Date: Wed, 13 Feb 2002 20:23:12 -0800 (PST) From: Susan Eversole Subject: Slollum Holler Funeral - Final installment To: johnny at charm.net MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Sender: owner-johnny at charm.net Precedence: bulk Reply-To: johnny at charm.net Jesse and I got back into the Bronco, and turned onto the road that wound up the hill to the graveyard. He swore he knew where he as going, but we climbed past the point of comfort, and the windy path kept going. We finally came to a fork where a dirt path went straight up the hill, out of sight. We got out, both of us astounded at how far we were from the bottom, and started hiking up. The difference of upbringing separated us more than stamina: he reached the top before I was halfway. His entire clan have huge calf muscles, and think nothing of hiking up inclines my Kansas forebears would never have imagined. Luce Angel, like all the graveyards in Perry county, sits at the top of the hill. It’s a ramshackle collection of stones jutting out of the earth in all directions. Jewish graveyards are rigidly linear, as only the suicide is buried out of line. Here were stones cut by hand, some legible, some worn, some with no writing at all. Here was Minta Begley, Granny. Here was Uncle IJ, who followed in the family tradition of drinking himself to death, along with Uncle Bill, and Jesse’s grandfather, Amerida. Legend has it that Amerida was Cherokee, born out by the fact that all of Jesse’s family have AB- blood, common among Cherokee. The old folks would never admit this. To use the common phrase there, this would mean someone had taken a squaw, a word equal to more familiar racial epithets. It’s a shame, as Jesse’s small business could use any benefit, and the designation of Native American clears many a path these days. The ground at the top of the hill was not frozen – we could have buried Pap there. He would have been the first Eversole on the top of that hill. Instead, Memaw wanted the urn of Papaw’s ashes buried above Granny’s house in Chavies. This will require another trip to Chavies in the spring, when the land has been prepared. Considering her advanced Parkinson’s, this seemed extremely reasonable. Accessible, convenient, and it avoided any familial entanglements. The fact that Pap had requested cremation added to the ease of the entire proceeding. The family was able to gather at a more planned pace. He had even died before the money was used up, as his care toward the end was resource intensive. For all the convenience of the funeral, there was a certain inconvenience that could not be ignored. Memaw intended for the family to continue to return to the hills. All of her children have escaped to suburban ease. Jesse and his three sisters live far from Slollum Holler, and voyage back to Chavies once a year for Thanksgiving reunions. These events define family for me, and my own parents have been welcomed into the mix of generations. Kids running up and down hills, parents, grand and great standing looking on to the gangs grouped, more or less, by size. For us, it is a strange homecoming. Thanksgiving in the mountains seems especially American, which for my family is both satisfyingly familiar, and totally alien. Jesse can name every holler, every twist to the road, recall stories of each feature of the land, every hill and bottom land owner, just as his Pap taught him. Tied with each name, each story, is the shadow of other stories. Every turn in the road pulls the memory of a tragedy, where someone’s car careened off the side, where the double murder of father and son occurred, where an entire family perished in a single collision, where a close friend was knifed and hit the ground dead. The preacher who drove from Indiana was the one Jesse feels saved his life, by getting him out of Kentucky. We will return to Chavies this spring to officially lay Pap to rest. Each of us watch Memaw, with her shaky gait and stoic face. She showed no emotion during the service. Those two were married for 60 years, and not smooth ones. The whole family holds its collective breath to see if she will make the round of visits each of us wants so desperately. Concerns for her health were whispered in corners, far from her extremely good hearing – after all, she was an elementary school teacher for 35 years. With that trip, Jesse’s ties to the place, though not severed, have become tenuous. With nothing but the previous generation’s graves to visit, what will draw the next generation back? Pap had always hoped that his son would return to Chavies. In Jesse’s own words: “and if buzzards had radios in their asses, there’d be music in the air”. Susan Eversole