Reflection

By Evelyn Kunz Gaffney

            There is an African tradition that says every man has a map of his own country and that the heart will never allow you to forget that map. If a man is born in a dry place, then although he may dream of rain, he does not want too much, and he will not mind the sun that beats down.¹


            I just returned to the land of my birth. Eastern Washington is the map I have in my heart and my heart will never allow me to forget that map.  Isn’t goin’ home a low and lonely ride?²

            The poplar trees are old.  One has fallen away from the house toward the north; the other is standing but broken and sad, dry and gnarly and only a very few green leaves are visible. There is no house; the house is gone.  But the small garage and the chicken house are there, looking dilapidated.  I can recall an enormous green Buick housed in that garage when Aunt Gertchie lived there.  To get to the chicken house to the rear of the house you had to cross a picturesque wooden bridge that spanned the Sherman Creek.  During the spring run-off, the creek made its varied and chattering racket along the stones and mud, and there was a breathing of wind along the trees.  The creek is, outside of spring, a dry creek bed.  But the bridge is now gone, too.

 
            Across the main road toward the west, the school-house/garage still stands but is so leaning that one dares not go in to look at the black boards on the walls or to rummage through the rummage.  On one occasion I found in that old garage a foot locker that belonged to my father, Hilary Michael Kunz.  In it were treasures: a certificate of penmanship, a certificate of perfect attendance, a diary.  In this diary Dad had written secret notes about his and Mom’s courtship, and about teasing Mom, and about how beautiful she looked when he went to pick her up for a picnic in 1927.

            But yesterday we could not go into that garage.  Too dangerous.  How dangerous was it when Grandfather Michael Kunz travelled across half the continent from Elvaston, IL to Sherman, WA in 1891 with a new wife and six children who had lost their mother to death?  They must have felt some sadness at leaving their lives, their friends and family, all that they knew behind them. But what an adventurous spirit to come out west to the unknown!


            Yesterday we traveled the same dusty track that led to the old [Simons] homestead, the track hardly in use, enough to jar the springs and collect chickweed in the grill and enough to lead out to the modern equipment where our cousin, Joe Bean was tilling the land for the Simons heirs.


            Lord, two days ago you made the universe, earth, sun, moon and stars, and everything including man.  Thank you for the contour of those mountains, for the canyons, for the sight of Mount Johnny George and Mount Jimmy George, for the huckleberries, for the high plateau that is our farm, for the sun and rain that nourish our crops.  Thank you for the friendly Native Americans with whom we share the earth.  Thank you for the sweat and tears that were poured out by those amazing people whom we call our own.


            These amazing people, our early ancestors were so aware of the cycle of seasons with astute awareness of the rise and decline of the sun’s energy, knowing that the rhythm of the world greatly affects life.  They recognized the sun’s influence as the cause for the earth’s external changes. They watched while life and death were intertwined and while their new land responded to light and dark, warmth and cold.


            Little did they know that generations later we would read about their trials and tribulations and be inspired by their patience.  We are inspired by the sheer hard work and by the way the family outlasted the hardships of bringing a family into this wonderful territory even before the declaration of Washington Statehood.


            Lord, You are the Farmer, we are the field.  It is Your right to fence me in, to plough my soul’s hard ground with furrows deep, to dig down far for hidden rocks,and to harrow hard until the soil is smooth.  Please plan a harvest of holiness.


            Mom, in the old photograph you are the little girl standing beside the step mother and step sister.  There are five other little urchins, your siblings, thinking up mischief.  You never knew your Mama unless your memory went back to less than two years old.  Your Papa tried hard to collect the family.  In spite of the pain, love calls us back.

            How do you know what your first memory is? But I do have an early memory of Mary Ann coming home from the hospital.  She was tiny and pink and made funny noises.  Mama changed her diaper and she immediately wet the new one.  I found that very amusing and wondered if I could remember that five years later.  I thought that, since I was five at that time, I would tell her every five years about the momentous event.  I have done so, much to her chagrin.


            But there is an earlier memory, that of Grandma Amelia.  In my mental picture she is sitting in our kitchen with the slanted floor and she is peeling pears with my mother.  They must have been canning to store up for winter.  Also, there is a story that I was walking across the road with Grandma and I saw a car coming about a mile away.  Our parents told us to be careful of the road.  So I pushed Grandma across.  I’m not sure if I remember the event or the telling of it.


            The floor of our house on the flat was slanted because it was built upon a rock, very much like the church.  The Rock of Peter and the Rock of our Dad… They were both strong, both having force of character, will, morality and intelligence.  We knew that good was the preferred choice.  One time and one time only, I got spanked.  Patty and I were jumping on the bed in our room which was on the second floor directly above the folks’ room.  When that bed crashed and the springs went down and through the bedstead, Dad flew up those stairs and gave me (and I hope Patty) one flat hand on the behind.
 

            I have not recovered from this violent event of my father’s death.  I hold each detail in my heart and pray to my father, the martyr, for a semblance of his faith and courage.  The definition of a hero is one who rises one more time than he falls.  Daddy was one such hero.  He made the big one, the longest home run.  He rose so far, we will only see him again in heaven.  His death, as was his life, was one of a hero and a martyr.  He gave and gave and gave of his kindness until he gave his life.

            Lord, I smell fresh bread just baked, mouth watering warm.  Lord, my mind goes back, Mom kneading dough, taking the loaf from the pan, buttering a slice for me.  I smell peonies, yellow roses, heavenly fragrance.  I see Dad coming in from the field, the top of his face white and almost clean-looking, while the bottom of his face was as dark as the earth he turned.  It resembles a mask a clown might wear.


            I feel time and again the warmth of Kate’s hospitality and kindness, her amazing example as a nurse and mother.   I hear Bessie’s Chopin as only Bessie’s strong fingers and spirit could convey.  I see Pete in the field, explaining the canola blossom and taking on the stewardship of the earth we love.  I hear and see Denny as the old prospector, or as the Music Man and as the philosopher and educator.  I have Patty running the court, not only at the Academy, but in pickle ball, in child rearing and as a most exquisite minister of God’s sacrament to the less fortunate.  I smell baby powder and hold again the tiny baby sister, smelling fresh, clean, human as Mom lifts her from the bath, and Dosie as the brave adventurer going to the ends of the earth for her beliefs and for her family.  Lord, thank you for the smells, the feelings, the visions, the music that trigger memory warm again with love.

¹  Alexander McCall Smith. The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Anchor Books

²  "Lady with the Braid" a song by Dory Previn