a memorial to heat

this might get a bit long...but that's the way i write. (;

***

years ago on may 29th, my grandfather passed away; my dad's dad. they called him the red oak. when we built our house in northern minnesota, not long after he passed, my mother bought dad a red oak tree for the yard. we planted it the year after we planted about 125 trees that mom got from the forest service for WAY cheap. most of those trees didn't make it, and for a while, we didn't think the oak would make it either. but it did. in their new house in central minnesota they've got another red oak, which is behaving the same way--expected to die, but hanging on and flourishing.

i remember a lot about my grandfather, and i always foray into the world in a way that only can be shaped by him--with quiet. my grandpa was a listener. he was a a kind, humble man, with an endless sense of humor. he was bald, like my dad. sometimes now, as dad gets more and more white beareded, he reminds me so completely of my grandpa that i wonder what parts were actually my grandmother. (;

grandpa died of colon and skin cancer, out in arizona. my dad had been out the week before. my uncle, dad's oldest brother, was there with my grandma. bob said that for a few days grandpa hung on, for whatever reason there was, propped up by morphine for the pain. he passed on after they had last rites, but in time to hold the hands of my grandma and uncle and let go as they prayed beside him.

it's been 16 years since then. the day that i spoke to him, knowing that i'd never hug him again, i walked up the dirt road on which our house had been built, searching for agates. i usually found the small clear red agates, the size of my pinky nail. that day, however, i found an agate the size of my fist--the size of a heart.

***

so last year i call home on the 29th. my mom says she's taking my dad out, to celebrate.

confused, i ask, "celebrate?"

"yes," mom says. "celebrate."

i cautiously ask, "what are you celebrating?"

mom says, "the day your dad came home from vietnam."

i laugh and say, "wow...i didn't know that. i was wondering why you'd be celebrating, when all i knew was that grandpa passed on the 29th."

we both giggle about this. was it bad of us? nah.

that's another reason i thank my lucky stars on memorial day. dad's back, across the water. he sobered up, he met mom, he wanted to be a dad. he's cut from the same fabric as my grandfather--would give you the shirt off his back. when i see him with his brothers, though, i see the difference that facing a war creates in you, the dichotomy of loving life and knowing that you have taken life, as well. on my uncles' faces, i do not see the same lines, the same knowledge.

thank you, dad. thank you ever so much--for coming back, and for being you.

***

last year at this time my uncle jed, my dad's younger brother, had the stroke of all strokes. at this time last year, we didn't think he'd make it much longer at all. dad and my uncle tim flew out to california, where jed was recovering in hospital. they wept, they laughed, they hoped.

and this year, jed is still alive. jed's one of those people who just perserveres: despite all that the world throws at him, pelts him with, smothers him under, he keeps going. he can't walk, and he can only push himself backwards in his wheelchair with one foot, but he keeps going.

his motto is little by slow. sometimes when life is moving too quickly, and i don't feel i can keep pace, i repeat this mantra in my mind until i remember that any pace is a good pace, as long as you keep going.

***

last year on last thursday, there was a different kind of hope and pain that flushed my life. i came home mid-day, after receiving some strange emails from dan, to find him having what the therapist called a "psychotic break."

kind of like the earthquake overseas, and just as damaging, on a humanely individual level.

that day i went to work feeling good about my self. as a girl you have days where you are happy to be girly, happy to match your clothes and have hair in place. that day i remember exactly what i was wearing: capri jeans with pink flip flops, a red shirt and a pink baseball cap, and little flower earrings with pink petals and a red center. my hair was in a pony tail. i felt put together, and despite the fact that home was difficult, i felt good.

it was like a punch in the gut, when i got home and realized how far gone dan was.

and now, a year from then, i realize not only how far dan has come, but how far i have come, and for that matter, how far we have come.

the dam broke, last year. it had some far-reaching affects, between friends and family. but in the end, no matter how difficult it was at the time, it turned out for the best, in ways i could never imagine.

***

up north in the mississippi headwaters park, lake itasca state park, there is a stand of trees on the drive in called preacher's grove. they're norway pines--towering far, far above my head. the branches look like green clouds, pressed high up into the blue, and the ground beneath the trees is orange and crunchy with their needles. you can imagine how it smells--fir trees and lake water.

settlers came to this grove and prayed--hence the name. at some point, before or after the prayers, a fire ran through. the trees are marked now, big black holes at their bases, their shiny bark marred. they were burned so badly that they should have withered and died--but they didn't.

in the past year and past years, i've stood in the fire around this day. this memorial day is no longer just a memorial for the men in my life--my father, my grandpa, my uncle, my dan.

it's a memorial to me and for me--it's a memory that is painful, but that reminds me that i can withstand.