NEWS FROM THE HILLS

Day fades away as evening shadows deepen, and white mist shrouds the side of Pilot Knob. Night is falling in the hills once more and the rain has ceased for now. The trails of vapor up the hillsides promise more rain in the offing. “Fog on the hills brings water to the mills” is a true mountain proverb.

Night sounds begin across the pond, in the shadowy hillsides, and from the tall treetops. Pond frogs set up a shrill chirping, with an occasional bass thrum heard from a bullfrog. The lonesomest sound of all cuts through the gathering dusk—the mournful quirr of a tree frog.

How I miss the call of the whippoorwill! In my childhood, they called from hillside to hillside, a cry as clear as a cold mountain spring. The memory of that sad and melancholy call brings back memories of long-ago evenings when purple shadows fell on these same hills. Sadly, these nighttime birds have almost vanished from the hills. I heard one call last spring, and this year, none.

This is a poignant time of year, with memories crowding the mind. Decoration Day is almost upon us, and the mind wanders to scenes of the past, and to loved ones who are no longer with us. The day is set aside to honor our dead, but it seems to have revolved into a long weekend of festivities.

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Family ties don’t seem to be as important now as they were when we were children. It was Decoration Day, not Memorial Day, and we decorated the graves of our deceased family. Every year, we climbed the hill to the cemetery, clutching our bouquets of graveyard roses and piney roses, along with a sprig of ferny asparagus stuck in a Mason jar of water.

The smaller children gathered daisies and mountain laurel (or calico bush) to be offered on the graves of long-dead ancestors. There we felt the link to our grandparents and other family members. There was a sense of continuity and kinship as the older folks reminisced fondly of departed relatives. There was a strain of sadness that threaded through their conversation, yet oddly comforting at the same time.

Grandma’s graveyard rose always bloomed for Decoration Day. It is curious how different flowers revive long-ago memories, and bring back seasons of the past. When I smell the sweet scent of this rose, Grandma O’Dell lives again in my memory. I can see her high cheek bones, and the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose.

The sweet, sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle vine will always spell high school graduation to me. This vine, with its yellow and white blossoms, covered the hillside and road banks at the old high school. Its honeyed scent was released on the warm May night when I graduated, and perfumed the whole atmosphere as we left high school behind.

Just a whiff of this haunting smell now, and once again I feel that excited yet apprehensive feeling of teetering on the brink of adulthood. We were eager to launch out into a new phase of life, yet wanting at the same time to run back into the safety of childhood. While we hesitated, the door closed behind us, accentuated by the scent of honeysuckle.

In the soft twilight, I walk the hill to the family cemetery, carrying the flowers that Daddy loved. It was such a short time ago that Daddy took us by the hand and we carried our flowers to put on Grandma’s and Grandpa’s grave. It has been almost 26 years since Daddy was laid to rest here, and yet it seems only a yesterday ago.

An old song that Daddy used to sing comes to mind, “We are going down the valley one by one/With our faces toward the setting of the sun . . .“ The older we get, the faster we seem to be marching. I think of all the new graves on lonely hilltop cemeteries that have received memories of our family the last few years, and it seems that fast, too fast, we are going down the valley.

There are isolated, wind-swept cemeteries scattered all over our hills, many with graves unmarked. They are seemingly forgotten by everyone, small plots of land studded with field stones and covered by vines and weeds. The sight of one of these hilltop graveyards, with their forgotten tombstones, stirs unnamed feelings deep within my being.

As I place the flowers and my memories on Daddy’s grave, I remember the words of Apostle Paul. He wrote, “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.” (1 Cor. 15-19) Thank God for this hope that is an anchor to the soul.

To God, we are more than a forgotten tombstone. When we receive salvation, we receive eternal life. I have the assurance that if I continue to live faithful to God, when this life is over, I will leave this family only to be reunited with the family of God in heaven.

We are going down the valley—where are you headed?

Alyce Faye can be reached at alycefaye@citlink.net