At the cemetery, you can see the circle of life

Published 8:54 am Wednesday, December 3, 2008

I spent a lot of time at cemeteries this past summer.

It’s my turn.

Family members, friends and neighbors died. There are holes in my heart in the shapes of those people.

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I walked a familiar graveyard on a day when the mosquitoes were off, but the deer flies were working. As my thoughts went from one deceased person to another, I heard the songs of goldfinches, chickadees, catbirds, robins, common yellowthroats, crows, cardinals, indigo buntings, house wrens, peewees and song sparrows.

I needed their songs. I was feeling down at the realization of all the people I had lost.

I saw a couple of barn swallows slicing the sky overhead.

The swallows brought with them the recollections of other days. I was left with memories of the many good people who have passed through my life.

Shakespeare wrote, “True hope is swift and flies on swallow’s wings.”

We strive to soar with the eagles, but the tiny swallows proved that I don’t need an eagle to soar.

Song and swallow and memories caused me to soar.

Radio wars

We had an old Philco radio in the barn. It had 19 knobs and buttons, only two of which made any difference — the “on-off, volume” and the station selection knobs.

My father preferred the twanging of country music. I favored pulsating rock and roll emanating from WDGY.

We would vote. The dairy cattle had no vote, so it always ended in a tie, with the tiebreaker going to my father. Why? Just because.

Occasionally, my father would give me a break from listening to the Hanks (Williams, Snow, Thompson and Locklin) and tune the aged wooden radio to KNUJ Radio out of New Ulm. It was old-time music — mostly polkas.

It was my fault for not appreciating polkas, but I wanted to hear high-decibel electric guitars, not accordions.

One day, I snapped. I told my father that KNUJ was JUNK.

My father was so pleased that I could spell something backwards that we listened to WDGY.

For two songs.

My father worried that rock and roll would curdle the milk.

Make it a good day

A good day is spent with one you love. Here’s a tip for you young married men.

Guys, take your wife out to a fancy restaurant for your anniversary.

I’ll never forget our fifth anniversary. I called ahead for a reservation. I got a good parking place. A nice waitress came and took our order. It was perfect.

Then I messed it all up by rolling my window down too far and the entire tray fell—dumping the Papa and the Mama Burger along with the onion rings onto the ground.

Wisdom of our elders

I was visiting a nursing home. I asked a resident how he was getting along.

“OK,” he replied, “but most everyone I know is dead or older.”

Those thrilling days of yesteryear

Every house had them during my boyhood years. Figurines standing on shelves beyond the normal reach of children. They were forbidden fruit and fragile to the touch.

I broke one of the delicate figurines one day. I didn’t mean to. I looked at it too hard. The victim was a tiny, glass bird.

I tried gluing it back together. White paste and Elmer’s Glue proved to be less than helpful. The rehabilitation attempt was unsuccessful.

Desperate, I employed cellophane tape.

The repaired bird looked pretty good, unless you looked at it too hard.

School confidential

I picked my nose in the first grade.

It’s a worrisome thing to confess, but I feel good now that I’ve admitted it. I believe I am safe in divulging my offense because my wife has so many years invested in me that I trust she’ll stick with me. Excuse me while I pause for a cleansing sigh.

I know I picked my nose because my teacher said, “Allen, I hope you’re not picking your nose?”

I hoped I wasn’t, too, because earlier in the day, a second grader had used a squirt gun. My teacher had taken his squirt gun away.

I was afraid she might take my nose away.

Polishing my father’s shoes

My father had wing-tipped shoes. We called them wingtips. He wore them with his suit. He polished the shoes before he put them on and again after wearing them. They occupied a location in the corner of my parents’ closet. There they remained, well-polished, waiting to be polished again before they engulfed stockinged feet once more.

When my father died, I made sure his shoes were polished before we picked out a casket.

In closing

Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.