Don't Let the Grass Grow

The grass is growing over the path. I noticed the other day that it’s taking me longer to mow the lawn than it used to because I am now mowing what used to be part of the driveway.

At one time the driveway got a lot more use taking vehicles to the other side of the house. When people would come to visit they would drive and park behind the house.

When both kids were home, we used to park our cars and trucks in various farm buildings and occasionally outside. All this activity happened behind the house. The car that had the low profile had the small car shed to it self. The corncrib could house three vehicles if they were positioned properly, whereas the barn took the overflow with the loft and lower level taking turns with the seasons.

Several years before the kids moved out we had a garage added on to our house. Now we no longer park our cars in the farm buildings and hardly anyone drives past the attached garage anymore, choosing instead to park in front of the house.  What was once a well-worn path behind the house is beginning to disappear.

Yes, I know there are remedies to correct this – kill with chemicals, more rock or grade the driveway.  But, to be honest, I find the encroachment of nature to be a gentle reminder of the steady passage of time.

I know this is not the first time this change has happened to our farm.  Back behind the barn there is evidence of an old driveway hidden under the grass and weeds. It keeps appearing I when I move snow early and late in the season. The pea rocks roll with the snow and mud only to be buried again.

It has been suggested that we pave our driveway. I briefly considered it until the lady of the house reminded me that not only would a paved driveway look out of place with an old farm, but also there is a gravel township road that runs right out in front of our place.

Some people would not live on a gravel road. I know of a woman visiting from New Jersey who, upon seeing a gravel road for the first time, asked her driver why anyone would ruin a perfectly good road by putting rocks on top of it.

Bernie Gerold, who lives just down the road, was telling me about two women who used to walk this gravel road. His grandmother and Mrs. Barry, who lived about a mile the other way, were good friends and would often visit with each other. But because neither of them drove and it was long-distance to call even that far back then, they would walk the mile to the other’s farm.

The idea of friends walking a quiet country road to see each other sounds both old-fashioned and charming. It took real effort to maintain a friendship then. This was when being someone’s “friend” meant more than just a shallow social media designation, mailed letters needed stamps, and a text was a passage from a book. And I don’t suppose these two women let any grass grow on the path between them.

Putting the Fun in Funeral

I never really liked surprise parties, as I don’t really like surprises. I have given explicit instructions to never throw me another one.

There have been several parties that were held, at least partially, in my honor: Birthday parties – most notably my 1^st, 30^th and 50^th, high school graduation and, of course, my wedding. I had little or nothing to do with the planning of any of them. Well, perhaps you could say that with my wedding I got to be involved at some level. I believe I was instrumental in selecting the groomsmen.

I was talking with some friends of mine last week and one of them brought up the untimely death of a young man in his early twenties. It seems that this young man had displayed incredible foresight by taking the unusual step of planning his funeral.

So, upon hearing this, I got to thinking about my own funeral. I will be the first to state that many, if not all, of my commentaries are different – some are just more different than others. I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon – but just in case, here you go with my preliminary thoughts.

Now I believe that I will be in heaven in the next life and I will have someone at the service explaining the whys and hows. In some circles it is known as an altar call. As far as I can tell, that could be the most reverent part of the whole service.

I have been known to laugh and joke at funerals, perhaps it’s my grieving style – or maybe it’s because I don’t take myself too seriously. I expect some people will be sad about my passing, but I hope more won’t be glad I’m dead. Rather, I am counting on leaving people with the thought that they we’re glad I had lived. Maybe I could have cards printed out for everyone that say, “Thanks for coming, I was glad to know you. Jerry.”

I believe that a celebration of a life well lived and a new life to come would be preferred instead of a somber and stodgy service – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just don’t think it’s my style.

I would prefer an open-house feel. As the saying goes, nobody’s invited but everyone is welcome. Regrets only. There should be an open-microphone for people to tell stories without me interrupting with my version. I will have prepared a few remarks for the occasion, perhaps even a video of me talking about the day and the days before. There should be a scripture reading to add some credibility to the affair.

Some music should be playing in the background – not too loud to drown out polite conversation, but loud enough to appreciate the song being played. An eclectic mix would be nice; some bluegrass, classical, country, rock and roll, jazz, and gospel music. I don’t have the list yet – but “Funeral for a Friend” by Elton John, and “Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi come to mind. Dancing would be allowed – it should even be encouraged. I don’t think I will be taking requests though.

Irreverent? Yeah maybe – but why be serious in a time like this. After all, it’s my funeral. No funeral flowers, just some live plants strewn about. I think there should be food: snacks, hors d’oeuvres, candy, and lots of desserts. The desserts should be eaten first because you just never no. There should be beverages – maybe a cash bar. 

Since I am not yet decided on cremation, I would like to be dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt and a stylish sport coat. My hope and request is that it not look like a normal funeral – maybe I could surprise everyone there with a party instead.

Think it Through

I hardly ever hear someone say,  ‘that’s the way the cookie crumbles” anymore. It’s an older, simplistic saying that was often told to me as a child. I took it to mean – “Accept it, that’s the way things are.” My adult self sees it as a fatalistic approach, as “That’s life, things go wrong and fall apart regardless of what recipe you follow.” No sense crying over spilled milk, I suppose.

I don’t know – I guess I reject the notion that we have no say in how things turn out.

Cause and effect, action and reaction, choices and consequences, push and pull, ebb and flow, wax and wane. It’s all there; we just need to recognize the pattern.

Think-it-Through was the name of a learning activity/game my kids had when they were young. The game was played using a small, reversible case of numbered tiles that represented answers to questions concerning culture, art, social studies, and nature. If all the questions were answered correctly, a matching pattern was revealed on the reverse side of the tiles.  If the tiles didn’t match the case had to be returned to its original position, and the incorrect problems had to be corrected.  Unlike many things in life, it gave you another chance to get the right pattern.

I was in a Chinese restaurant last week with my friend Pat. He quickly found what he wanted to order, whereas I struggled. There were so many choices, and they were all numbered. If you ordered #11 you would get the chicken but not the egg rolls (which were included on #17 – but that meant you would have to get the pork). After a while I selected #6 (which came with the egg roll) but I asked for the white rice instead of the fried. I suspected it was included in some other number but I didn’t want to test the patience of Pat or the server, plus I was getting confused with all the choices.

I recognized that I couldn’t have it all and that by choosing some things I was eliminating others. There are patterns and paths to a content, fulfilled life, and we ignore them at our own peril. If we want fame and fortune, we may have to give up time with friends and family. If we want a lot of possessions, we may be also getting a load of debt while giving up financial security. Practice must be selected to get perfection, and no matter how much money you have, you cannot buy happiness. It’s not on the menu.

Please keep in mind that I do not pretend to have the answers, but it seems to me that the choices are obvious and we need only decide what kind of life we want and make our selections accordingly. Think it through. 

At the end of our meal the server brought the bill and two fortune cookies. I selected one, but was unsatisfied with my fortune. It merely stated that my lucky number was three. Pat suggested that I try the other one. The second one said I should try something new this week – “I can do that,” I thought. I wish life were as easy as crumbling another cookie to choose another fortune.

Brotherly Love

For many years I was one of “the boys.” I don’t mean that I belonged to any club, musical group or any organization known by a particular name. It was just me and my younger brother, Terry. In my family we were often referred to collectively as “the boys.”

I had an older brother Dan, who, for reasons unknown, was not included in this sub–group. Perhaps it is because he was three and a half years older than me, whereas Terry and I were closer in age by a year. It may have been easier to call us by our group name instead of trying to figure out who was who. I remember Dad often mixing up Terry for Jerry (or was it the other way around?). This confusion often occurred in the heat of the moment when we got into trouble.

“The boys are fighting,” was often announced by our younger sister when in fact we were only wrestling. “The boys” were sent to the third seat in the station wagon, the floor of the hotel room when there were not enough beds, and outside when Mom had had enough.

For many years Dan, Terry and I shared the same bedroom, the same closet, and one night Terry and I shared the same bed. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and asking him to move over.

“Yeah, okay,” he replied in a very drowsy voice, as he slid closer to the wall.

In his next breath he said, “Hey Jer, you’re in my bed. Get out.”

He was right, I was. “Oh, sorry,” I said.

“That’s okay, just get out,” Terry replied – quite politely I thought.

In spite of our cramped quarters and lack of privacy, it was great sharing a bedroom with my brothers. We would laugh ourselves to sleep many nights, and when a thunderstorm rolled over our house we would wake each other up.

I was both the younger brother and the older brother. Sometimes I was the enforcer and took care of a bully; other times I was the one who needed a heavy to take care of a problem. Sometimes I was the tyrant giving out orders; other times I was the slave doing my master’s bidding.

Having a brother or a sister (I was lucky to have two of each – one on each side) can at times mean you have a best friend, a confidant, a consultant, an enemy, an ally, a co–conspirator and someone who can never be replaced.

My grandson, Micah, now has a little brother named Jonah. It will be fascinating to watch them grow closer as they get older. Right now Micah may be wondering how long this new little guy is going to be here, and Jonah may be wondering where am I and who is this loud kid who keeps putting his face so close to mine. Soon they will be best friends, but for now their mother likes to call them “the boys.”