Foundations

I have had the pleasure of traveling with my parents to the places of their childhoods in rural Southeastern Kentucky. Even though I was born in Dayton, Ohio, those hills and mountains that we passed through felt like “home”. I liken the feeling experienced to the feeling of contentment that I must have felt as a wee babe being pulled into the loving embrace of my mother’s arms.

Those mountains have been home to my ancestors for generations. Even though I was not born in those mountains, I feel that some kind of genetic memory gives me a feeling of home. So, I consider part of my foundation to be the very Appalachian Mountain range that served as home to so many of my forebears. Perhaps, for many of them, those mountains gave them a similar feeling of home, reminding them of the mountains and hills of Ireland, Scotland, and England where many of them came from.

 

I have seen the old home places, or what is left of them, where they once lived with parents and several siblings. Those home places are succumbing to neglect and gradually reaching for the ground from which they once sprang sturdy and inviting. Those places were part of my foundation. 

 

 
                                                   Allen/Nolen home place, Clay County, KY.

                                                     Smith home place, Owsley County, KY.

I have also visited several cemeteries where grandparents, great-grandparents, and myriad other family members now rest. Most of those cemeteries are in the hills of Kentucky but some of those cemeteries are in Dayton and other cities. I have been to rural cemeteries where graves are scattered about hillsides, some with fieldstone markers with once deep, now shallow, names scratched into the surface of the stone. I have seen markers so weathered that the names are lost to the passing of time. I have seen graves marked with Mother and Father, and small stones etched with lambs or with hyphens separated by mere days or months. Those graves indicate my foundation; mothers and fathers who found the inner strength to go on in spite of tremendous loss and grief.

 

                                                  Paul Smith Jun 27, 1922-Aug 23 1922

I have seen stone markers carved with “First Settlers of Booneville ca 1790”. Those pioneers are part of my foundation.

 

   
I have seen markers with a cross carved into the stone. I have seen: “He was beloved by God and man.”, “Resting in hope of a glorious resurrection.”, “He is not dead but sleepeth. The angel called him home.”, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”, "He lived by fauth." I have seen several with “Rev” before the name. All of these indicate a faith in God. That faith is part of my foundation. That faith likely provided the strength to those mothers and fathers necessary to overcome the grief of losing those babies.

 

 

I have seen markers carved with a record of military service during the Revolutionary War, during the Civil war, for both Union and Confederacy. I have seen markers denoting service in WWI, WWII, the VietNam War. I have seen dates of death occurring during those wars leading me to surmise, often rightly so, that those soldiers died in service to their country. That service and love of country is part of my foundation.

 

  

  

  

 

I see the grave of a young great-uncle who died at the age of fourteen and another who died at the age of twenty-one. I might surmise that they perished from some malady that modern medicine might be able to cure but there was no modern medicine back then. Great-Uncle Corbitt died of blood poisoning after pricking his toe on a briar during the dog days of summer. Great-Uncle George died from typhoid fever. The parents of these great-uncles barely had time to grieve as they had to provide for their surviving children.

 

 

They lived through a time when medical care was not readily available. They lived when babies were delivered by midwives, and treatments for illness made by granny women came in the form of tinctures, poultices, and teas made from roots, barks, plants found on the Kentucky hillsides. They lived in a time when the prick of a briar could lead to death. Their perseverance and resourcefulness are part of my foundation.

I have seen later graves of family members in Ohio cemeteries. I could rightfully surmise that these family members migrated from Kentucky to the Dayton area for good-paying jobs in the automotive industry. One marker bears two names; a nineteen-year-old uncle who died when the ice cream truck he was driving wrecked, and a great-grandmother who died years after her husband had died in Kentucky. There they rest together in a cemetery in Dayton, Ohio. These folks are part of my foundation.

 

 

I see markers marked with marriage dates and bearing the names of husband and wife. Those loves were so important that the date they were united was carved in stone. This love is part of my foundation.

 

   

Another marker has butterflies carved in it and under the name and dates, “Kookie, Best Friend” are also carved. To me, these indicate a free-spirited, fun person, and good friend. This person is part of my foundation.

 

 
All of these folks rest in cemeteries now, unseen. Just like the roots of a great oak tree lie under the earth, unnoticed, they have provided support for many branches. Those branches continue to send out more and more branches in all directions. Those roots have provided the tree a firm foundation.

And those branches, are the most recent layer of my foundation. I still enjoy those folks who continue to spread out from the tree with me. I continue to learn from the knowledge they have accrued over their lifetimes. I continue to enjoy their advice, their sense of humor, their strength in the face of adversity. I continue to thank God that we can be branches together for one day, we too will become the roots, under the ground unseen and perhaps unnoticed. Still, the branches we send forth will continue to spread, continue to thrive, continue to add to the family's foundation.

 

                                             My parents, the branches from which I sprouted.

                                                       

And my "foundation" whispered to me in an ancestor's voice:

When my heartbeat ceases and my breath's sigh lies still,

Bury me please, on the top of yon' hill,
There on the top of the steep where the crops can't grow,
The earth will welcome my flesh and bones, this, I know,
For where my ma, my pa, and my little babes sleep,
I know this poor body, that ground will welcome and keep.
And at the head of my grave, please place a stone,
With the name and my dates etched thereupon.
And there, when the burdens of living give you pause,
Please visit my grave and remember what was.
Hear the songs of the birds, the rustle of leaves in the breeze,
Let the quiet and solitude fill your heart with ease.
Please walk upon my grave as much as you will,
For it will be a welcome sign that I'm remembered still.
And years from now, when no memory of me lives on,
Perhaps the letters of my name will be etched still in that stone.
And some future descendant will come searching for that name,
Seeking a forebear to joyfully claim.
Perhaps she will search the stones on that hilltop steep,
With her hands from the stones, grass and weeds, she'll sweep.
And she will study stones long weathered and worn,
For who is buried there and dates when they died and were born.
And on my stone, she'll trace shallow letters that once ran so deep,
Glance at the stones markin’ little ones nearby and perhaps gently weep.
She'll know that I was not just a name and a hyphen surrounded by dates,
But a living soul much as herself who was well acquainted with heartaches,
And also with hunger, frustration, pain, and fear,
Contentment, anger, joy, and loss of ones dear.
Perhaps, she will realize that little separates she and I,
Save the passage of time, a heartbeat, and breath's sigh.
And perhaps she will yearn to know of the story of my life,
All of those stories I will gladly share with her in the sweet by and by.