For the Love of My In-Laws

For the Love of My In-Laws

Turkey made of fruits.

This turkey was made by Nancy Jones. A beautiful, delicious and creative effort. We had a wonderful time yesterday seeing everybody for Thanksgiving at her Mom's house. For me it was very, very special because I hadn't seen any of my darling in-laws since last May because of my injury.

The first person to greet us was Chris, Nancy's husband! It was so nice to see him smiling because we knew what horrendous damage happened to the beloved home that he lives in with Nancy and one of their daughters (Sarah). Then we saw Sarah and Nancy and it was so good to see them all looking so strong and cheery despite their troubles. Jesse, Nancy and Chris' other daughter, was there with her mate Pete and again we were glad to see them enjoying themselves despite the troubles.

It also was great to see Mom, Joanne, Jack, Stephanie, Ann, Stan, Nick, and Steven. All the beloved faces I had not seen for so long. We had quite the usual scrumptious feast and lots and lots of love and laughter throughout the whole day. Poor Jack got a stomach problem and so he missed the meal.

Before we ate, Nancy thanked everybody and said she felt very blessed to have a place to stay and she was grateful for all the help and prayers from people. And she also said she was grateful for her handy husband who has been working day and night to restore their home. Wiping tears from my eyes, I said to Jimmy: "Well after THAT, we can't complain about anything."

Here's the thing with my in-laws. They are a very close-knit and resilient family. They are affectionate, caring, and conscientious. They embrace everyone into their loving circle. I have been both blessed and deeply inspired by them. I admire their deep roots and strength. The lessons they teach are not intellectual or political—they are lessons of the heart and they are the most important ones worth learning.

Bones of No Contention

Bones of No Contention

The golden leaves of the massive oak on the village green swayed gently in the wind on a fine autumn day. My eyes followed the soft rhythm, and I could almost hear a melody rising and falling as the leaves did their endless sweet dance. My feet felt as if they were planted in the earth, connected to the roots of this ancient tree. Yet, of the rest of my body, I could not discern any sensation; nor could I quite understand what brought me here. My knowledge of the wind was visual, not visceral. The glints of sunlight that poked occasionally through the leaves radiated like small suns, but my eyes remained unaffected by this brightness.

I turned my head, but nothing else looked familiar. It was as if all the old structures had either been torn down or had simply faded away, only to be replaced by unrecognizable, unfathomable steely structures that bore an eerie resemblance to icebergs. Where were the long-skirted, bonneted ladies with their hearty children in tow, carrying cloth sacks of potatoes and other comestibles? Where were the sturdy young men with their axes ready to build more of the wooden town that had been slowly rising around us?

Gone! Everything gone. Women sashayed down concrete streets with men’s trousers and hair clipped so short, the ladies seemed almost bald. Men wore odd shirts with pointed collars and long cloths suspended around their necks. Children were totally absent that day. It did not seem that they had been released from the one-room schoolhouse down the road to help with the reaping. I missed the smoky smells of cooking and harvesting.

To whence had I been transported? I could not move my feet to walk, so I twisted my body around back to the tree and was astonished to see my own name emblazoned upon a small plaque that had been nailed upon the trunk. It read thusly: “Here lies the Bones of Richard James Weatherby, re-interred in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and ought-nine beneath this Tree. May his Beloved Soul watch over All who pass by or sit beneath its Branches.”

Oh, I was dead then, was I? How long I do not know. In my days of life, I had been a watchman at the old clock tower, which had been the highest point in town when I was alive. My job, as I recall it, was to make sure that everyone was safe from intruders, whether they came in the darkness of night or the glare of the day. I had had a lovely wife and daughter, but, sure as God’s little apples, I have lost track of their whereabouts. . . .

• • •

As to whatever century this may be, I do not know. I do realize this: It is my afore-ordained task to watch over the people in this town and carry any messages of alarms to the authorities. So watch I will. And, when I see someone in need of Our Lord’s help, never let it be said that Old Weatherby ever failed to carry the message even beyond my lovely grave beneath this tree.

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by the discovery of a skeleton buried beneath a tree, which was uprooted by Superstorm Sandy. People have been discussing what to do with the bones, with some people saying that they need a proper (modern) burial and other people saying that these bones should be left where they are.