by Michael Post
It was a cold, overcast winter’s day, but not just any day; it was New Year’s Day, 2000. And while most where thankful to have survived the millennia and excited about a new century dawning, I was 28 years old sitting in the backseat of a Buick Regal as the wind whistle through slightly lowered windows. Both of my parents anchored down the front bench seat as I stared at the backs of their heads encircled by dense cigarette smoke. We were on our way to visit relatives in Northwest Georgia as we had done hundreds of times before, but this time it was different. There would be no warm welcome or sloppy snuff laidened kisses from the withered lips of a grandmother or the shrieks of anxious cousins hurling towards the car as we crested a long driveway. This time we were going to see relatives I had never laid eyes on.
The trip had actually begun during the preceding Christmas gathering as my father and I discussed family history, an interest stumbled upon that we both actually shared. For most of my life we only shared a common fear of each other, neither quite understanding the other one. But on this occasion as we spoke the sentences danced out of our mouths with true satisfaction and a measure of welcomed relief. My continued questioning was met with swift answers, and the recollections filled the room to the point of choking out all other conversations. We finally got to the point where neither of us could stand simply imagining these things for what they were; we would have to go and partake of them firsthand.
A few days later on the road, the awkward silence that we had become accustomed to fought to enter the car only to be rebuffed by familiar landmarks that sparked jubilant proclamations by each as we passed by. It seemed that every tree, building and street held some piece of a memory connected to our past. At one point in the journey, as I listened to the tires of the car pop and crackle as we drove up a narrow gravel drive, the surrounding trees feverously tried to keep a secret tucked in their boughs. A small long-silent Universalist church sat wearily on the horizon protected by old stately pines that stood thick on all sides and seemed to shush us as we drew closer, as if they were afraid of us waking their tired friend from its long slumber.
As I opened the door to the car and stepped out onto the thick layer of pine straw that blanketed the area, all sound seemed to fade away. As fascinating as the faded white church was, it didn’t seem to hold any warmth or significance in and of itself, but as I walked the length of the church, small grey sentinels of various sizes and shapes began to emerge from behind it, dotting the landscape in an immediately recognizable pattern. It was one of the most beautiful sites I had ever seen. I slowly approached, almost tiptoeing trying not to disturb the scene but my father and mother had already waded deep into the arms of the small solemn field like children being welcomed home by a loved one. Years began to wash off their faces as excitement mixed with anticipation covered them like rain. Finally my mother pointed and whispered, “This is it” in a voice so young it was almost unrecognizable to me.
As I approached her standing proudly beside her grandparents their darkened names greeted me with profound indifference, yet I had never felt so welcomed. This was my maternal great grandparents’ last mile, the end of their journey, their final resting place. For a few moments my mother and father narrated what stories they could coax from the cold marble, as if trying to resurrect some piece of something familiar that might prolong the fresh joy that was quickly fading now as harsh reality engraved their countenances once again. As my parents cast their stares downward and quickly began to escape to less familiar parts of the cemetery, the mood turned to regret under the weight of the same memories that had just released us to the heavens with such rapture. The stones were once again empty and dark and now only held questions instead of answers. As I stayed behind and took a seat on the cold marble wall that delineated my great grandparents’ final claim on this earth, I began to wonder about who they were, what they would tell me about their lives if they could. As I sat there thinking of all the questions I had for them, I also found questions for myself too, like why had I never been here before and what would I do with this newly woven quilt of places, names and memories long forgotten by most. The poor condition of their graves brought the realization that the pages of their story were being ripped out and sewn asunder with each passing generation, leaving their lives, their struggles, their victories trying desperately to survive among each last gasp.
We visited many cemeteries that day and while the memories still run thick like a dark molasses, I don’t remember much about the return trip home other than the darkness that seemed to envelop the landmarks that had earlier been so trumpeted. It was if the night was reclaiming them, steeling them away for safe keeping until someone else cared enough to return. I snapped hundreds of pictures and took pages and pages of notes that I thought would last a lifetime, but they would now hardly fill a thimble. There is so much to know, and so much to learn, and we are given but a whisper of time to capture it.
Over the years I have taken many such trips, but that first trip changed my life as it allowed me to find my passion and gave me direction in how I wanted to write my own story. As a sea of young UWG students pursuing their dreams surrounds me, I try and reconcile the span of my life that spilled away before I stumbled upon myself in that cemetery in Bartow County. Now in some small measure, as a form of penitence for the years I squandered, I offer my story and my encouragement to those who will receive it. Take the time to find yourself wherever you may be; endeavor to live everyday of your life and make a difference wherever you are. Our stories are being written on the hearts and minds of those around us, and its longevity only reaches as far as the impact we make on them and those they touch in return.
Michael Post is the helpdesk manager for UWG|Online.
