Land of My Fathers

My grandfather was tall and gentle and moved as old men move, with slightly bent knees and a lanky body of boney angles. But he had not withered as some old men do; his former strength was not hidden under years of alcohol and cigarettes. It was still tangible -- his hands sat on his lap like sleeping jaguars, full of lean control. His old skin tugged around his ears and shoulders and his movements were slow, but his eyes were still sharp and blue, like my father’s eyes, and his cheekbones were still commanding. His speech was slow and simple, as if he were always remembering something and trying to make sense of it, and his way of ending with a slight shake of his head and a soft “huh!” of a laugh buffered his words with kindness. Talking to him over a cup of coffee and a bologna sandwich, I got the idea that he had never been rushed, that he had approached life deliberately, cleanly, with a vague distrust of emotion but a very real sense of duty and family. And I also felt that if I ever wanted anyone to feel loved and honored and respected, it was him, who had raised his children in the Wisconsin winters and driven his cement truck every day and built himself a humble, honest reputation.

I have seen a few pictures of him and his young family circa 1955. They looked their parts; my father as the tallest and eldest of 5, 6, 7 siblings, standing straight and bright. There is something about him that is perpetually so innocent and so strong. He was the eldest of 7 on the 1950s Midwest farm, and seems to be the incarnation of everything I ever vaguely believed was good about America: honest, hardworking, protective, tall and strong, silent. The old photos of him on the farmhouse seem almost manufactured to create this impression: My dad's skinny kid frame clad in plaid flannel shirts; his dewy calf eyes under a limp 1950s hairdo, parted precisely on the side, cut close above his ears; a one-room schoolhouse; toys made of wood; the huge, loving frame of his father, also clad in plaid.

It is not a family of lavish tribute or gregarious compliments. We are a quiet people who see no need to offer excessive commentary. We are wary of telephones and intimate conversations. We prefer typewriters and books and silence. Any praise and encouragement, therefore, is simple, and the plain honesty of it moves me to tears sometimes. My aging grandfather and my middle-aged father, a successful doctor with a happy family, walking through the Wisconsin fields together, slowly and surely, for both were familiar with the terrain. Their powerful frames fit the landscape beautifully and even their light hair ruffling in the wind echoed the waves of the grains in the fields. “You know,” Grandpa said slowly, in his crackling voice, “I’m proud of you.” And my heart breaks with the pride and humility when I think of those words because I knew that these laconic men would never say more than that, and that the very absence of extra words makes the sentiment weigh heavy.

His funeral took place in the winter, on Thanksgiving, which seemed final and cold, an appropriate time to be buried and move on the warmer, friendlier lands. Yesterday's snow laced in doilied patterns across the stiff brown grass and the speckled sun shifted in a layer above the lace, giving the whole cemetary a rich, deep aura: layer upon layer of nature's patterns, from the nubby black frozen dirt through the lace up the rough tree trunks to the roof of waving pine needles and a few dead brown leaves languidly waving in the breeze, hanging from their branches with golden threads. The watercolored gray sky was thin with Wisconsin winter cold.

His children were there, and his close friends, and a man with a guitar. His sons dug the hole; his eldest gave the simple benediction. It is always hard to imagine the loss felt in others’ lives, and we gathered in possibly the largest gathering of Ranges I have seen in my 25 years, ate a post-Thanksgiving feast, talked about everything, and watched silly TV shows. We all knew the reason we were there, and we all felt the solemnity of it, but it was joyous and encouraging to see all sizes, ages, experiences, from his widow to his 2 year old great-grandson, connected only by thin lines of blood, marriage, and love, here remembering the man who had fathered us all.