struck by how punitive this seemed, and this time I spoke up and said so.

  “I suppose it could be looked at like that,” Lillian said thoughtfully, “but really it’s not meant to be a punishment. A sacrifice, yes, but more as a way of feeling connected to the dead, who do not speak.”

  Lillian went on to explain that after the mourning Grandma E. will be carried through the streets to the church where a traditional funeral service will be held. Following that, she’ll return to her own house, where—for another three days and nights—the townsfolk will sing to her, nonstop.

  “Nonstop?” I asked, incredulous.

  “In Emlyn Springs, no one is said to be truly dead until they’ve been sung to in this manner.”

  They sing in chorus, I was told, in shifts. For seventy-two full hours, no fewer than four people and as many as a hundred will sing to Grandma Elinor at all times, and in the language of her ancestors.

  I am so thankful that I came. L. doesn’t seem to have any idea how remarkable this all is, how moving. At least to me.

  Must close my eyes now. Tomorrow will be another big day.

  * * *

  Days later. So much to write, and I’m very tired, but need to try to get some of this down while it’s still fresh in my mind. This is the first chance I’ve had to write since the day we arrived—or rather, I’ve had the time but have been too exhausted.

  First there was the mourning—I was able to talk and meet people, not being officially part of the family yet, but L. and his mother and father and brother stayed completely silent. The “Treedaw” it’s called, although I’m sure that’s not how you spell it. L. and I did have a fun time secretly exchanging naughty notes like schoolchildren when his parents weren’t looking. I’ve taped them into these pages.

  The funeral was pretty run-of-the-mill—and everyone seemed rather disengaged by this part of the process, as if they were just stepping through the paces. No emotion really, and a bit of uninspired hymn singing. I say “uninspired” although at the time it sounded nice enough—it seems that everyone in town has a fine singing voice—but once we got to Grandma Elinor’s house and the real event began, I came to understand what truly inspired Welsh hymn-singing sounds like—a world of difference.

  We’re back in Lincoln—very tired but must write, as there is big news to impart.

  Before we left, I made L. take me out to the old farmhouse—it’s about four miles from town—the one that’s been in his family for almost a hundred years.

  It’s magnificent and sad, as it’s been quite let go over the years—although L. told me that it is a house with great historical significance: One of his ancestors, a pastor from Wales, led the first church services here. People came from miles around, often on foot. There are tenant farmers living there now and working the surrounding fields. They only occupy the first floor of the house and were gone when we visited. The upper floors have been closed. The main floor was in shambles. There was a smell of mice droppings and alfalfa throughout, and a kind of wet, fungal scent as if there were wool blankets moldering somewhere in the house. Still, much of the woodwork and stained glass is still intact—it has a look that is somehow both humble and elegant—and the layout of the rooms is charming. It was easy for me to imagine what the house must have been like when it was in its glory.

  L. said, “I don’t know why Dad hangs on to this place. It’s literally falling down. It should be bulldozed.”

  I thought at first he was joking.

  “Surely it could be salvaged with a bit of TLC.”

  “It would take a lot more than TLC. There’s too much damage, termites, rats. Plus, the wiring and plumbing are ancient. It would cost a fortune to fix this place up again.”

  “I’d like to live here.”

  “Hope.”

  “Llewellyn, this is a part of your history, the history of the town. You can’t possibly be thinking of letting it go. We should at least talk about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Living here—”

  “Hope, that’s just crazy.”

  “—in Emlyn Springs, I mean, after we’re married.”

  What L. has told me about the town so far has been obviously meant to discourage me. There’s no culture to speak of, the library is small, the women in Emlyn Springs grew up there, they’re not going to be stimulating enough company for me, etc., etc. He reiterated those arguments.

  “You make me sound like such a snob,” I said. “I think you’re the one who’s being snobbish. Maybe Emlyn Springs wouldn’t be stimulating enough for you.”

  “I’m going to be opening my first medical practice. That’s all the stimulation I’m going to need for a while.”

  “Exactly! And as soon as I get pregnant I’ll have all the stimulation I’ll need as well. We are planning to have sex after we get married, aren’t we?”

  That made him laugh—finally. L. is so dear, so stodgy in his way. An old man in a young man’s body. This is another
reason why we’re a perfect match—he grounds me, I can make him laugh. I can see us at our fiftieth wedding anniversary, still a couple of complementary colors on opposite sides of the wheel, and yet relying on each other, the way that each child on a seesaw requires the answering weight of the other to make the whole device work.

  We took our picnic out to the back porch and sat and ate and talked more, about how the cost of renting an office space would certainly be less in Emlyn Springs than in the city. The fact that everyone in town already knows him is sure to guarantee him patients, whereas in a big city he’d be starting from scratch.

  “You’ll change your mind about this place, Hope,” he said, looking out across the prairie. “It all seems wonderful to you now, I know, and there’s a kind of romance to it, but believe me, there’s nothing romantic about living in a small dying town. Someday, you’ll want to leave.”

  “No, darling,” I said, not to contradict or foil him—which is a game I sometimes like to play—but because I’ve never felt surer about anything, “I won’t.”

  They say that the reason the Welsh settled here was because the landscape reminded them of the sea: treeless then and windswept, the undulating of the prairie grasses. There is a great, surprising, sad sensuality about this place. I would have been happy to make love with L. right then and there, but he put me off again. I am marrying a man of great resolve and discipline. I’ll never have to worry about him being unfaithful, that’s for sure.

  We talked more in the car on the way home and in the end, it was settled. L. will start his practice in Emlyn Springs.

  I’ve fallen in love, again. First with Llewellyn, and now with the people and the land that bred him.

  How blessed we are. How blessed our children will be.

  Chapter 8

  Welsh Part Singing

  Groeswen!” a deep male voice calls out from Hazel and Wauneeta Williams’ living room. The piano—newly and impeccably tuned by Blind Tom—answers brightly with two measures, and then they all begin: “Arglwydd, clywaf, sn cawodydd Gwlawa Dy gariad oddi fry … ”

  It is time now to speak of the Welsh language.

  People unaccustomed to seeing written Welsh fear they’re hallucinating, or suffering a transient ischemic attack. A cat making haste across a computer keyboard could produce these non-word-looking forms, or an insensible typist with misaligned hands. An unfortunate draw of Scrabble tiles also comes to mind. But surely this is not the look of a designed and spoken language. Everyone has at least a passing familiarity with Irish—Erin go bragh!—or Scots—On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Loman and Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne—but Welsh? This language is another animal altogether.

  The Welsh people will tell you by way of encouragement—for they are a kind and encouraging people—that their native tongue is not difficult to speak, not at all. Every sound is pronounced, they will tell you. There are none of those troubling silent letters one finds in English. Rs are always trilled, and anyone can learn to do it. The accent is always on the next to last syllable, except … And this is where it starts, the exceptions, variants, complications, mutations:

  1. A u can sound like a short i (“tin”) or a long e (“teen”).

  2. Double d’s are pronounced like the th in “the.”

  3. Double l’s have no equivalent sound in English; place the tongue on the roof of the mouth near the teeth as if to pronounce “l,” then blow voicelessly.

  4. The pervasive y can be pronounced in one of three ways, as a short i as in “sin,” as a long e as in “seen,” and as the sound in the word “son.” There are rules as to which sound the y takes, but nobody knows them.

  And so on.

  Some advice, then: nonspeakers would do well to simply enjoy the visual anarchy of Welsh, the startling way familiar letters have nestled up to new companions. Released from the need for traditional narrative, one can enjoy the look of Welsh the way one can enjoy an abstract painting.

  “Yn adfywio’r tir sychedig …”

  It could be that, in part, Larken’s early exposure to written Welsh may have indirectly led her to her chosen profession. It certainly nurtured a visual open-mindedness; this comes in handy when she’s teaching a unit on painters like Vassily Kandinsky and Jackson Pollock.

  “… Deued hefyd arnaf fi …”

  Neither Larken nor her brother has ever learned more than a few phrases of Welsh, although—like all children in Emlyn Springs—they were required to memorize the Welsh words to “Land of My Fathers” (“Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau”) and “There is No Place Like Nebraska” (“Ni does unman yn debyg i Nebraska”) and can fake their way through most Welsh hymns. But among the three of them, only Bonnie is fluent.

  Larken stands in the middle of Hazel and Wauneeta Williams’s kitchen, sipping on a beer that has long since gone warm. She’d like to take her shoes off. She’s been standing on this spot for over half an hour, held in place by her own wearing-down politeness: She’s pretending to listen to Mr. Eustace Craven, who has been telling Larken an extended version of The Story of Flying Girl, a legendary story in these parts. It’s the fourth—possibly the fifth—time she’s heard it since the Gymanfa began.

  The Williamses’ kitchen is large, but quite crowded. Larken and Mr. Craven are hemmed in and buffeted by folks who are here to sing the mayor to his official death, but at the moment are giving their tired voices a break and getting food and drink. Larken is worried that if an especially popular hymn is announced, the crowd will disperse and Mr. Craven, suddenly unbuttressed, will fall over. She is keeping a close eye on him.

  People take turns in the parlor—like soldiers on watch—so that there always remain at least twenty or so people singing to the mayor at all times, and in harmony. This has been going on, day and night, for three days.

  It turned out to be a wise decision to have the Gymanfa here; in addition to having the biggest parlor and the finest extant baby grand piano (Hope’s Steinway was finer), octogenarians Hazel and Wauneeta Williams are the resident authorities on the Welsh language, and between them they know every Welsh hymn in the hymnal. They know them whether they are called by name—“Groeswen!” “Panytyfedwen!” “Penlan!!”—or by number—“Number 42!” “Number 98!” “Number 13!” for in the old days this is how it was done.

  The atmosphere by now is more than jovial; it’s bombastic. The occasion could be a rock concert or a national championship football game. No one would suspect that, in the next room, a dead man is lying in his coffin on a catafalque—like John Kennedy’s, except that it is draped not with a red-white-and-blue American flag but with a hand-sewn red-white-and-green Welsh quilt, made over a hundred years ago and donated by an early settler for this express purpose.

  Of course, some of this ebullience might be due to the fact that everyone here is nearing the end of a three-day, three-night celebration. These people are bone tired, their circadian rhythms have been interrupted, their body chemistry altered. They are as uniquely hallucinogenic as any Depression-era marathon dancers who’ve been on their feet forever and can no longer remember what prize it is they’re trying to win. And they’ve all been drinking a lot of beer.

  “A flying sofa is nothing in these parts!” Mr. Craven hollers. Every version of the Flying Girl story—and there are as many versions as there are storytellers—features this line. “Sofas in Nebraska are flying all the time! Deep freezers, too, and grand pianos and trucks and televisions and tractor-trailers…. But a flying girl. Now that’s something else again!”

  Mr. Craven pauses his lengthy narrative long enough to close his eyes, locate from memory his vocal line in the hymn, and join the tenors as they arrive at the chorus.

  “Ie fi!” Mr. Craven sings—exuberantly, brightly, as the hymnal ordains. “Ie fi! Deued hefyd arnaf fi.” As weary as she is, Larken is still charmed by the way a man of Mr. Craven’s age—ninety-something—can sound no more than twenty when his voice engages in song.

  Not eve
ryone sings in Welsh—there are just as many people singing in an equally impassioned way on the syllable “la”—and those that are have varying degrees of proficiency. Mr. Craven is one of the town’s most adept Welsh speakers.

  Larken is relieved for this respite from Mr. Craven’s story; she uses the opportunity to take a bite out of a Welsh cake that she balances carefully on a napkin held just under her chin.

  As the choir in the next room moves on to another verse, Mr. Craven resumes his story. Larken knows how to comport herself at an Emlyn Springs funeral; smiling and nodding is mostly what’s required, but she’s been at it for hours, for days, and is starting to feel like a bobble-head doll, her brain sloshy and liquefying and losing its definition.

  “All the men started singing!” Mr. Craven continues. “We came to the bridge from wherever we were looking once we heard Mr. Koester—his voice carried that far! We started with … Oh, what was it? And the boys came too.” He elbows Mr. Byelick behind him. “Arnold, what did we sing to the little Jones girl, you know, in 1978, when we found her up in the tree?”

  Mr. Byelick washes down the last of his ham sandwich with a gulp of beer. “Oh golly, Eustace, I don’t remember all of ’em, we sang for an awfully long time, but uh … ‘Land of My Fathers’ for sure, and—”

  “Of course! The national anthem! Everyone knows that one.” Mr. Craven sings: “Mae henwlad fynhadau yn anwyl imi, Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri …”

  “Eustace!” Gladys Byelick enjoins with mock disapproval. “If you want to sing, go in the other room. Goodness. Your voice drowns out everything!”

  “Sorry.” Mr. Craven swills his beer and continues. “All the mothers were inside by then, it was getting dark you see, but after a while, after they heard us, even they started coming out, some of them with babes in arms. The whole town singing!”

  “It must have been something,” Larken replies, not so much because she expects to be heard or because Mr. Craven needs encouragement, but so that she can momentarily release her facial muscles from smiling. “Truly,” she says, lingering over the vowel sound, grateful for the way it stretches her cheeks. A counterpose.