This little meadow was covered in grass not long ago. Before that, it was typical southern Indiana woods, like that surrounding it now. In 25 years Iâve witnessed the loss of most of the big trees in this spot to two major storms. I suppose the tall oak, recently fallen, died during that time but I didnât notice it die, probably was dying for some time.
Iâve spent the afternoon clearing fallen branches buried in a thick layer of leaves, cutting new woody growth, and pulling up hundreds of Virginia creeper ground vines that spread far out from the base of the fallen oak. The thought was to keep mowing this area, our own little park. Iâve mowed it for two decades but now, itâs undergone a change. The grass is all gone.
Whatever this is, has trapped a full Fall of leaves and I wonder if it can be recovered. Oh with enough effort this little spot can be a dappled greensward again. Is it worth it, I wonder? We put so much effort into fleeting things never meant to last.
On Thursday I was supposed to go visit my 95 year old aunt J. The last of my dadâs surviving siblings, sheâs always been my favorite. She reminded me of her mom, my grandma. The last time I saw my grandma was in the nursing home. D and I stopped in late on a December night after our wedding. She didnât know us but was happy to see us. A teenage punch.
About an hour before I was to visit aunt J at the assisted living facility, a few miles from Grandmaâs nursing home, I was on a call when, I looked out the window. My neighborâs house was on fire! Heâs in his eighties and recovering from chemo. I raced over, around to the back, hoping to see him burning a pile ofâŚsomething. His house was burning down! I slid open the back door, itâs never locked, and shouted for him. No answer. I already had 911 on the phone and said, I would have to go in. The operator said she didnât recommend that. Really? The only visible flames were in the corner of the dining room, floor to ceiling but the visibility was good. There was smoke and the sound of the crackling fire was so loud but, I was mostly confident Iâd be fine. I was. He wasnât in any of the bedrooms, I went back out and told the 911 operator I had to hang up to call him. His phone rang then went to voicemail. I started to second guess myself. If he were on floor on the opposite side of the bedâŚfuck did I even check the bathrooms? Just then, he called. I said, âYour house is on fire.â Okay, he responded. I started to ask, âWhere are you?â When I saw him coming up from the shed. He was moving good. Later I would notice he was thin from the cancer but not frail.
Tbh I wasnât necessarily looking forward to seeing aunt J. She had just come from the hospital and my cousin had warned me she was shockingly diminished. Echos of my last visit with grandma. The last time I saw aunt J was likely more than two years ago when her son died. When youâre 95, your sons are old men. She took the loss in stride. I always loved aunt J best because she reminded me so much of her mom, my grandma. Hmmm, I said that already.
So earlier, there was the predictable foolishness of my neighbor rushing back into his burning house. Iâd told the 911 operator he was fineâŚthen he ran back into the house!!! He said he was getting the fire extinguisher. He obviously did not understand the situation. I convinced him to come out but he grabbed the water hose aiming a pitiful stream of water at the wall outside the dining room. I put my hand on his shoulder and waited for him to accept his loss.
I eventually returned to the house and called aunt J. She was completely lucid but sounded weak. She said there was a knock earlier and she thought it was me. <sigh> yeah no. I told her the story of my neighborâs fire and said I was covered in smoke and would come see her tomorrow. We talked a bit, exchanged âI love youâ and I went on with my day.
The next morning, my cousin called. Aunt J died in the night.
My neighbor just now. Heâs more than that, heâs Dâs uncle. He married Dâs momâs sister so heâs family. His wife, Dâs aunt, died a few years ago. I wish my last memory of her was our conversation shared out in the yard as both of us were trying to control our weeds. In the course of our conversation, she said we were living the âEnd Times.â A few days later, she awoke and didnât know who she was. This persisted until she died. The last time I saw her, she didnât know me. Anyway, heâs over there now pulling weeds.
So. I came to good terms with the inevitability of change(death) long ago, it doesnât cause me angst when we old people die. Itâs inevitable, the weeds will take over, the woods become a meadow then maybe a yard, maybe the woods again. Civilizations falter and become something else. I donât want to give the end away.
The singer, Carsie Blanton, a great lyricist and downright speaker of essential truths wrote a song called âSmoke Alarm.â
https://carsieblanton.bandcamp.com/track/smoke-alarm
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