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Old Bones
“I know it’s just old bones over there, but those old bones are special to us,” my Uncle BF observed from his favorite rocking chair. The family had gathered, as it has for the better part of a century, at our property in Pitkin, Louisiana. It’s the place where my great great grandparents literally built the house with their own hands so many years earlier, and the place which every generation of our family has maintained and preserved ever since. Today, the house and the surrounding acreage is a refuge of sorts, where we can escape the cell phones and the schedules, the deadlines and the outside worries as we retreat, recharge, and rediscover that which has transcendent value.
I noticed as a child that the faster Uncle BF would go in his rocking chair, the more emphatic he would become about whatever point he was making (and he was almost always making one point or another — to my eternal delight). He wasn’t exactly rocking the chair all the way to the moon and back on this day, but was instead more contemplative as he talked about the nearby cemetery where so many of our family members are laid to rest. We make it a point, whenever possible, to tend to our little part the cemetery when we can and keep it neat and nice. My great grandfather, Ben Beeson is buried there. He is Uncle BF’s father. A veteran of the first World War, “Pa Pa Ben” and I were thick as thieves when as a young child, I would visit with him. He always had goodies and trinkets he would pass along to me either with my parent’s permission, or more surreptitiously without it. On the night that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin stepped on the Moon, Pa Pa Ben took his last breath in this life and, as my Grandmother explained to me that night on the phone, he passed the astronauts on his way to Heaven.
I was 7 years old then, and his death hurt harder than anything I had experienced in my little life to that point. I remember standing at the casket wondering when he might wake up. As I stared, I tried to hold my breath as long has he was holding his, but I couldn’t manage it. That’s when the finality of it all hit me like an awful bolt of lightning and I completely fell apart in front of everyone there. I remember my parents rather hurriedly took me from the funeral home that night to my grandparents home and tried to console me. At the funeral the next morning, I saw the American Flag draped over Pa Pa’s casket, and certain connections about life and death, about service and country, about finality and legacy began to come together in my young mind.
Yes, those old bones are very important to us. Inside the living room at The Farm, if you look up toward the ceiling, you will see handprints on the wood beams that make up the walls. Those are the handprints of my great great grandmother, who would pause in her work in the kitchen to help my great great grandfather steady the beams so he could secure them. We speculate that the cooking oils and materials on her hands must have left a residual handprint which appeared many years later.
There’s something warm and secure, something consistent and grounding about coming home to this family refuge. One has the sense of belonging — not just of belonging to the family, but of being part of a rich tapestry of stories and traditions. In a sense, it provides a certain sense of purpose in that we stand on the shoulders of some extraordinary people and feel an obligation to make our mark as well, no? And it’s that awareness of this living tapestry that infused my spirit last week when I was finally able to retrieve a great many personal effects that I thought had been lost for good.
Due to personal circumstances that I’ll refrain from recounting in this space, several years ago I lost almost all of my personal effects from over the years, absolutely all of my military effects, citations, records and awards, a great many family heirlooms I had intended to pass along to my children and grandchildren. Last year, through some remarkable and magnanimous gestures and actions, those items were returned for safe keeping and I was finally able to retrieve them just last week.
Among those items are the flag that was presented to me at my retirement ceremony, having first been flown aboard an F-22 mission. I now have the little New Testament issued to me in basic training, an old photo of our little band of crazies posing after a successful paintball tournament (wherein I was nicknamed Coonass the Barbarian), and the citation that accompanied the Air Force Achievement Award I received during my final tour of duty in the Middle East. The walls of my study now contain mementos of service in Korea, Germany, New Mexico, time spent with the Flying Tigers, leadership awards, and even a satirical edition of the base newspaper in North Carolina containing a photoshopped image of me holding the base commander in a headlock (we had our differences).
But most important? That candy dish that belong to my great grandmother (the one from which I would try unsuccessfully to surreptitiously extract after dinner mints because it is simply impossible to place the glass top back down without making noise); the little wooden keepsake box my son made for me when he was just a child; my grandfather’s pocket watch and his Masonic Ring, my high school class ring and the Security Forces ring I bought just after I graduated from the academy and before being shipped off to combat training; my grandfather’s cufflinks; Pa Pa Ben’s police whistle; my Grandfather’s and my father’s casket flags; and countless other heirlooms that I will pass along to my family.
Just a bunch of old bones? Perhaps. But surrounded by these old — very special — bones, I am again made complete and can, in a tangible sense, experience the comfort that comes from being part of the rich family tapestry that both informs and inspires my quest to build upon the acquired experience and wisdom of my ancestors and perhaps make a contribution or two that will make life better for my descendants. In the end, it’s not a bad purpose in life, is it?
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Just beautiful, Dave. I’m so happy for you. Reading about those precious items you now have and seeing many of them in your OP touches my heart. I have no family retreat or family stories or even items from family members that I can study and appreciate. But I love being able to share in yours. Thank you.
Great story, Dave! Reading it is just like being there.
In the end, it’s probably one of the best courses one can set. Thank you, Dave.
How wonderful for you to reconnect with these precious items. I agree with @ronselander, I feel like I was sitting in the house with you.
It is the stories of the people, and the traditions they create and pass down that is so rich.
You are blessed to have the memories, and the mementos of that tapestry.
I’m guessing you’ve written down the story of each memento. It’s best to have it spelled out if you can. Even if someone happens upon it in written form, it just reinforces the stories.
Thanks for sharing.
Been to Pitkin. Scary place after dark.
Honored to assist, then! We moved away from Louisiana when I was 12. I lived there again, sporadically, over the years, but there was something about being taken away from family and home at that age that made the memories that much more precious and valuable. Having these items back gives me a more tangible connection, I suppose. I’m an independent cuss,..but I like being tethered to things of transcendent value just the same.
And that’s the best kind of compliment a writer can get! Thank you so very much, Ron.
No argument there, Boss. No argument at all. We gotta talk podcast soon!
Thanks so very much. I like to think the proximity of all this stuff is helping stir the creative element somehow. Of course I may be delusional too. It wouldn’t be the first time,…but even delusions can help. Just ask the voices. Wait… never mind.
You’d think, you’d just think that a writer would thing to write this stuff down, right? Well,…nope. I mean, I have these pieces and similar essays. And I’ve told numerous stories to my kids about some of these objects. I remember telling my son a few stories as we were transporting these things last week. But is there a comprehensive, documented account? Nope. So thank you!! I have a project to pursue now!
I’d never heard that before. Our family goes back a very long time in that area, and this is the first I’ve heard. Then again, I never lived there myself so I can’t speak from first hand knowledge. Aside from the wildlife, of course, it always seemed pretty serene to me.
Just print your stories, and put them in a binder. Like a journal! Simple. 😄
Another great essay, Dave. Thanks for the good read.