Family

My extended family has a tradition. We gather several times a year at the family ranch. No one lives full time at the ranch anymore; it was home to my great great grandparents and my great grandparents. It is rich in solitude and peace as the nearest human neighbor is over seven miles away. It is kept in excellent repair, but there is no running water and no indoor bathroom. Rain water is collected in a cistern and makes the best tasting drink on ice on a sweltering day. The outhouse freaks out the younger generations, but they become used to it. It is kept that way so they will know what life was like before modern amenities became available.

We have great fun and spend hours laughing, cooking, and eating.

These are two of my aunts, picking up where they left off the last time.

Did I mention it is hot? This is not a good picture of me, but you can see the price my hair pays for the humidity and that I've sweated off all of my mascara.

Nevertheless, family is important and it's vital the children understand the stuff that makes up a family so they can in turn teach their children one day.

One of the last things we do before we all depart is to visit the cemetery where so many of our ancestors are buried. It saddens me to see this cemetery, as our family's plot and only a few others are kept up. Brush has grown over many of the others, obliterating these memorials to someone's loved ones. Rattlesnakes keep at bay those who might like to fix up the neglected areas. We leave flowers on the graves of our family members and listen to stories from the older generations who knew them.

I've noticed graves there that are marked only by a wooden cross, a large rock with now unintelligible letters scratched in it, and other such nontraditional memorials to people long gone and not remembered now by anyone in the land of the living.

This little grave touched my heart.

It was one of three small ones laid out together, each marked by only a little iron cross. I asked the oldest member of my family if he knew anything about them and he said, " I believe it was three brothers, all under 10. They had a terrible fire one night and they all three died in it. The parents survived the fire, but the mother died not too long after. The father packed up and moved off after that, and no one ever heard from him anymore. That was back in the 20's. I remember my dad talking about it."

I stood thinking of those little boys, and how they must have been loved and cherished; how they must have enjoyed running and playing with each other. Probably they weren't in the living memory of anyone in their family anymore, but I did take some comfort that at least they were buried close together.

That's another great thing about families. Even though you're gone from this earth and now in the presence of God, you remain alive in their hearts and memories for as long as family gathers. I think of those little boys now as a part of my family and I've told their story to my kids. Although we don't know their names, they're playing together again, this time in our hearts.