tom dooley

Met her on the mountain
There I took her life
Met her on the mountain
Stabbed her my knife

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy you’re bound to die

I've been reading a book by John Foster West, professor of English with Appalachian State University. He wrote an account of the life, incarceration and death of Tom Dooley, the subject of the well-known song by the Kingston Trio.

Though it is spelled Dooley in the folktales, the accurate spelling is Dula. In Appalachian English, you see “A” pronounced as “Y.” A notable example of this is the Grand Old Opry, where the word opera was pronounced with the same “Y” sound.

Tom Dula became a folk music figure as a criminal, accused of and hanged for murdering Laura Foster in the spring of 1866, in the foothills of western North Carolina. Laura Foster left home on her father’s only mare, dressed in the best clothes she owned, planning to marry Tom and begin a new life with him. She was killed less than 24 hours later and buried in a shallow grave, so small her legs had to be drawn up near her chest.

It sounds like a typical Appalachian folktale – a little grisly. But what makes it different is that it has a rather unconventional back story.

Tom and Laura happened to be involved in a complex love triangle, which started over ten years before her death. Laura Foster had two cousins, Ann and Pauline. Tom was quite a womanizer, so when I say that he knew her cousins, it’s because he “knew” them. In fact, his relationship with Ann began when he was around 14 years old, and continued conspicuously even after she was married to James Melton. Melton was a busy cobbler in the area, and it’s reported that Tom slept in her bed as often as James did.

But just for giggles, Tom slept with Laura about once a week too. Laura had a specific reputation for being “frail,” which in those days did not refer to physical stamina, but a moral frailty. Less polite folks simply described her as having “round heels,” meaning she spent more time on her back than she did standing.

Enter the third Foster cousin, Pauline. She was from out of town, in neighboring Watauga county. She came for a visit because she needed to see the only doctor in the mountain region. But she didn’t arrive pregnant. She arrived with what mountain people called The Pock -- Syphilis. The summer after she arrived, everyone -- Ann Foster, her husband, James Melton, Laura Foster and Tom Dula -- shared the same affliction.

How’s that for getting around?

So Tom Dula? He killed Laura Foster because he thought she had given him the Pock. Sadly, it was Pauline who took that honor. Why did he think it was Laura? Well, it's safe to assume this was Ann's doing. Pauline might have "known" Tom, but she didn't aspire to much more. Laura on the other hand wanted something a little more permanent. And Ann wasn't too keen on that. Given that Pauline lived with Ann and her husband, and wasn't exactly quiet about her condition, I think it's fair to believe that when Tom told Ann of his condition and that he was going to "run through" the person who gave it to him, Ann saw her chance to eliminate some competition. But as it turns out, Pauline may have brought a disease down on people's heads, but she also turned in both Tom, for the murder itself, and Ann, for her part in it. Tom was tried twice, convicted both times, and before his death wrote a note exonerating Ann, who was later acquitted.

The book contains this passage:

Anyone wishing to visit Elkville today can do so by driving 11.2 miles north of U.S. 321, starting five miles west of Lenoir; by traveling Highway 268, 19 miles south from U.S. 421 at Wilkesboro to Elk Creek; or by turning left from U.S. 421 onto Mt. Pleasant Road, 11 miles west of Wilkesboro and driving south-southeast to Highway 268 at Ferguson.

As a visitor travels north on Highway 268, he will not find that the old Stony Fork Road branches off to the left as soon as he crosses Elk Creek, as indicated in a crudely drawn map used as evidence in Tom Dula's trials. Today, it is necessary to turn left and follow the Elk Creek Road (S.R. 1159) 1.6 miles west, before turning right onto the Stony Fork Road, recently renamed the Gladys Fork Road by the DOT. The old Stony Fork Road (Gladys Fork Road) crosses Reedy Branch, one mile from the Elk Creek Road, Laura Foster Ridge, and a good many hills and hollows, before ending 3.6 miles north of Elk Creek at S.R. 1135, which connects with the Mt. Pleasant Road some distance to the northeast and leads to Highway 268 at Ferguson.

It could inspire you to take a road trip, couldn't it? History is a treasure. It’s interesting enough in a book, but sometime this year, if not this month, I recommend finding some part of history you want to hold between your fingers. Reach out and touch it, so it never disappears.

--Laura
--------------------------------------
From: Lift Up Your Head, Tom Dooley: The True Story of the Appalachian Murder That Inspired One of America's Most Popular Ballads, by John Foster West.
Down Home Press, P.O. Box 4126, Asheboro NC 27204 ISBN:1-878086-20-0

don't bury me with my boots on

Man, I hate shoes.

This is a picture of my feet in their natural state, on a trip I took to Naples, Florida, possibly the retirement village of the eastern seaboard. They are completely naked, which is wonderful in and of itself, but they are also cooled by the soothing waters of the Lazy River at the timeshare we were staying in. We go there when the timeshare is nearly empty, we have the pool almost entirely to ourselves, and we pretend we do not work for a living. Are you jealous yet? I completely endorse the experience.

Anyway, with all the commercials you see of women sitting around cafe tables, giggling and oogling over some pair of shoes a friend got at a fantastic price, you can probably understand how the footwear admission might make me feel less than girly. In fairness, though I do have a few friends with closets full of more shoes than I could ever keep track of, I don't think we've ever gathered after a full day of shopping just to compare notes on what kind of deal we got on footwear. Here's usually how the conversation goes:

"Those are nice shoes! Where did you get them?"

"I found them at (insert store name here because no one is paying me for an endorsement)."

"I have good luck there too. I need to borrow those."

"I got them last week, only paid $18 for them."

"Wow, I need to stop by there."

And that's about it. Then we're onto other topics. I hope that doesn't shatter someone's image of what women actually talk about when they're alone, but for me, it's kind of a relief. Because when someone tells me they like my shoes, it's rare. Why? Because I find one pair and wear them until the sole is falling off and the sides are sagging. That's because the thought of going back out to WILLINGLY BUY something I hate is not a topic I enjoy. In fact, I sound much like a Republican talking about paying taxes while a Democrat is in office.

I have four pairs of shoes I wear on a regular basis. That's up from the usual two. I don't know exactly how many pairs I own, but it's less than 10. And there's a spot in my office where I can usually find them all. Do you know why I put them there and not in my room? Because I can't wait to get all the way to my room to get them off my feet. In fact, I usually take them off in the car once I have closed the door.

This isn't going to come to a surprise to my parents. I don't think I have ever liked shoes, even as a small kid. I guess being born on a pacific island could explain some of that. I had no need for shoes. And when I did (for example, when we moved to Missouri), I had to wear a wedge in my shoe for a while. A note to pediatricians: this is not a great way to introduce footwear.

Anyway, I suppose those things contributed to my distaste, but I'll be honest, I don't remember those things at all. I'm speaking in the present. I hate shoes. They are hot. They make my feet sweat. They mean it's time to go somewhere. They are uncomfortable. I don't care how many times you say you've found a comfortable pair of shoes; it's not really true. It means they are less painful and less binding than the last pair. It doesn't mean you want to be buried in them.

And by the way, my dad has said for years that he doesn't want to be buried with dirt on his face, so please cremate him. Here's my weird request. Don't bury me with shoes on. I can't imagine a worse way to enter the afterlife, stuck in a box unable to sit up and kick off my shoes.

Please, don't forget this. I want to meet my maker in the naked feet I entered this world with. Don't let me down.

--Laura

more on my trip

The last post I made about my trip mentioned signs, and the lack thereof. I want to elaborate on that observation, however.

In other, non-governmental, non-metallic ways, there were signs everywhere.

As I pulled into Colorado, I was hot and sticky. My less than stellar evening in Hays Kansas had made me a little grumpy, and after 2 coffees in two different McDonalds (where, by the way, they make you choose how much creamer and how much sugar you want in advance -- I hate that. Don't let a teenager open creamer and sugar into my coffee. Can't a person be in control of their own creamer and sugar? Is it a flipping crime to decide as you're making it? I'm just saying), I was ready for a break and time to stretch my legs. So I pulled into the Colorado welcome center. There on the lawn was a mini exhibit about Colorado birding trails.

I laughed out loud. How perfect was that? When your future plans call for birding trails and people to explore them, how nice is it that the state advertises for you, and for free? So I walked around. I practically took a shower in the restroom, and I signed the guest book. I dare you to drop by one time and see if my name's still there. I bet they haven't changed out that guest book in months, you'll have plenty of time.

I mentioned last time that signs are comforting, and they are. Maybe there are more logical ways to find assurance, like research and tests and trials and experiments. But aren't I doing most of that anyway? I want to give myself the best shot for success when I hit the road. So I'm reducing overhead, educating myself and getting the house spiffed up. Slowly but steadily, I am filling the financial hole I dug for myself and with each scoop I add, I'm standing on higher ground. Pretty soon I will be able to stand on level ground and spot all the things I've been missing. And while things might feel like they're going a little slow right now because most of my resources are targeting one area, when that task has been accomplished, I will be able to take off at rocket speeds.

So I'm not a person who shakes a talisman at a problem and hopes it resolves itself. When I figure out what I want, I can do more than yearn for it. I can plan. There are times when working for it may not feel worth the effort. At the moment, I think I may be the only person who wants me to do this. The most encouraging thing I get from my parents right now is, "Nothing that you're doing right now is bad." So for me, signs are comforting. They bridge the gap. If I had been driving through Colorado three years ago, before I had an idea of what I wanted to do, that bird exhibit would have meant little to me.

Now that I have direction, I find signs all along the way.

-Laura

I guess I didn't say much about my vacation. It feels like it was months ago right now, but since it's fun to go back and remember, I will.

There's something I noticed around the Longmont area that's different from here. I've traveled from Georgia to Alabama a lot in the past 10 years. My parents retired there and I go there quite a bit. Rural Alabama and Georgia are impoverished. There are pockets of well heeled areas - rolling hills and green pastures. Then there are broken down cars and buses in yards, and overgrown yards and other evidence of neglect.

By contrast, as I rode around Longmont, I didn't see much of that. I'm not naive. I know everywhere has such issues. But as I drove, as I walked, I had a refreshing experience. The roads were straight. Lines were clean. Farms were tended. And green.

But I will mention something to local residents. Perhaps you can take this up with the city council or something. There's a real lack of informational signs in your fair city.

Don't take it personally. I don't think there are enough informational signs in the state, period.

But seriously, Georgia? They're everywhere. Comforting brown signs with white lettering. They tell you what's coming up. They tell you where the points of interest are located. They tell you when to turn so you don't miss them. They have arrows on them even.

It's a good thing. Just think about it, okay? Just saying.

More later...

-Laura

spring cleaning

• Transplant tomatoes into larger pots.
• Plant seeds in flats.
• Use the edger on the driveway and walkway.
• Mow the side lawn with the reel mower.
• Rake the back yard.
• Find and destroy or seriously maim honeysuckle vine (damn honeysuckle).
• Dump dirt into the holes Petey made this year (damn dog).
• Pick up the broken wood from around the mailbox (vandals!).
• Use weed killer in the back yard.
• Use the saw on the hedge along the fence line.
• Use the saw on the trees against the house, take them down to the ground.
• Use the saw on the rest of the limbs of the crape myrtle near the house.
• Pull weeds in the garden plot.
• Bag yard waste for the trash guys.

Is there any wonder that I see condo or apartment living as a more attractive alternative to home ownership every single year, and right around this time?

About a month ago, I did a strange thing. I purchased a reel mower. My reasoning was this. I was tired of mower maintenance. I wanted to mow without buying gas (yes, I'm still kind of cheap). I also wanted to be able to mow while bird watching.

This has become something else however. It's pointing out all the flaws in my lawn. There are many. For one, it's nearly impossible to mow over tall grass. That stuff needs to come out. I have plenty of the nice, tender, even grass. It's beautiful. Then there's a tuft of thick nasty grass. It's also nearly impossible to mow over a twig. I have lots of those in the grass too. My neighbors have these really tall trees, and they drop twigs constantly. I need to keep them raked up. It's also really hard to mow over holes. I have tons of those too, because I own a dog who thinks digging is a great way to pass the time. He's either hunting moles or secretly hoping he can bury his sister Mollie and I won't notice.

So the yard needs lots of work, lots of patience. But it needs to be done. It has been neglected, and the only person I can blame is myself. I need to make the yard easier to maintain. And I have to tell you, the concept of lawn tool maintenance is starting to impact me. I bought this little hand saw last weekend -- $22. It is BRILLIANT. Man, oh man! I've been using long handled trimmers on the hedge on my fence for years, and I would run out of steam trying to get everything. This thing is massive. We're talking 8-9 feet tall. My neighbor has to hate it. Plus that, there's another tree buried inside, and honeysuckle is wrapped around all that.

But tonight, I started raking. Why? I was scared of attacking the hedge. Then I got up the nerve and decided to test it out. I THINK IT MUST BE MADE OF DIAMONDS. It ate through the trunk of the tree like butter. Before I knew it, I had taken out the hedge, down to the fence line. I wish I knew how to kill tree stumps. I'm gonna hate digging that out. But now I'm actually EAGER to attack the trees that have grown in my azalea bushes.

And if it takes me all summer, I'm going to sort out my yard. By the time I get done, it's going to be easy to maintain. Not only because I need something easier to maintain, but because I want it to appeal to renters. Or future homeowners. Curb appeal. Backyard appeal. It's the same thing in this camp. We're gonna make it happen.

Now, if I can just get someone to loan me their truck. I have a HECK of a lot of tree limbs to dump.


--Laura

family circle

Instead of concentrating on the future, I think today I'll write about the present.

Today was Mother's Day, of course. As I was leaving mass, driving out to see my adopted mom, I passed by a cemetery. There were cars everywhere, full of people "visiting" their moms. I thought today about Perry and Mark, John and Tim, Nancy and Bennie, all who are without a mother for the first time this year. Helen missed her Mother's Day well wishes by three days.

My own mother was treated to a lunch at Elkins in Smalltown Alabama. She explained that she had seafood gumbo, which Mr. Elkins rarely puts on the lunch menu. I get the impression that my mother put a bug in the man's ear about how that wasn't fair to the people who didn't eat dinner there, because seafood gumbo magically appeared on the lunch menu for Mother's Day.

Imagine telling someone at Wendy's that they really should serve pancakes. Now imagine them doing it. I promise you, Little Old Ladies (LOL) have a cache of power and influence. I can't wait for mine to kick in. Now, truth be told, I already knew my mom possessed special powers. But what it tells me is that I don't need to worry about them the way I used to. They may need to move from the lake. They may need a house closer to town where they would have less driving to do. But they have a community. They look out for people, and others look out for them. And not just my mom, but my father too.

In fact, I don't think I've ever seen the two of them more involved, as a couple, in their community. Is that a function of working together as a team as they've never done before? As I was growing up, they both had jobs outside the home, both ran in separate circles. Now, it takes the two of them working as a team to get things done.

They are their own circle. And they have other circles around them. And I think that's pretty nice. When I wasn't looking, they found a brand new family. And the family loves them. And in an interesting twist, they love me because they love them. I like that a lot.

I don't know what the future holds for any of us. As an only child, I wonder what will happen. But one thing is official. I don't worry. They have family. We have family.

-Laura

Filling the Bucket List #1

We all know the reference to the bucket list -- a list of things to do before you kick the bucket. I suppose it seems like I'm getting a bit morose here, so soon after my great aunt died. You're just going to need to trust me. My bucket list is a coincidence.

As long as I lived in Colorado, I wanted to go to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. Not just to hear the music, but to camp out there; to see and be a part of the entire experience. Come on, think about it. I mean this year guess who's going to be there? You've got David Byrne. You've got Emmylou Harris, and the "King of Newgrass," Sam Bush. Though they are considered Nederland locals, the Yonder Mountain String Band is so well regarded that people familiar with bluegrass just call them YMSB. Kids, Elvis Costello is bringing an all-star bluegrass band; Bela Fleck will be there with his banjo. Kasey Chambers will be there. Tim O'Brien will be there. Jerry Douglas will be there too. I mean look:

“I loved the vibe of playing the festival...so eclectic, tribal and such a wild celebration. It's like the whole town is one big partying tribe, and in one of the most stunning settings you could imagine.”
—Bonnie Raitt

WHO IS GOING TO ARGUE WITH BONNIE RAITT?!?

But enough of that. The point of the story is that when I lived there, I always wanted to go. I wanted to set up a tent. I wanted to cook on an open flame. I wanted to know for myself which artists sounded good live and which ones didn't. I wanted to stare at the mountains and soak it all in.

A couple things stood in my way. First, I owned no camping equipment, and hadn't been camping since I was about 4 years old, when my shining moment was tumping the portable toilet over in the tent. Okay, so if my camping skills were a little sparse, it didn't mean I couldn't do it, right? Involve someone else who could show me the ropes? Sure I could. But there was the second problem. I was cheap (not necessarily a bad thing), and I was poor (also not necessarily a bad thing) which were both big obstacles to buying the ticket for the 4-day event. And the thing is, the ticket is still less than $200 to this day. Considering what my friend recently paid to see Celine Dion, that's a great price. But I didn't have the money. I was eating carrot sandwiches. I couldn't do Telluride.

This year, I have a terrible urge to go to Telluride. I can afford it too. I even have a travel coupon and access to buddy passes. No camping equipment, but you'd be surprised how many hotels there are in Colorado. I have people at work who'd cover for me. I have a great place to board the dogs.

I should do it, right?

I really want to. Still, I have to admit, there's still this pull of the camping equipment. And where is mine? Where would I get some to haul through an airport? I think what I'm missing is what I wanted back when I lived there. I wanted to go there with friends and experience the full scene. If I went this year I'd be going alone.

So I think this is something to add to my Bucket List for next year. Not just to go, but to sleep in a tent, to cook (even with propane, since charcoal isn't allowed!) and to enjoy the experience with friends. And the best part? My ride home won't be through six states. Instead, I will load up Pearly Lee, decide if I want to take the road through Montrose, Grand Junction and Glenwood Springs, or the stretch through Gunnison, Leadville and Breckinridge. And I will know which one I prefer because I've visited all those cities and driven all those roads. I will speak like a native when I give directions to people I've met at the concert.

And as the sun sets on the Monday night after the concert, I will be driving up I-25, headed north, all the windows down, with a bandana keeping my hair out of my face. And while driving with friends, we will have something great on Pearly Lee's CD player, or better yet, we will have one of those fascinating, get-to-know-you or let's-catch-up conversations you replay and remember forever. And when I get off exit 240, I will be nearly home.

You'll have to wait a while for the blog entry on that one, and the pictures. Stay tuned, for June 2010. I can't wait.

--Laura

In Memoriam: Helen

I apologize in advance; this may be a long post.

My great-Aunt Helen died at 11:10 am on Tuesday, May 5th. She was three months from her 90th birthday. She was in the presence of family, who called her passing gentle.

Tending her were her two sons, a daughter-in-law, a nephew and my mother, her niece. Her nephew was her landlord, who’d just come inside from mowing the lawn. That’s when her daughter-in-law said she couldn’t find a pulse. My mother found a pulse in her neck, but her breath was fading. So they all stood at her bedside watching the flame of her life flicker. Within ten minutes it was finished.

She died in a house she began her married life in with Walter, one of those Rollins boys. For the past few years, she’s rented it from a Rollins, too. Mathilde was the only daughter in a family of eight brothers, so she inherited the house from her mother. And from there, it passed to her daughter Louise.

It is a simple home, painted a cheerful canary yellow. It has a welcoming open porch, which used to have a porch swing. It is deceptively small looking from the outside, but inside the ceilings are high, perfect for keeping it naturally cool in the south Georgia humidity. The town was so small, she and her son Bennie could walk to church. And the house sits across the street from a senior center where they would go most days for lunch. The building had once been neighborhood's grade school. When Bennie was born, the doctors had told his mother that he should be institutionalized because he would never be “trainable.” She didn't do that, and Bennie attended that school along with his brothers and cousins, long before there were special education classes.

And when children called Bennie names, they were soundly beaten up by a tribe of brothers and cousins. So they stopped teasing him and made friends with him instead. Many of those children who once teased Bennie, who got a black eye or a bloody nose for their trouble, visited Aunt Helen in these last few weeks. Those days were distant memories. They’d become adults, friends and neighbors. And they were praying for her, because there was nothing else to offer. Even the garbage man had “Miss Helen” on his church’s prayer list.

Visit the sick. Bury the dead. There are some duties that are the glue of a community. Aunt Helen’s sons visited Mr. Strickland while my mother was there to make final arrangements for their mother and pick out the last things, like the lining of her casket. Mr. Strickland was the second Mr. Strickland, the son inheriting the business from the father, so they’d grown up with him. They returned in good spirits, commenting that they thought Tommy was relieved to have “men doing the choosing” for a change. The boys made short order of every decision. Everything was tasteful, but nothing fancy, none of the “Cadillac models.” She wouldn’t have liked that. She had pre-paid for her funeral already anyway.

My aunt never had a Cadillac life. She had known want. She’d known betrayal. But those aren’t the things that defined her life. I don’t remember her for her cooking. I don’t remember her for her sewing or writing. I do remember that she served wherever she was asked to serve. She did chores as one of twelve children. She was a mother to six children of her own. She was a pastor’s wife, in some of the most impoverished areas of south Georgia and Florida, where her husband’s ministry was less about passing the collection plate and more about finding working appliances for the congregation. I remember visiting them once when she and her husband showed off a shed they’d electrified so they could line it with freezers, storing day old discards, cheeses and milk. And afterwards, we visited as she stood at the kitchen sink. She was washing eggs. Her husband stocked groceries at a locally owned store. It allowed him to earn another wage and he’d convinced the grocer to donate the scratch and dent cans, the breads headed for the dumpster, and the cartons containing broken eggs. She was checking each egg for the unblemished ones. She was rinsing them. She was cleaning the egg cartons and repacking them. The people who came to their food pantry would not know they were getting castoff food. They would be getting a clean and full egg carton.

That is what she did all her life. She did dirty work. She sorted out the broken bits and saved what was good. She reassembled it and put it to good use. It may not be a Cadillac, but it was whole again, and served a purpose of its own.

Well after she had stopped talking, well after she had stopped responding to them, Aunt Helen’s sons would enter her room, lean over her bed and say, “I love you mom. It’s John. I just wanted you to know I love you.” Even the hospice nurse was impressed by it. She said it was unusual to see men act this way, or provide their mother’s care with such care, respecting her dignity. “Your mother has a unique family,” the nurse said. “This is a special environment.”

One of the brothers replied, “Well, we had unique parents.”

I can’t argue with that.

Good night, Aunt Helen. It's Laura. I love you, and I will miss you.

-Laura

consolations

Tonight mom shared the events of their day in Port Wentworth. She said Aunt Helen had been agitated all day, worried about Bennie.

Bennie is Aunt Helen's oldest son. She married his father, and his father died before he was born. When Bennie was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, so he was born mentally retarded. After he was born, Aunt Helen was courted by another Rollins brother, named Walter. They married and raised Bennie, along with five other children.

Bennie has remained with his mother most of his life. To this day, he's been his mother's strength, while she's been his memory. It's been an arrangement few would be able to manage as long as they have.

And today, she wanted to know what would come of him. Earlier in the week, the family gathered him up and took him to a cousin's house for the day, so he could have a break from all the things being done to his mom. He spent the day raking in the yard, because like many of his uncles and brothers, being outside is one of his favorite things. When he finished this chore, his cousins gave him some money. He declared that he wanted to buy something for his mother. So they took him shopping, and he got her a rose. When he took it to her, she was so proud of him, she told him over and over again. And with that, Bennie was packed up and taken to his sister's house.

And today, Aunt Helen wanted to make sure all was well. So they called Bennie, and put him on speakerphone. And he told his mom that he'd been to the beach today. He told her he was doing great and was having a great time with his favorite brother-in-law. He told her she should rest. He told her she should go on to be with his dad. I'm sure he meant both of them - the dad he knew all his life, and the dad he never met.

According to mom, Aunt Helen hasn't been very alert the last 24 hours, but when she heard Bennie speak, she relaxed, and has not been restless since.

What more is there to say?

--Laura

kindness and care

Mom called me from the hotel Saturday night. She'd been with Aunt Helen. I have to admit that I feel left out -- most of the family has elected to see her before she passes and spend time with her. I was kind of delegated to take care of the dogs and go to the funeral. I expressed the desire to see her, but it would be difficult to drive down in one day, see her, then drive back. Eight hours on the road, with the dogs cooped up in the house.

Anyway, I'm writing because of the treatment mom is getting there. All the kids are gathered at the house, and mom is getting all the time she wants with her last aunt. She sits with her as she sleeps, and when possible, they speak. Mom says that Aunt Helen recognizes her sometimes, and when mom asks, "Do you know who my mama was?" Aunt Helen replies, "You're Dahlia's daughter. I really loved her." My grandmother was the baby of the family. Aunt Helen was one of the oldest girls. Her voice changes when she says "I really loved her," a deep, slow tone, ripe with remembering.

Not everything comes to her. She sees my dad and can't remember who he belongs to. "Whose boy is that?" Spouses are late additions to the family tree, and not immediately recognizable.

And in the midst of it all are her sons. Fine boys who were raised to be very tough, raised to be honest and strong, and who are now men, quietly wiping their mother's lips with medicated cloths to keep her mouth moist, and who quietly do her care each night, changing a diaper, cleaning her as they were cared for in their beginning. They think nothing of it, and they take special care with my mother as well, who traveled all this way to spend last moments with family. I'm proud of my family for the kindness and care they show to each other as the dying process rolls on. Since it cannot be stopped, it is good to have people there who are practiced in the healing arts, in the resting arts, knowledgeable about what is important in these moments and what is not. Helen raised good boys and a fine daughter, and they have become good men, and a fine lady.

--Laura

losing my people

My parents drove into town on Friday this week, and were witness to the fact that I hadn't done much since I returned home from my trip. Primarily, there was no food in the house, as I'd survived on lunches bought at work by eating half and bringing the rest home for dinner. So we went to dinner at Fabiano's last night (dad's favorite place), and we had a lovely meal, coincidentally, with lots of take out.

My parents are gone now. They were stopping to leave their dog with me on their way to Savannah. Specifically on their way to Port Wentworth. This city, located in Chatham County, has long been the sleepy suburb of sleepy Savannah. Normally, this would be a perfect time for a visit. Not too hot yet, the tree-lined sidewalks around historical squares are invitations to stroll and a classic education in architecture. Federal style at the Davenport House. Georgian at the Olde Pink House restaurant. Gothic Revival over on Harris Street at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. You can see Italianate and get a bit of the morose at the Mercer House, now made infamous by "The Book." The Owens-Thomas House is Regency. The Cotton Exchange is Romanesque Revival. The Hamilton-Turner is French Empire.

And on and on. Bonaventure Cemetery. The Tybee Lighthouse. Kevin Barry's pub on River Street. City Market. Anna's Little Napoli. Johnny Harris BBQ.

But they aren't going for a visit of this nature. My parents are going to visit family. My last living great aunt has been sent home from the hospital. Hospice has been contacted. Her body has been attacked by cancer. Yesterday, she stopped eating because some of it has metastasized in her esophagus, occluding all but the softest of foods. In utmost practicality, mom and dad are going there to see her while she can still recognize family, and I will wait for the funeral.

So I am here, dog sitting, while my grandmother's last sister dies. She is surrounded by family, because she was surrounded by family all her life. She and my grandmother lived as newlyweds in the house where her life will end. My grandfather would have died in that house if my aunt hadn't run down the street to the dentist, who was the only person in the neighborhood with a car. With it, they were able to transport him to the Railroad Hospital. She did this despite the fact that he'd been shot by the husband of a woman he was fooling around with. I think she still wonders if she did the right thing by her sister in saving the man.

I wonder at times like now if the reason I like history is because my own connection to family is so fragile. I didn't settle down early. I didn't marry and begin a family. To people like Aunt Helen, who did exactly that, I haven't Started My Life. In some ways, I agree with her. Who will surround me when I reach her age? Will the house I end my life in hold my history as hers does? It seems unlikely. My house is where I live, and It's certainly cheerful enough - I've put my signature on it, as I could do anywhere. But is it a home?

I think that's why I like oldy moldy historical towns like Savannah. I think it's why I like town centers like Longmont, and feel uncomfortable in places where the old town center has been replaced with shopping malls and pavement. I need a place with roots, to balance the roots I've neglected to set down myself. History is the family I've neglected to grow. And it's a bit ironic that I'm wistful of having roots at the same time that yearning for something new is driving me to prepare for a change in digs.

But maybe not. What I want is a new place of my choosing, not the best situation to be found in a move for my job. The truth is, large close family isn't a reality for me. I'm an only child and there's nothing I can do about that. But I can spend the rest of my life wishing I lived in the mountains while I could enjoy them, or I could live in the mountains while I can enjoy them. I can wish I lived near Main Street and walked to work and knew my neighbors, or I could make it happen. I could wish for a life I enjoyed, or I could make one happen.

My trip answered questions for me. It helped make the future real for me. But in losing my last great aunt, I can take new stock in WHY these changes are important to me. I want roots. And I can choose where to set them.

--Laura