I WANTED TO VISIT his grave, touch the cold stone with my gloved hands, allow my eyes to linger on his name, to remember my dad, dead 10 years now on April 3.
A trip back to my hometown to visit my mom had thrown me into a temporary melancholy mood as I lounged on her loveseat, head crooked into a pillow, legs angled up as we talked about aging and death and funerals (too many recently).
When I mentioned that I’d often thought about the safety layers of generations separating me from death, my husband glanced at me like I was crazy. My 80-year-old mom understood, though.
The road past the Vesta Cemetery, left, which sits just outside of this southwestern Minnesota town of some 330. You can see a portion of Vesta’s grain complex to the right.
Later, she stayed back at her house while Randy and I drove out to the cemetery, to honor my dad whose gravesite I do not visit often enough because busyness and blizzards have kept me from the prairie in recent months.
We headed north out of town along Cemetery Road, tires crunching on gravel, toward the cemetery edged by evergreen trees. At my feet, the short black snowboots I’d borrowed from my mom bumped against my legs.
Some of the gravestones are barely peeking out of the snow.
I wondered aloud whether the cemetery roads would be plowed of snow swept in by prairie winds. A few blocks later I spotted waves of snow washing over tombstones and roadways. I could not reach my dad’s grave without snowshoes or a snowmobile.
The closest I would get to my dad’s grave was viewing the cemetery through the van windows.
We eased past the cemetery, drove down to the first farm place to the north, turned around in the driveway and crept past the cemetery again, back into town.
I carried my mom’s boots inside, snugged them into a corner of her kitchen, before reclaiming my place on her loveseat.
I told her about the tombstones buried in snow. Then we talked about dad’s funeral—the bitter cold of that April day, the cutting wind.
And I remembered, although I did not speak this, how I’d perched on a hard folding chair in that hilltop cemetery 10 years ago, leaned toward my mother shivering in cold and in grief, and wrapped my arm around her.
© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
This is a beautiful, moving post. I want to say more, but I have to let this sit in my mind and my heart for a while. You took my breath away.
Thank you, Kathleen. I reread my post just now, after reading your comment, and my emotions transferred into tears. I do not fear death and I know my dad is now relieved of his suffering. Yet, that does not diminish the sorrow of losing him, even after 10 years.
I’m sorry the snow kept you from reaching the grave. My husband and I have only lost one parent so far, his mother who died a year ago this Thursday. My husband cannot remember anniversaries or birthdays, but when I recently asked him what day of the month his mother died, he knew instantly. We are still adjusting to life without her.
There is something about losing a parent that leaves a deep absence in your life. I am sorry for your loss and not at all surprised your husband remembers the date of his mother’s death. With only a year passed, the grief still runs strong. I remember that first year without my dad–the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first…
My husband lost his mother 19 1/2 years ago when she was only 59. I sometimes think of all she missed, including the birth of her grandson, my son, only four months after her death.
Perhaps it better to keep warm memories alive, rather than the cold memory of stone and winter you pursued. I dreamed of my dad’s death last night (he is 85 and suffering from Alzheimer’s, stroke-induced seizures, and falling regularly) and wondered if I would want my last memories to be of him at a funeral or burial, or rather the (too-few) happy moments we shared. Now that I live in Arizona, I want the memory of winter in his Wisconsin to remain refreshing, not burdensome and encumbered by cold grief.
Certainly I hold many happy memories of my dad. The moments of cold grief are rare. That said, for me personally, it is important to revisit his gravesite out of love and respect. And I think on the anniversary of a loved one’s death, at least for me, it is also natural to remember his funeral and burial. The cold landscape and seeing those tombstones buried in stone certainly set the mood for such thoughts.
I am sorry to hear about your dad’s health situation.
Very beautiful post:)
Thank you. Those were my thoughts on Sunday afternoon on the prairie.
What can I say. We never know when the end of our lives here on earth will happen. Losing my mother, your grandmother, when she was only 48 is not easy to handle even to this day. I wish I could have been near my father as he aged. New Jersey is a long way from Minnesota and our being there everyother year was as often as we could make it. Maybe this is why I enjoy doing genealogy. It keeps me in line with all of the family thru the years. Much love to you, Dorothy
I cannot imagine losing your mother, my grandma Josephine, at such a young age. I wish I’d known her because she sounds like the kindest, gentlest of souls. But then I think my mother must be much like her.
I have been missing my grandfather recently. This dreary weather isn’t helping much. I just wish I could talk to him again.
It’s interesting how these moments strike us. What causes us to suddenly miss those we have lost? For me, it was revisiting my hometown, the approaching anniversary of my dad’s death and the dreariness of the day.
Beautiful writing, I’m so thankful to have both my parents still alive, it’s a dreaded thought to know they wont always be here. Sorry you couldn’t physically get to your dad’s grave, I hope just being close was a little comforting.
It’s always comforting to return to my roots, to reconnect with the place I grew up, with the people who surrounded me during my growing up years. There’s a certain comfort, a certain peace in returning to the familiarity of the place that shaped me, the people who guided and loved me.
Such an interesting concept: “the safety layer of generations”. DH’s are gone, now, many years as are most all his close relatives. I have very few and Mom is 92 (this July 4th) and feeling the weight of the age. Most of her “girlfriends”/bridgclub members are no longer leaving her with the younger, golfing friends my folks met on their cruises. It probably will be odd for me to be the eldest generation/person in my family! We’ll see. Very thought provoking!!!!! (as always)
I don’t think so deeply on being the “next in line” too often. But occasionally… and then we never do know when our time on this earth will be done, no matter our age.
So true and, as my mom reminds me, may come sooner because of my love of motorcycles/riding. The funny thing is….Mom lives in St. Paul and sees no reason why she shouldn’t continue her driving!! Hmmmm.
I’m sure you are cautious riding your motorcycle. It’s just the crazies out there who aren’t careful.
You ‘hit’ on it! The same goes for driving……watch out for that other one!
Audrey . . I found your blog several months ago. You’ve a knack for this kind of writing. It’s no wonder I visit often. When young I lived on a farm near Grand Rapids. Oh so long ago. Yet I still identify with rural Minnesota. I’ve relatives sprinkled all over the state. Ortonville, Mora, Brainerd and etc. Your blog brings back so many memories now as I creep toward my 80th birthday. Thank you.
I am humbled by your kind words. Thank you. I try to write with honesty and authenticity, without pretenses and with an eye for noticing details and with an appreciation for everyday life. I value readers like you who understand and appreciate my writing.
Time may make the loss softer – but it does not go away. I still have both my parents, though my mom in particular is ailing in many ways. Living so far from them is hard, though we Skype with them every Sunday night…
Time does erase the harsh edges. But I don’t think you ever totally get over losing a parent. I love that you Skype every Sunday night. I call my mom every Sunday. She once told me that Sunday is the hardest day for her. And I think that’s because Sunday is a family day.
Yes, that makes sense. I’m sure she was so happy to have you visit. It’s hard, sometimes, to make sure we’re inside and ready (especially in the summer) to talk to my parents, but the kids enjoy it too, and they play their instruments for them and Lucy sings and they tell about their week and it’s a little bit like living nearby…or, at least, like pretending we do.
Oh, my goodness, this is so sweet, what you do each Sunday.
My mom appreciates every visit. It’s just sad to see her standing at the kitchen window waving as we back out the driveway. Breaks my heart.
Oh, I can imagine. I think I might have to blog about our Skyping nights!
Great idea for a blog post. I’ll watch for it.
I just couldn’t leave a reply to this a few days ago. I too miss dad so much…and to also have my first cat son die the day before dad was a double wammy to me. Now 10 years later my 2nd cat son dies just a few weeks shy of dad and Granite. My heart hurts, tears fall. I’ve even checked out your blog of My fat cat to see Sabel.
Dearest sister, I remembered how you lost Granite at the same time as Dad. And now your darling Sable. Not easy. Not at all. Love you, sister!