Dear Aunt Martha, Today would have been your 100th birthday. I hope it finds you singing songs to Jesus with the heavenly choir, like you always said you wanted to. It took us a couple of days after the storm hit to clear the road well enough to get to the house. By then, FEMA had switched from rescue to recovery. The river had gone back to where it belonged, leaving tons of silt and a few bodies behind. We found that young couple from upriver, their dog, and the baby huddled together still inside their expensive new Jeep lodged between the outcroppings at the fishing hole. It wasn’t pretty.
Caleb said he thought you died before the storm hit. You were in your chair on the porch with your Bible in your lap and the house had not been prepped for weather. Widows were open, and some rain had blown in, but the old place had not been damaged. Patches was in the middle of your bed with a new litter of kittens.
Some civil engineer with a Yankee accent kept walking around the place muttering to himself. When I asked him what was wrong, he went on and on about how great-grandpa had built it to cooperate with nature instead of dominating it and ranted about the hubris of the construction industry. Caleb spit tobacco juice on the ground and said, “Maybe this time you damned flatlanders will learn a thing or two.”
Feelings are still running high in the valley 5 years after the hurricane. People grumble that the big tourist towns got most of the help and some are still living in temporary trailers. These old mountains still grab the clouds and squeeze them, reminding too many of what it was like before what we thought would last forever was blown away.
It’s raining today, the same steady, hypnotic drizzle that set in before the hurricane came along. Everyone in the neighborhood has a radio tuned to the weather channel now and they get nervous whenever they hear thunder.
They finally finished rebuilding the bridge and we can get back and forth into town quicker than taking the detour through Dutch Falls . I quit my job in California and moved into the cabin as soon as the courts said it was legally mine, but it took a while. I haven’t finished unpacking yet. Thank you for remembering me in your will.
I was away too long. I didn’t realize how much I had changed until I was buying gas at a convenience store in town. The kid behind the register gave me the side-eye, up and down look before saying, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?” His attitude changed when I told him who my grandparents were. But I’m not so sure if I fit in anymore. I hadn’t seen Caleb since before I left, when I met up with him to get to your place after the storm he said, “You put on shoes and went to town, didn’t ya? I hope ya didn’t get too big for your raising.”
Since moving back to the valley I’ve been faced with ingrained attitudes inherited from family about those who are different and unfamiliar. I thought they had been erased until I came back to my “roots.” It hit home. People in these hills remember history. To many post Civil War Reconstruction was yesterday. Family karma is passed down in subtle, social ways, too often unconscious until we take active measures to uncover them. It’s not easy and most folk don’t want to spend the time and energy to do it. I thought leaving would fix things. I had to manufacture anger like most young people do and I don’t think I ever fully separated. Life felt claustrophobic and I was not ready to marry a local boy and start spitting out babies. I wanted more glamour and excitement than that, yet your letters and care packages were my secret comforts. I reminisced about the hills under a pen name and managed to survive college by waiting tables. A PhD, three husbands, and a career teaching never filled the empty spaces in my heart.
When I traveled for book tours, spending large amounts of time in cities up north and out west, I resented being treated like an exhibit in a zoo. It sometimes came in hand to have people automatically subtract 30 points from my IQ as soon as I opened my mouth. Most often it came from the “professionals”, the educated social climbers, I encountered. They have asked me whether we wear shoes where I come from and if the movie, Deliverance, was a true story. Some dared ask if I belong to the Ku Klux Klan.
Gentrification is coming into these old backwaters much too fast. I was hoping it would take much longer for the tourists to find us. Last time I saw Caleb, he said that his bull had cornered a group of hikers up into some trees at the edge of the pasture. Apparently, they didn’t read the no-trespassing signs. Edith Hartwell caught a SUV with Florida plates parked beside her garden and a couple of strangers helping themselves to the corn and tomatoes. Locals won’t shop at the old store across the valley anymore since the Wilsons sold it to those people from up north. Last I heard they were opening branches in larger towns and selling nostalgia along with the horehound candy, fishing rods, and cast -iron pans.
I find myself walking in the space between being a local and an outsider. I became “gentrified” through education and experience and no longer fit into a defined tribe. I think Caleb is still mad at me because I refused to marry him straight out of high school, but it’s good to see that he found a nice wife and sturdy children.
Somewhere along the way I became a Zen student and I wonder how my practice will fit into my new lifestyle. Should I turn the farm into a retreat space or monastery? That feels too much like how the Wilson’s treated the old store. Thanks to Zoom, I can continue meeting with Roshi and the sangha as long as a bird doesn’t light onto one of the wires or a squirrel doesn’t short out a transformer.
I could ramble on for hours and too many pages, but the sun is going down and I need to feed the chickens. Patches’ progeny are nagging me for their gushy food and I’m hungry. Instead of sitting on the porch with a Bible, I sit in your chair with a sutra or a koan. There’s not much difference between the two.
I hope your celestial choir practice goes well and you get a break to peek down over the edge of a cloud once in a while to check on me. Much love, more later. Geneva