Editor’s Note: Soaking, deep penetrating chill rain in Virginia this morning. The squashed raccoon on the road was eaten by our congress of vultures. A load of crap was moved to the garage yesterday, a triumph, and oh, by the way…you might have heard something about the World Series…

– Vic

Author’s Note: And now for a break from the tales of the long ago south, here is something from this month.

-Marlow

31 October 2019

Fall, Fallen, Fell

Midwestern fall colors returned after a cold snap and rain
downpours that healed the 1-2 inch-wide cracks in the central Ohio soil

W and I recently visited family up north, hoping to enjoy the midwest’s mid-October fall colors.

During our drive northward, we were surprised to see how little the trees had turned — they were either green or brown. We assumed that the summer’s scorching temps in the mountains of the Carolinas and Virginias as well as Ohio’s hill country had been truly substantial. We had hoped to see the fall leaf turn, since we had been living down south either in the coral islands of the Florida Keys or along coastal southeastern Georgia for 20 straight years. Mother Nature and man came to our rescue when along Interstate 77 we spotted multiple pumpkin farm fields with neat, long rows of large orange spheres lined up for harvest running from the interstate roadside fences over hill and dale stretching eastward over the horizon. Way cool. Memories of fresh pies of pumpkin made our stomachs growl in anticipation.

Pumpkin farm field

When we arrived at W’s childhood home, her mom, Ada, had one such a pie and a tin of cookies waiting for us made from canned pumpkins from past years harvests. I have previously shared stories of Ada’s proficiency as a squirrel assassin of first rank. If I can find them in my or my readers’ archives, I will share them.

We had only two fixed items on this trip’s agenda — the second of which was a graveyard tombstone hunting trip in southwestern Ohio in Monroe County for the resting places of Ada’s side of the family. Before the genealogy part, though, we celebrated her older brother’s entrance into geezerhood and his 7th decade with a huge birthday bonfire and evening wiener roast out back behind their mother’s central Ohio country road home. With Ada’s dozen plus grand and great grandchildren roaring around it was a great time around a blazing fire under clear, cool, starry skies. It was a prefect trip in the way-back machine to our childhoods.

The graveyard tombstone hunting the following Monday was both chilling and rewarding. We visited multiple small church related cemeteries, many of whose churches were no longer in regular use. The graveyards were still cared for by local volunteers, some of whom had done so for 40 or 50 years. These small town, steadfast, silent heroes care for their community’s past and preserve it for those of us who search for it. We found the resting places of`

Two of Ada’s brothers, both stillborn in the early 1930s, underneath an unmarked, small, concrete angel; this was a beyond pleasing and touching moment.
Dozens upon dozens of relatives who fought in America’s wars from the Cold War, WW II, WW I, the Civil War and the Revolutionary War. The numbers of Grand Army of the Republic tombstone markers were jaw-dropping, while the numbers of men who had fallen as members of the GAR was sobering.
The grave of a child of Ada’s grandparents who was unknown to the family until we spotted it underneath a tiny, well-worn marker.

Grave marker of a Revolutionary War officer and long ago uncle to Ada

We ended that day by visiting a covered bridge and Ada’s birthplace family farm. The 19th century Knowlton Covered Bridge, which W’s brother wanted to see, had sadly fallen into the river below in early July 2019 despite late 20th century steel reinforcement beams.

Knowlton Covered Bridge standing (l) and fallen (r)

Ada’s birthplace family farm was deep in back hill country along a single lane gravel road. It had been sold several years ago to men who had the good fortunate to become recently rich due to frackable land underneath their farms. They wanted the 180 acre property to hunt. After a twisting and turning ride up a narrow valley in the sunsetting light, we found the place’s century plus old buildings had all been razed save for an outhouse in the woods out back, the landscape bulldozed and mounded up beyond recognition and two soulless, modern buildings emplaced — a large, tall rectangular pole barn garage and a three bedroom, double wide, manufactured home with all the modern conveniences — telephone, cable TV, satellite web service and piped in fresh water. Even the mountain spring pipe just down road that Ada, her grandparents, parents, siblings and children had drawn daily water to drink and wash had gone bone dry. As W’s brother poignantly said, “I have no reason to come back here ever again.” There wasn’t even a marker to mourn at or visit.

Sadly, before our planned departure south to Georgia, Ada took a gentle, slow-motion fall in front of W just beyond her reach out in Ada’s backyard that ended up breaking her left hip. This tale had not just a good but a great end for this robust octogenarian. Less than 44 hours after she fell, she was back home with a completely new hip, moving about with a walker in her home, stairclimbing, hosting well-wishers, and getting physical therapy from her nurse daughter W until the Medicare folks showed up. Ain’t nothing gonna keep Ada down nor out. Those despicable, garden-excavating squirrels still need hunting, caging and transporting out of the county.

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