So They Know You Were Here...

I taught English for a little while and was often asked what genre was my favorite or what genre was my least favorite. You’d think for an English teacher, that would be a tough question. 

But not for me. My least favorite is fantasy or sci fi or even mythology. Absolutely terrible. (I know, I probably just made some enemies.)

But I think my dislike is because my love for my favorite is so incredibly strong.

My favorite genre is American Realism.

 Of Mice and Men. A Day No Pigs Would Die. To Kill A Mockingbird. 

And though I’m in love with these novels for so many different reasons, there’s really just one thing that pulls at my heart.

The rawness of normalcy in American culture during hard times.

I am positive I sound like a lunatic, but I cannot describe my love for real normal life.

There’s nothing grand about the vast majority of these novels yet that’s what makes them so grand to me. The profoundness of a normal life lived by ordinary people pulls me in so close, I almost can’t describe it.

I recently attended a visitation and funeral of an ordinary man.

Bob.

Bob’s funeral struck me because it was the smallest one I have ever attended: funeral of 28 people including the priest and funeral home directors.

And for a minute we weren’t confident we would have enough pall bearers.

Bob was born in the 1920s.

His mother - who was forty something when she gave birth to him- would pass away before his ninth birthday in 1934 during the heart of the depression and hotter than hot dust bowl.

Bob once told a story about the hot summers after his mother had past. 

His dad - whom he called “the old man” - was older, without his wife, raising their only child alone, with a couple nickels to his name in a shack on a farm in Indiana. He doesn’t sound like he cared about Bob - stories about lack of medical attention and even running water make we question if he was a bad guy or just an overwhelmed single dad. 

Bob recalled one summer when crops weren’t going to be a thing that year. Too hot to plant and what did get planted burned as it popped from the earth. 

In order to keep their few cows from starving to death, him and the old man, in the warm early dark morning, would go to the woods and chop a tree. The felled tree - what leaves grew in them that year - would keep the cattle fed and - being in the woods - the cattle could stay somewhat cooler when the sun came out.

Once day broke, it was too hot to work or even hardly eat.

So nine year old Bob and his old man went down in a laid up rock cellar and sat there with wet rags over their heads. 

All day long. 

Day after day.

After day.

All summer long.

Waiting for the sun to go away. For winter to arrive.

What did 9 year old Bob think? What did he feel? Like screaming or crying?

Did he recall his mother? Did she ever sing him or sing while she worked? Did that tune play in his mind?

Did he wonder what his dad was thinking? Ever wonder what big dreams his dad had? 

I’m sure there were a lot of thoughts running through the 9 year old boy’s head and not a lot of talking between him and the old man.

In the cellar.

With its damp earthy smell.

Motherless.

Hot.

A not so very tender father sitting next you.

Not knowing when the heat will break.

Not knowing what’s really going to happen next. 

Just existing. 

Barely.

Knowing everybody is flat broke, but you’re just a little worse off than them.

In a quiet cellar with the heat coming in slowly.

With a wet rag on your head.

It’s a story I’ve thought about every single day since Bob left this earth a few weeks ago.

Bob never married and never had children.

After his dad passed in the 60s or 70s, he lived his life alone on his run down farm in a tiny shack with a dirt floor - the same house his parents lived in - all the way until 2001. And then he packed up a couple ratted shirts and a handful of photographs and his moms wedding band and lived out his days in a single room in the nursing home in town.

He was in the service overseas in World War II. I have to think a little harder, but he may be the last of the greatest generation I can say I personally knew.

He did find love a couple times, but the old man forbid him to bring home a French girl after the war. And the other was later in life and didn’t last as he was already in the nursing home.

There’s many stories Bob shared with friends and neighbors. 

And I believe they deserve to be told and remembered. 

And I’m positive there are stories that will never be told as they left when Bob left.

And that’s what maybe gets to me the most.

Bob was buried next to two unmarked graves: his mom’s and the old man’s. Bob and the old man worked for decades but could never get enough scraped together to buy his mother a tombstone. In fact, we found out Bob likely paid for his mother’s burial when he was in the service, meaning the bill at funeral was not paid by his father and not paid on for at least ten years. 

And when the old man died a few decades later, Bob still didn’t have the money. And his father too, went into the ground unmarked next to a wife who left him and their son much too soon.

We did find out, in the days following Bob’s passing, he paid for three tombstones a few years back - to be erected upon his own death.

One for him.

One the old man.

And one his mama.

I think that Bob left this earth not thinking he made his mark. That his stories - his life - was nothing much.

 

As I listened to taps being played, I watched the birds dance across the crisp blue sky. 

And tears welled in my eyes.

Not because I would miss Bob per se.

But because I wished I could tell Bob how important his story and life was.

It’s a message I wish we all could better understand: just how precious ordinary life is. How much of an honor it is to live a simple life. To tell a simple story. 

Nothing grand. 

Nothing extraordinary.

To work hard. To do what is right. To serve others. To try your best no matter the cards you are dealt. 

To know that you have a worthy story. 

I drive by Bob’s farm a couple times a week. 

The house is gone and has been for a while.

But the old barn is still there.

And so is the tiny cellar…

Thanks for the story, Bob. 

It’s one worth sharing. 

And one I’ll gladly tell again and again. 

To make sure that someone knew you were here.

Much love always,

Samantha