Country continuity
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
It is such a country phenomena, several generations of history on the land, several sets of family with the same last name living down the road and across the field, several spots reserved in the local cemetery alongside several relatives that have gone before.
In a state like California, populated by adventurers of a more recent ilk, those layers of generations on the land are mostly missing. That layering of history is one of the things that called us back to Kansas in the first place. The loosening of those layers also is something we grieve.
Uncle Hank, whose been the hub of the Schubert family for years and years is about to become an immigrant to Colorado. He and Aunt Gertie, our local historians whom we depend on for all kinds of tidbits of information, are moving to be near their children. While we understand this latest transition in our heads, our hearts are hurting. Suddenly, we'll not be able to walk two blocks down and take them goodies or suggest a game of cards.
It reminds me of all those left behind in the old country — whatever that country of origin was named — Germany for our family and now Ramona. In my long-ago husband's family it was Norway and he sometimes told the story that had been passed down to him of his grandmother and her sisters standing on the wharf waving until the ship was a small speck on the ocean horizon. They were sending three young men to the United States — immigrating to a better place — and they knew the odds were high that they'd never see them again. In actuality, all three boys were lost to her. America is a long way away and news, at best, is foreign and disjointed. She never saw her sons again.
An aunt told Ted this story, tears streaming down her face as she now looked at her brother's son, standing once more on Norwegian soil. At the time, we tried to imagine a parting of such magnitude — sending someone off that you may never see again. And now we are facing such a parting in our family!
"It's life," we say to one another. "It's best!" we remind ourselves. "It's inevitable," says Uncle Hank. In the country, we all grieve when the generations leave and we all rejoice when they return.
Paula had three younger generations of her offspring at the May Tea on Mother's Day weekend. She stood proudly with her daughter, granddaughter and great-granddaughters while I took a picture. We were all smiles, viewing four generations of lovely Fike women together again.
That same day, three generations of Brunners were mowing the church lawn. Lauren was on the mower, Tracy had the weed eater, and Tanner was supposed to be doing something, I'm sure, but he was inside talking to us. All of a sudden, Anne came around the corner of the church — she was helping, too.
"Where else would you see this?" we marveled, "except in the country." We always admire long family chains — probably because our own links to the country are so tenuous and so short. And now, we feel like the mother standing on shore while her sons head for the Promised Land, as we anticipate Uncle Hank and Aunt Gertie leaving Ramona. We don't know how life will go on without them and yet we are brave, pioneering women and we'll make it.
"We're fast becoming the older generation of Schuberts in Ramona," I say to my sister. "We knew this day would come," she soothes, "and we've done all the things we wanted to do with them." She's right. We do have wonderful memories — four years and more, spending another day in the country.
