Sometimes life can be like the mechanic that disassembled an entire car to find the rattle. It turns out the rattle was caused by a marble in the ashtray. To illustrate, let me share with you, Dear Reader, a grave tale.
My mother passed away in June 2004. One of her favorite flowers was the hydrangea. My sister Anna Mae chose one of Mother’s purple outfits for her burial, and the florist did a great job matching blue/purple hydrangeas for the arrangements.
For those who might be unaware, hydrangeas are a natural litmus strip for testing the acidity of soil. Mother always favored blue hydrangeas, but the soil in which some of hers were planted was the wrong acidity to produce the blue/purple hues she loved.
On January 16, 2005, Mother’s first birthday in Heaven, I dug up a portion of the hydrangea she had planted in the corner of the front flower bed. If you’ve ever tried to dig up a hydrangea that has been planted for some time, you’ll understand when I say that it was harder work than I expected. I planted the hydrangea on Mother’s grave.
I do not have a green thumb. As a matter of fact, I would say black would be a better description. The holly bush planted in my front yard is either dead or dying. I can kill artificial flowers.
But the hydrangea on Mother’s grave did more than grow—to my amazement it thrived! And it was blue! Mother would be so happy! It grew to the point that one of the trustees of the cemetery told me that it needed to be cut back.
I asked my nephew Joe if he had a gas-powered hedge trimmer. He said he would borrow one from his brother Ricky, but it was electric. We determined that we would load my generator in the back of my truck and drive to the cemetery to trim the bountiful bush.
I am at times what even the revered Pastor Oliver Wolfenbarger once called an educated fool. At least on this occasion I was smart enough to fire up the generator to make sure it was operable before Joe and I loaded it onto my truck. I was even smart enough to get to the cemetery with an extension cord.
But there were unseen forces at work. We drove the approximately 10 miles to the cemetery. Mother’s grave is conveniently located close to the drive that circles the cemetery, so we left the generator in the truck. Joe got out the trimmer and the extension cord, and I started to fire up the generator.
Things were looking good.
Hurdle number one—the pull string broke.
Hurdle number two—of course I didn’t have the necessary tools in the truck to remove the housing for repair.
Back to the house we went to get the necessary tools. Joe expertly repaired the pull string, and we were back in business. We returned to the cemetery and got there a few minutes before twilight. Joe trimmed the bush, perhaps not as much as needed, but I figured we can cut it down in the winter almost to the roots and let it start fresh next year.
Hurdle number three—I didn’t take a rake. I had to return the next day with rake and gloves in hand to clean up what was trimmed the previous evening.
When I returned, my wife was with me. She went to decorate our son Dustin’s grave. We had visited the cemetery a day or so before my adventure with Joe and noticed that the American flag on Dustin’s grave was in sad need of replacement. I took down the flag when Joe and I were working on Mother’s hydrangea. In my estimation it was 3'x5'. I did not actually measure the flag to be sure. My wife and I went to Home Depot and bought another 3'x5' replacement.
Another hurdle—the replacement flag was smaller than the original. It would not reach from one fastener to the other on the flagpole, and the pole did not allow for the fasteners to be adjusted. We temporarily “rigged” the flag with plastic ties. I took the original flag home and measured it. From tip to tip, the flag measured 35 inches! As Popeye would say, “Well, blow me down!” The replacement flag, though the package said it was 3'x5', was misrepresented by false advertising. It was a few inches short of being 3'. My wife determined that we would have to take a tape measure to make sure the next one we buy is indeed 3'.
I have hung flags for many years, and never had I experienced this problem. Are you beginning to think that something might be working against me when it comes to graveyards?
The upside is that I find this particular graveyard, Cabbage Cemetery in the Black Fox area of Grainger County, where many of my ancestors are buried, a very beautiful, peaceful place. That’s a good thing, for I have seen more of that cemetery this week that I have in any other week of my life that I can remember.
I can’t say there’s a marble in my ashtray. It seems that I can’t quite get all my marbles together. If life is a game, it’s tennis, and I think I’m the tennis ball.
I leave you with an Irish friendship wish that I received from a good friend via email this week.
May you, Dear Reader:
Always have work for your hands to do;
May your purse always hold a coin or two;
May the sun always shine on your windowpane;
May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain;
May the hand of a friend always be near you;
May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.
May you be in Heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead.