Mark Rutledge: In lieu of flowers, he left us when the leaves were pretty

Friday, October 30, 2009

A wise lady I once worked with put in her will that her five sons were to dig her grave by hand — which they eventually did. She figured it might be the last time all of her boys would be together, and she wanted it to be a day of intense fellowship.

When my father died a year ago on Oct. 28, he left no such instructions. Three days later, however, my brother and I did have the honor and privilege of digging his grave by hand.

It's a small plot that holds Dad's ashes on his Tennessee farm. But going even 30 inches down in that hard slate and clay was challenging.

As Jeff was taking a turn at loosening the earth with a pickax, I leaned on the shovel and looked around at the beautiful fall colors against a bright blue sky.

“I guess we'll always think of Dad when the leaves start to turn,” I said, catching my breath.

“I guess,” Jeff grunted. “I know I'll think about him every time I dig a grave on Halloween.”

Dad would have laughed at that.

I wasn't sure how I'd feel on the anniversary of his death, but it's not a sad feeling. When I called to check on Mom, she was doing fine.

“I miss him every day,” she said, “but this is just one year of eternity for Wiley. He's not counting years anymore.”

By my count, it seems to have gone by fast. Time definitely moved slower the previous year. It's one of the side effects of Alzheimer's disease.

Most of Daddy's memory was gone when he had a stroke in early summer. He spent the last four months in a hospital bed, but at least he was at home.

God bless hospice care.

During those final days, we held a lot of intense fellowship around a table in the next room. That's where my sister, Sue Ellen, correctly predicted that the latter stages of failing health would not define the memory of our father.

“After Daddy's gone,” she said, “the image of him in that bed will melt away and all the other memories are going to take over.”

It's true. I don't see Dad in that bed anymore.

I do see him on countless family camping trips. He's watching raccoons eat the trail of popcorn we set out at Morrow Mountain State Park. And he's breaking camp during a surprise Rocky Mountain snowfall wearing Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt.

I see him on the motorcycle we rode to Fort Lauderdale in the rain. His graying hair is long enough to curl around the back of his helmet, and he's just about as cool as any dad could be in the eyes of his own 13-year-old.

I see him sitting at that same kitchen table — laughing when our hearts were happy, and crying with us when they were broken.

I see him on his tractor or using his mowing machine all over that farm. In fact, I can see him everywhere I look on the place, except for the one spot we picked out for him a year ago.

Mom says that's only natural since he's not there. I guess that's why we're not sad today.

Contact Mark Rutledge at mrutledge@reflector.com or 329-9575.

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Jo Ann Stevens Eudy

11/04/2009 09:31:10 AM

A great tribute to a life well lived and a family well loved by their Daddy. That's what it's all about.

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