Back to Salemburg

Earlier this summer we took Dad back to Salemburg. We took his ashes to lay down next to his brothers, which is what he asked for. He also wanted to be "where people knew him", but he hadn't lived there for about seven decades. We reckon the only people who knew him were there with him in the cemetery, but maybe that's what he meant. 

I don't completely understand why he felt drawn there, a sandy eastern North Carolina town with a few hundred people. He moved away for good in the early 1950's when he began his studies at NC State College. It's changed little since. He was raised in a small house on Main Street and, in my mind, the stories he told of his childhood were neither awful nor idyllic. For most of his life he lived in Greensboro, and seemed pleased with the choice. It's where he lived with his lifelong love, built a home, raised me and Rhonda, had a fulfilling career and many dear friends. 

It's not that I think his childhood in Salemburg was terrible. It's a sweet little southern town with kind and friendly inhabitants. But he was born right after the Great Depression in a place with few opportunities. Nonetheless, his parents were frugal and industrious. His dad owned a gas station and a couple of trucks. There was a garden, pecan and pear trees, plenty of home canning and hand-made quilts.

Dad was the youngest (three brothers and a sister) and would have been nine when brother Ollie was killed, shot by a sniper in the waning days of World War II. The loss to the family was profound and long lasting, a cost of war that is poorly measured. Another brother, Wadell, suffered from a mental impairment. As for me, I wonder how my life would have been shaped by two uncles I never got to meet. 

Thankfully my uncle Welton, a pilot, served on the home front during the Great War. Dad spoke fondly of the cool cars he drove and of the times he flew his airplane low over the house.

There were other bright spots. He got to drive his dad's big trucks at the age of 14. He was captain of the high school basketball team. I'm certain his parents were  gentle and loving. I believe his sister Martha was a source of strength for the family during times of turmoil. 

Rhonda and I made many trips to Salemburg during childhood, riding sans seat belts in the "wayback" of the family station wagon. I remember cousins and pear preserves and tree climbing and feeding kittens. However my dad felt about the town, it was a happy place for me. 

In the end, I'll never fully understand his fondness for the town. But he cared enough to save the dining table from his childhood home. It sat for years in my parent's house in Greensboro, a table around which countless family meals were shared. It now sits in my sister's home, absorbing more memories, more laughter. 

I suspect I'm not alone in feeling intense discomfort with the rituals around death. I do try to show up, and I try to do and say things that are meaningful. I'm all but certain my efforts come up short. 

But on a couple of occasions, I think I came close to getting it right. Once was the day we gathered here at the house, to deposit my mother's ashes in the woods by the stream that runs through our property. We covered the spot with a heart shaped mound of rocks, and I've since added a couple of transplanted ferns. It's good to have her close. 

Another was a hot summer day in Salemburg, standing on the sandy Carolina coastal plain soils, laying my Dad's ashes in the family plot next to his brothers. 

On both occasions, we were joined by my beloved nieces and nephew. My parents loved them deeply, showing up for them time after time. On both occasions, words were said, tears were shed, and time was spent sharing news and memories, as you do. 

As for my dad, we carried him back to a hot and sandy town that he somehow kept in his heart all those years, that helped make him into the kind and gentle husband, father and grandfather he became. It's a good place to rest.