For decades, my sisters, Rita and Francie, my brother-in-law Matt, and their son, Campbell, had joined my parents in their annual holiday pilgrimage to family graves to lay wreaths. Given the distance from Connecticut and the frenzy of the season, Dave and I had never been able to go. This would be our first time. While my parents died years ago, Rita’s partner, Bill, and her son, Jared, would join us as well.
Rita’s van seated six, so it was a tight fit, but we wanted to travel together. Dave and Bill insisted on squeezing into the way-back, folding in knees and tucking toes under the seats in front of them. It was not a surprise when they launched into a convincing big brother/little brother performance.
“He touched me!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did!”
“Make him move!”
“You can’t make me!’
Sigh. Too easy for these two to pull it off.
The car was awash with laughter and the scent of pine as we made our way to our first stop, St. David’s.
Those who could, hopped out of the car. Extricating the two men from the third seat involved all manner of contortions: lifting legs, reaching hands, and angling butts. Dismount complete, Rita raised the hatch of her van, and we lifted out swags of greens and holly. After slipping off the cellophane sheaths, we twisted wires around the ends to affix red velvet bows.
The original church, built in 1715, still stands adjacent to the graveyard. Creeping ivy twines around the trunks of towering firs, their sheltering boughs swooping low over rows of granite headstones. More subdued now in this solemn place, we walked around a long stone wall freckled with pale lichens to the graves of my aunt, uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents and laid down our offerings.
But… where was Hobie?
My grandmother, Gaga, lost her firstborn son when he was 18 months old. Spotting his bottles sterilizing on the stove, he had reached up to grab one and tipped the vat of boiling water over on himself. To us, her granddaughters, and perhaps to the children born after Hobie’s death, Gaga was kind but distant. That consuming love was a risk she would not take again.
Much as I sought to banish images of the accident, my thoughts invariably turned to my grandmother and her lost little one when my kids and grandchildren reached 18 months. It has been my comfort to think that Gaga and Hobie were reunited for eternity, and I’d assumed they rested together here, at St. David’s.
“No. He’s in Penllyn with Granpa,” Francie said.
Of course. Hobie died long before my grandmother and was buried where they lived at that time, before my grandparents’ divorce.
Francie pointed to a grave partially hidden by ivy behind that of my great-grandparents. A stone cross marked that of another small boy, a child I’d not been aware of. Gaga’s mother had also lost an infant son. My heart ached at the shared agony the women before me had endured.
Despite long-ago sorrows, graveyards have always been a place of comfort for me. The sadness and stresses endured by those resting beneath blankets of grass and moss had been resolved, and I believed, I hoped, there was reunion and peace for them on the Other Side.
Next, off to visit Mom, Dad, Uncle Henry, and my grandmother Byeo, mom’s mother, at the Church of the Redeemer. The last time I visited this site, my daughter, Casey, went with me. When I’d suggested the idea, Casey said, “Mom, it will make you cry.”
“No, it won’t. I’m in a great mood! Happy! I just want to visit.”
So, we’d driven over and climbed the small rise to the graves. I said, “Hi Byeo. Hi Mom and Dad”… and burst into tears.
But this time, I felt only joy at being there. After placing the swags, we stood in a circle and sang, “We wish you a Merry Christmas.” I indulged myself in imagining those beloved spirits taking a seat on their stones, smiling at the circle of family.
Penllyn was a trek, a trek we’d made every other Sunday when I was young. We three girls would sit in the back seat - perhaps playing a bit of annoying “she touched me!” ourselves - wearing dresses, short white socks, and patten leather shoes. Luncheons with my grandfather, step-grandmother, and great-aunt-Anna had been formal affairs.
An old red brick church stood watch over this graveyard. Francie directed my gaze to the steeple. “The bell tower was dedicated to Uncle Harry when he died in World War I.”
Captain Harry Ingersoll was the revered young uncle my father never knew, but whose memory brought Dad to tears whenever his name was mentioned. He is buried in the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery in France, but a stone honors him in this place. Nearby lies his brother, my grandfather, and Ingersolls going back three generations. Here, also, is Hobie, nestled close to my step-grandmother. I bristled at this cozy set-up: Hobie should be with Gaga.
I had not been to Penllyn in close to 50 years. The last time I can recall was to introduce my long-haired hippie boyfriend, Dave, to my very proper step-grandmother. For this momentous meeting, Dave had chosen to wear a flannel shirt and well-worn white carpenter overalls. We had barely entered the door when he leaned over and split the seam of his pants. Quickly, he tied his yellow rain slicker around his waist and politely refused every offer to hang it in the coat closet. Memorable indeed.
Once all the swags had been laid and holiday greetings given, we headed home. As we drove past the white stucco Blue Bell Inn, I reminisced about exploring my grandparents’ barn and discovering the ancient coach they’d put back in service during the war, Aunt Anna’s Christmas parties, and the excitement of Santa’s appearance at the top of her stairs with presents for every child. I thought of the many early evening trips home on Sundays, snoozy in the dark of the back seat with my sisters, marveling as the moon seemed to travel the sky alongside us. I reflected that I am now the grandmother, the baton passed from one generation of women to the next. Children grown, little ones beaming, eyes bright at the aura of pine boughs laced with tiny lights, and the prospect of a kindly gentleman in a red suit delivering joy.
