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Leftovers
by Dan Beams
Dance with the Dead
 Sounds like a low budget spin off of some "B"
flick. Actually there's nothing creepy about it. This weekend
is designated as our annual cemetery visit day, when we honor
our ancestors with fresh flowers and our presence. While I possess
no irrefutable scientific proof it seems enthusiasm for such
events and age lie in direct proportion to one another. It's
my fear that I've surpassed some invisible marker since I'm actually
looking forward to the 'dance'. My son, a polar opposite of myself,
is going along under protest. His vehement opposition would indicate
to the outside world that I was forcing him to attend a Barbie
convention, in colorful drag no less.
It's possible, at thirteen, he harbors
an unhealthy fear of death and cemeteries, but I'd like to believe
the visits mean little to him since all of those who inhabit
the graves passed before his birth. These people have no relevance
in his mind, other than a hand-written record that my father
routinely subjects him to. I worry about dad sometimes, but I
suppose a man could do worse than being obsessed with genealogy.
In my case I have memories of actual events
that connect me to those lying below. Memories, both good and
bad; but when life's boiled down to essentials isn't that what
we're left with. As a young boy, my great-grandmother Nora Beams
seemed overly stern. On one hand I could count the rare occasions
a smile graced her wrinkled face. Only now I realize that perhaps
the woman I knew was merely a shell. The remains after the joy
and frivolity had been stripped away. My great-grandfather, who
I never met, left her with eight young children to raise during
the depression. Now that's the kind of worry anyone can do without.
My family didn't talk much about great-grandpa, not even offering
an excuse for his premature exit. I was left to wonder if he
ran out to get the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never returned.
Only in the last fifteen years or so did we find that those cigarettes
had carried him from Kentucky to California (how far would you
walk for a Camel?). He not only found 'smokes' there, he married
and had several more children.
Great-grandma had grown up in Kentucky.
Not only was she the first woman I saw chew tobacco; she was
proficient with her aim. She could knock a spider off his perch
at ten paces and the poor bugger never knew Beechnut and her
powerful jaws combined to send him to an early grave. 'Work boot
leather tough' didn't begin to describe Nora. With nothing to
lose she packed up the family and moved to Illinois. Though times
were difficult she managed to provide, like an over-burdened
female bird attempting to gather enough worms to satisfy eight
yapping mouths. Glamour and congeniality were incompatible with
survival.
My grandfather, Stanley Beams, (third youngest)
is one of my greatest idols. His sixth-grade education couldn't
hold him back. He dropped out of school to take a job to put
food on the table. You would search a long while to find a wiser
man with less formal education. He and two of his older brother's
moved about fifty miles south and took up farming. In fact just
last year, the multiple descendants (inheritors) decided to sell
the farm. During an approximately thirty year span they acquired
over two thousand acres of land. Not bad for three Kentucky drop-outs.
Irregardless of the purchase price, that farm ground brought
3.6 million dollars last year.
My grandpa's business savvy is not what
I remember. My memories are of a man sporting a warm smile, pipe
clinched between his teeth and a can of Prince Albert in his
shirt pocket. A gentleman interested in passing down tradition
and values he felt important. He accompanied me on my first fishing
trip and my futile effort to locate wild morel mushrooms. His
voice lacked the pitch to make him famous, but fame never interested
him. Mind chock full of words and melodies of old church hymns,
stories, and silly sayings. There remained little room for trivial
things. "You from around here, or do you pack yer lunch?"
Stanley was a man concerned about how he lived, not how many
years he survived. Daily I strive to be remembered as fondly
as a man with a sixth-grade education.
Let's keep the term 'dance with the dead'
to ourselves. The rest of my family might be offended by the
terminology, as appropriate as I believe it to be. Dance is historically
a form of celebration. Tomorrow as my hand rests on those slabs
of marble, through distant but deep-seated memories, I will celebrate
life with those who are dead.
Dan Beams is a 40-year-old
self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central
Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and
Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last
year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is
less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to
the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed
upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess,
in great abundance, those things not easily measured.
You can read more of Dan's
poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/
Send Dan a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
home.
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