I was sleepless last night. Most of the evening I hovered somewhere between asleep and awake, this being the result. They are the good Lord's words, he just lent them to me for a while, and I thought them a little too pretty not to share while I had them.

Chaz

How One Journey Ends and Another Begins

Can you picture autumn in the country? What do you see? Do you see in sepia tones bleak desolate roads, and empty fields? Perhaps a weathered gray farmhouse on the horizon, shuttered up tight, seeming like it wants to burrow a hole in the ground and get in? When you reach the river is the water a cold smooth slate wherein you could drop an eternity and never touch bottom? Does the frost creep over the window panes like the icy breath of the reaper, aspiring to send you into a deep slumber with all other of God's children, second only to the sleep that knows no waking? Do the cold winds blow forever without end amen, and pick up old leaves and corn husks that rattle like dry bones on the hard dirt? Do the winds sing the melancholy song of the ages; the song who's beginning is lost deep in the realms of antiquity, the song that never ends?
        Ah, but perhaps all is not as dreary and bleak as that. Maybe you see the maples burst forth in joyous, pagan shades of scarlet, bright yellow and orange that was only meant to match the pumpkins that lie waiting in the patch begging to be chosen for the highest honor that befalls the humble squash family, to be turned into a jack-o-lantern for that most pagan of holidays-All Hallows' Eve, or Hollowe'en if you please. The Indian maize may be in too, all in black, orange, brown and white. All the fields are plowed and ready for next year, laid out like God's own crazy quilt as far as the eye can see. It is as if that ancient couple that lived deep in the forest, Mother Nature and Father Time went together to all the flora and fauna and said to them "It must be, this deep sleep, and so shall it be, this glorious swan song that will let your presence not be soon forgotten." You may look forward to it. Signs start popping up everywhere that the days of magic are soon to pass. The butchers start to advertise the price per pound of "young and succulent Toms", the morning farm reports on WPMY begin to use the word "harvest" more and more, and it gets "windbreaker chilly" in the morning and evening.
        Soon, the air will take on a taste of smoke, and have a chilly edge to it, and children will run down the endless rows of pumpkins and cannonball into piles of raked leaves while the rakers will stand by and look, first with dismay, then with longing amusement, at the mess that results. The older set will doubtless run through the fields of dry corn and dark woods, playing "Midnight Run" and Hide-and-seek by the light of the harvest moon as they have since time out of mind.

It is a still and sultry Indian summer day on a small homestead on a hillside that could be in the Ozarks, Appalachia, or perhaps the lower Rocky foothills; the actual location is irrelevant, for the event that has occurred, as well as those yet to pass, come to every people on the skin of the good earth. The sun has long since passed behind the clouds and the clouds have long since knitted together to remove all trace of blue from the sky, leaving it the color of a dirty chalk board. As we draw nearer to the house, it will be noted that every window is open, as well as every door. The place is swarming with people, and from this distance they all look like black ants, scurrying hither and thither. Their somber garb is in jarring contrast to the cacophony of nature's chromatic expression; the blood reds, yellows, and orange of the maples, the emerald green of the grass, the golden honey shade of the corn, although somehow they complement each other.
The day being as dark as night, every light in the house is blazing. The noise the people make is as the hushed muttering of the woods prior to the storm-they are waiting for some event that they both fear and look forward to. How could that be? What has the power to draw people from the far corners of civilization, to break down the barrier of auld lang syne, the old wrongs, to function as one, verily, to become one people again? The answer can be found in the parlor, laid across two wooden horses. It is a casket, made of black walnut with modest handles of wood. Inside the casket is a husk, the corporeal being, devoid of breath and sight and voice, unable to stir, but wielding the bulk of the power at any stretch. He was many different things to many people, but they all shared a common tie.
Family.
The old wounds are forgotten long enough to see him below the bosom of the sod, and perhaps mending of the respective fences can continue afterwards, as well.
The family being called to reunion, the time draws round at last to begin the age-old rituals prescribed and ingrained in their collective soul. The body has been anointed, pennies have been laid over the eyes, and the shroud has been prepared. The men of the family will have a sleepless night, for it is their charge to watch over the remains through the night time hours. Nobody will see how tired they look, at least not in the house, for the mirrors have been covered or removed, so the soul of the deceased will not see himself and decide to stay, or see someone else and decide to call them along as well. The time will not be ascertained by a discrete glance at the rosewood clock on the parlor mantle, for it has been stopped, its hands suspended at the time of departure. In fact, every timepiece in the house has been stopped, so that the chimes will not lure the soul back to the house. The inhabitants of this house are superstitious by nature, and have seen to every minute detail, to insure the smooth passage of the deceased. When the time comes, the men will carry him out the door feet first, so he can't look back into the house and mark whomever is directly behind him for death. He will be walked the last mile to the graveyard, as there are few hearses in this forsaken stretch of country. There will be a drum, beating cadence, not only to set the pace for the pallbearers, but also to scare away the evil spirits that are prone to congregate at times like these. When they come to a crossroads, the pallbearers will hold their collective breath until they are safely through it, and if they don't sign of the cross or speak over their left shoulder "Stay thee behind me!") I will have missed my guess. Soon enough they will reach the graveyard, and the new grave will have been dug. The headstone is always facing east, and the pallbearers here will never lay a casket down on the left side of a grave, for fear the devil will begin some mischief with them. There will be a silver coin dropped in the grave before the casket is lowered in-that way if the devil decides to cause mischief he cannot do it with this man's soul. The men take turns spading the earth in over the casket-eldest to youngest. This is more-or-less a given in this society.
        Nobody can say for sure weather the superstitions make any difference in the well-being of the soul, but it is commonly accepted as fact that certain rites greatly improve the lot of the deceased's soul. At least there have been precious few, if any, complaints. All of this, and more, is done for the sake of living to die, and dying to live.

Joe or Max- If you think there is an open thread wherein this would fit, and want to move it in there, don't go thinking I'll have any problems with it.

Chaz