The cemetery was peaceful - but that's what people always say about cemeteries, don't they? They're always carrying on about how "peaceful" they are. I can't say that they're really wrong. Except for a couple of maintenance guys, there was no one really there. Bunches of flowers gave a break of color between the green of the grass and the grey of the headstones. It was quiet, and a slight breeze blew. So it was peaceful, save the hiss of the freeway, which filtered in through the evergreen trees that ringed the field of the dead.
I stumbled off the plane after 16 hours of travel - which isn't a deadly amount, but enough to make you loopy - especially when coupled with the sleep deprivation that comes with not getting a wink during what should be a whole night's rest. This added up to two if you count the night before the flight that I spent with my girlfriend MH, holding her and gazing into her eyes, wondering why I had to fall deeply for a girl just before a long trip to America. But I needed to come home, to see my family, both the living and departed. My sister is getting married and we are all going to gather for a happy occasion, a welcome excuse after being called home for sicknesses, bad news, and funerals.
I jumped into the rental car and shot straight to Olympia, where I had a massive omelette breakfast with my friend Scott before heading over to the cemetary.
To see both of your parents names - one over another - gracing a headstone, can take the air out of even the toughest among us. I was alone, armed only with a bundle of flowers that I picked up at the Fred Meyer's down the road, and when I approached the spot in the wall where their remains were interred, it all shot me in the gut: I was home, and they were gone. It never seemed so tangible before - an ocean's distance does wonders to blur the realities of life. The last time I was home was for mom's funeral, but that was too soon, as they say: her name had yet to be etched into the cold marble. Now there it was, spelled out for me to read in disbelief, over and over again.
Not knowing quite what to do, I bowed before them, in the manner of a Korean ancestral right (jae-sa). This was not planned, but, it seemed to me that honor was appropriate here. Plus, I was so seized with grief that the ground was the only place that made sense, at least for the time.
After mom and dad I made my way to the veteran's section, next to the big Howitzer they have marking the area for those who served.
"Can I help you?" a maintenance guy asked.
"No, I'm just looking for my grandpa's grave."
"What's his name?"
"Glen Christ-"
I looked down and there he was: "Glen Christiansen. U.S. Army major. WWII."
I kneeled down and kissed the stone, rubbing the smooth surface with palm of my hand.
"Here's a little something for you, gramps."
I opened the bottle of Chivas Regal that I picked up in Narita's duty free and gave the grass in front of the headstone a generous pour. Gramps was never one to say no to a taste of Scotch, and I wasn't about to deny the man, even in the afterlife. He was a second father to me.
Again I bowed. Respect was the name of the day.
Next to Grandpa C. are my great grandparents, Matt and Marie Reisenhauer, whom I had the pleasure of being very close to utnil the ages of 12 and 13, respectively, when they left this world, exactly one year apart. These graves are nearly 30 years old now, and the grass surrounding was beginning to encroach. I trimmed it the best I could with my bare hands, gave them both a belt of booze, and bowed.
* * * *
I'm just 39 years old, and yet so many I knew in my family are already gone. It's strange and sad to think about, but this is life and people do die. We all just would like to cling on longer than we're often given: this goes for those we love, and even ourselves.
Today I went to visit the one earthly remaining member of the old guard: My grandma C. As I walked into the brand new buildinf of the facility that houses, her, I was reassured. The place was bright and warm; sunlight shot in from outside; earth tones were the dominant hues, and wooden beams supported the high-airy roof. The place didn't smell of antiseptic or pee, but was about as pleasant a location as you could imagine. I suddenly felt like less of an asshole for having my lovely old grandmother basically locked into such an institution.
I found grandma in her wheelchair, rolling herself forward with her feet. She looked good: She was clean and her color was great. Her eyes were open, despite the fact that, for all intents and purposes, they don't really work any more.
"Hi grandma, it's Chris..."
She recognized my voice immediately, and I kissed her on her cheek, resisting the urge to let forth the waterworks, both out of joy and deep sadness. I had tavelled halfway across the world to see my family, and there they were, in her face and in her touch. I could see my mom and dad; I could see my grandpa; I could make out the figures of those old folks who have been gone for so long now, my great-grandparents. There they were, living in grandma, and during the duration of the 90 minute visit - my first of many this trip - I could feel them, and I trust they felt me.
I stumbled off the plane after 16 hours of travel - which isn't a deadly amount, but enough to make you loopy - especially when coupled with the sleep deprivation that comes with not getting a wink during what should be a whole night's rest. This added up to two if you count the night before the flight that I spent with my girlfriend MH, holding her and gazing into her eyes, wondering why I had to fall deeply for a girl just before a long trip to America. But I needed to come home, to see my family, both the living and departed. My sister is getting married and we are all going to gather for a happy occasion, a welcome excuse after being called home for sicknesses, bad news, and funerals.
I jumped into the rental car and shot straight to Olympia, where I had a massive omelette breakfast with my friend Scott before heading over to the cemetary.
To see both of your parents names - one over another - gracing a headstone, can take the air out of even the toughest among us. I was alone, armed only with a bundle of flowers that I picked up at the Fred Meyer's down the road, and when I approached the spot in the wall where their remains were interred, it all shot me in the gut: I was home, and they were gone. It never seemed so tangible before - an ocean's distance does wonders to blur the realities of life. The last time I was home was for mom's funeral, but that was too soon, as they say: her name had yet to be etched into the cold marble. Now there it was, spelled out for me to read in disbelief, over and over again.
Not knowing quite what to do, I bowed before them, in the manner of a Korean ancestral right (jae-sa). This was not planned, but, it seemed to me that honor was appropriate here. Plus, I was so seized with grief that the ground was the only place that made sense, at least for the time.
After mom and dad I made my way to the veteran's section, next to the big Howitzer they have marking the area for those who served.
"Can I help you?" a maintenance guy asked.
"No, I'm just looking for my grandpa's grave."
"What's his name?"
"Glen Christ-"
I looked down and there he was: "Glen Christiansen. U.S. Army major. WWII."
I kneeled down and kissed the stone, rubbing the smooth surface with palm of my hand.
"Here's a little something for you, gramps."
I opened the bottle of Chivas Regal that I picked up in Narita's duty free and gave the grass in front of the headstone a generous pour. Gramps was never one to say no to a taste of Scotch, and I wasn't about to deny the man, even in the afterlife. He was a second father to me.
Again I bowed. Respect was the name of the day.
Next to Grandpa C. are my great grandparents, Matt and Marie Reisenhauer, whom I had the pleasure of being very close to utnil the ages of 12 and 13, respectively, when they left this world, exactly one year apart. These graves are nearly 30 years old now, and the grass surrounding was beginning to encroach. I trimmed it the best I could with my bare hands, gave them both a belt of booze, and bowed.
* * * *
I'm just 39 years old, and yet so many I knew in my family are already gone. It's strange and sad to think about, but this is life and people do die. We all just would like to cling on longer than we're often given: this goes for those we love, and even ourselves.
Today I went to visit the one earthly remaining member of the old guard: My grandma C. As I walked into the brand new buildinf of the facility that houses, her, I was reassured. The place was bright and warm; sunlight shot in from outside; earth tones were the dominant hues, and wooden beams supported the high-airy roof. The place didn't smell of antiseptic or pee, but was about as pleasant a location as you could imagine. I suddenly felt like less of an asshole for having my lovely old grandmother basically locked into such an institution.
I found grandma in her wheelchair, rolling herself forward with her feet. She looked good: She was clean and her color was great. Her eyes were open, despite the fact that, for all intents and purposes, they don't really work any more.
"Hi grandma, it's Chris..."
She recognized my voice immediately, and I kissed her on her cheek, resisting the urge to let forth the waterworks, both out of joy and deep sadness. I had tavelled halfway across the world to see my family, and there they were, in her face and in her touch. I could see my mom and dad; I could see my grandpa; I could make out the figures of those old folks who have been gone for so long now, my great-grandparents. There they were, living in grandma, and during the duration of the 90 minute visit - my first of many this trip - I could feel them, and I trust they felt me.
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