Hometown Special of the Day...Death

My hometown and I have a love/hate relationship, but as the saying goes nothing worthwhile is easy. Many times, I have moved away and boldly stated, “I am never going to live in that tiny town again”. However, a force or circumstances have always drawn me back home. So, what is it about this one store town that keeps this adventurous chick coming back for more, death. Ok, wait don’t run away and think I’m just some crazy woman, stick around for the story and the bittersweet relationship with death.

I grew up in a small town, when I say small, I mean small A.F. The current population is 192. There is way more cows in this town than people. We have a school, a gas station, one restaurant, a post office, and four churches. Oh yeah, and one huge cemetery. There are also more dead people in this town than live ones. Ironically, going to the cemetery is one of the most peaceful places in this town and it’s where I go to get grounded; when I’m emotionally on the edge. It’s a reminder of what’s important in this life, plus my best friend’s tombstone is there.

When I was 18 years old, I left this town and went off to college. Everyone told me that things were going to change in college. That I would no longer be the big fish in the little pond. Turns out I was the big fish in the bigger pond. It’s my magnetic personality and maybe the fact that I’m a party girl at heart; but I digress, that’s a story for another day. Even while I was in college, I would still come home almost every weekend, to par-take in hometown delights. Bonfires out in fields, cruising gravel roads with childhood friends, and funerals, can’t forget those. During my college years there were a lot of visitations and funerals. That is what makes my hometown special, Death is at the top of the town’s hierarchy. It is the thing that I have come to love about this familial geological location in B.F.E. (For those of you who don’t speak high-class hillbilly that stands for Bum F***** Egypt, like “that party is out in B.F.E., it will take an hour to get there so we're taking gravel to pre-party”)

One Spring, when the season was right at that sweet spot between Winter and Summer, I was home almost every weekend. I went home to pay my respects to those who had passed to the other side. There was a lot of cancer around then, the grandparents and parents of my friends were physically ravaged by this disease in record numbers. As far as I know there was never a study done but there really should be. Looking back, it was a harrowing time that left me feeling off balance. The swift change in health was terrifying. People in the prime of their life, bright and vibrant, were on deaths doorstep in less than a years' time.

So, let me lay it out for you, the funeral is going to be at least a four-day affair by the time all the traditional services are complete. It's during these four days that this community shines and gathers in remembrance.

Day 1

News of the passing is received (usually from the maternal figure) and plans are arranged. This day is mostly spent alone getting things ready while trying to digest the news. Then embarking on the drive home, which was 2 hours for me. That drive would be a blur on the highway hypnosis detour. You know, the kind where as soon as you step out safely at your destination you say, “I don’t remember driving here…how the hell am I even alive”. Those drives were therapeutic. I laughed, cried and sang my heart out the whole way home.

Day 2

I wake up feeling drained from the flood of memories and the travel from the day prior. However, there is no time for sleeping, because today is the day for gathering of photos and comforting the loved ones who still reside in this small town. This day is a roller coaster of emotions. We go to the homes of our old friends and distant relatives bringing the comfort foods of life in the country. I always have that same feeling when I walk in the door. Even though I am a natural healer, the rawness of the emotions hit me hard; pushing me backward, like a wave. My inclination is to just turn around and say "oops never mind it's too thick with emotions in here". I stand firm and just laugh at my weak side; I think, to myself, shut up and be strong for “them”. The “them” is not just my friend who has lost a parent. It’s my inner self, it’s the community that has surrounded me in times of need and it’s the wheel of karma that is always turning. Turning in front of our faces and turning, always, behind the scenes. So, we serve up our love that is held in casserole dishes and chocolate chip cookies. We laugh, cry and share in the memories.

Day 3

I wake up even more exhausted than the day prior. This day the duality of my relationship with my hometown becomes more evident. I go back and forth between; thank God I don’t live here anymore to why did I ever leave. Now we get to the thing that makes my town so special, the connections of the families and the communities. While I am warmed with the care and love that is displayed, the other side of that, is the small-town sin. The small-town sin is gossip, and it is fueled by the boredom that permeates the edges of rural America. The sin is brought into the light of day through visiting old friends and family. The rumors are thrown in your face, some of them doing it just to gauge your reaction to it. The reaction is the stamp of verification on the rumor. The truly depressing side of this double-edged sword is that bad news thrives while good news weathers away. The rumor mill is not sustained by good news, its pain, sadness, shame and jealousy that fuels this ancient machine.

I shake off the pain of the day prior and build myself back up for the day ahead. I’m dreading the process even more on this day. I’m still motivated by the human connection that is ever present in a small town. It’s right there under the surface. Too bad it takes a death to bring it to the forefront. The people in this community, in the not so distance past, were there for each other. Not just when someone died but in everyday circumstances. That is why I cling to that feeling of death bringing us back home. Today is the visitation. That weird feeling thing hits me again right before walking in. I want to back out, say I’m sick and run. However, when I push through that line and hug people I haven’t seen in years, I feel lighter somehow. This is what really matters, that we all die someday so we need to focus on what we have in this present moment. We are not guaranteed tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream. Today, this second, is the only guarantee. Afterward, I’m rewarded for the emotional burden by a down home bon-fire. Where, of course, I get wasted. In my defense I’m an empath, so I got to self-medicate somehow people.

Day 4

This day I awaken with a little more pep in my step, knowing this is the last day of observing the Death parade. Then I’ll be back to the structure of my “normal” life. I am always amazed the way life stands still for death in a small town. Relatives from all over the country and long-lost friends come to the huge cemetery in the small town. They all take off work or school to attend this transition of the soul back to our true home. I believe that the soul hangs around for these 4-7 days right after their physical death. We all go to the cemetery even in the rain, even in snow and high heels. It is important to be there to witness this last rite and say our goodbyes.

So that’s it, then we all go back to our “normal” routine. After these grief journeys I feel the emotional back and forth again. Oscillating between feeling lonely after leaving the small town and my disdain of the small-town sin. I know that after one of these trips there will be a shit storm of gossip stirred up in my wake. Oh well, I think it is worth the price. The feeling of community around death and being the talk of the town. I’m just more food for the rumor mill.

My town is special, the evidence is in the fact that I ended up moving back home about 10 years after the small-town springtime death. The end of that fateful spring, my best friend/grandma passed through the veil of forgetfulness. It was one of the hardest times in my life, I felt that a piece of me was gone and we just buried that piece in that huge cemetery. However, I was comforted by all the friends, family and even my nemesis who came by and brought the beloved comfort food for the body and soul. While I was enjoying the visitors and well-wishers, I heard the newest gossip about me. That I was pregnant. I laughed it off and said oh yeah, I’m sure that Billy Bob would know I’m pregnant before I knew it. Well funny story, the summer after my grandma died, I found out that I was pregnant and I was about two months along, so I was pregnant at the time of the rumor. I guess Billy Bob was right after all. Moral of the story, there is some piece of truth in every rumor.

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