Life and Death in the City: Slipping out of a Family Reunion

A family reunion is a fearful thing for an in-law. There is so much of that past part of one’s spouse that is suddenly concentrated in the present. It’s intense, but not necessarily bad. Throw in the mix 50 children and 2 ½ bathrooms, and that could be an unpleasant thing. Could be, but it is all about perspective. (It may have be more like 15 children. Anything above five rapidly escalates to an undefined number.)

I am not much of a group traveler. Do you know how long it takes to get 15 kids up and moving in the morning—fed, showered, arguments resolved, shoes located? A lot. It cuts down on a quarter of a day’s adventure time. We decided to break off. I needed to do the weird things that normal people don’t do.

Like walk through an old cemetery and debate the career choices of the deceased that ended up with story tall monuments. There is a stagnant feeling in places like that, rather than an eeriness. Ancient oak trees stood tall over the graves, providing a little shade to keep the living from being cooked by the Georgia sun. Pieces of rusted away fence posts stood here and there, like Halloween decorations. Everything dies on some level, even metal.

I spent the bulk of the time chasing down the tot, keeping her from tromping over the grave stones. I found myself using the word “respect”—we must respect the dead. As a child I did so because I’d heard ghost stories and R.L. Stein books that forewarned what would happen if I didn’t. I was partly convinced a ghost would get me. As a child I was motivated by fear of the consequences. For the first time I stopped to evaluate how the respect changes for an adult. The reality of death is much clearer. We must respect the dead the same way we must respect our elders. They came before us, and they know more than we do. Even a dead stranger is respectable—the stranger has seen what I have not and now knows the secrets beyond life.

A unique thing about that cemetery is that many benches were placed among the graves. The dead seemed to welcome visitors. A little youthful company always lifts the spirits.

From the place of the dead we moved along to visit the place of the people that believe they know what will happen after death. They have a beautiful place to celebrate their knowledge.

And then finally, my favorite part of exploring any city—the walk. Like people, some cities are prettier than others. This one is a looker. We loaded down the double stroller with the essentials like a hiker loads a backpack: lots of water, change of underwear for the tot, hats, sunscreen, and car keys (this last one is important, as explained in my previous post). Over uneven bricks and awkwardly placed stones we wondered the sidewalks. The kids immediately started begging for their father to push them. I explained to them the story of the tortoise and the hare, and that I am the hare, but they didn’t get the moral. Their papa took over, racing them far ahead, flying past all the beautiful iron work balconies, rows of live oak sentinels, house upon house of moldering wood and ivy covered walls.

We made it to the city park, me lagging twenty feet behind. I heard a man on a bike talking on his cellphone, telling the story of a crazy person that ran past him pushing a stroller with two kids and nearly running down a squirrel. We stopped to get the obligatory photo next to the large fountain, which a homeless man offered to do for us, hinting at a small “donation”. The kids hit the playground until dark clouds hung over us.

We wondered back through the streets, the heaviness of humid heat on me like a raincoat. No rain had fallen yet, just the heavy raincoat. The cooling drops hit us right as we reached our vehicle. We drove back through an angry thunderstorm that pelted the tired looking billboards along the interstate.

Back to the reunion house of the 50 happy children slamming doors, inhaling food, giggling through the night. Out of the land of the dead, out the land of the devout, and out of the thunderstorm—I am mighty glad to be back here.