My father came to the cemetery every Friday of
Memorial Day for the past sixteen years.
I went with him as a teenager, but I hadn't visited for eight years
since I graduated and left to start a new life.
Some years, my grandmother attended the ritual (I think she started the
tradition), but she now resided in the care center.
The hour we spent delivering the plastic
wreaths, Dad told me stories of the past two generations that were buried in
different sections. Our family traveled
to the community of Libby, Montana in the 1920's. Family further back from that year resided in
the Midwest, before that the East, and we can go back to Britain before we came
to the New World. Dad didn't have
stories about them, though I delighted in knowing there were stories. I listened avidly back in high school,
feeling a connection to those who came before me. I loved listening to my dad tell stories.
On this day, Dad wore a blue light weight
flannel tucked into blue jeans. A
stranger could look at his tall large form as intimidating. Teenage boys might have thought that at first
meeting him, but all those who knew Doug Nixon, knew him as a gentle
giant. My sister and I especially knew
his gentle, loving side. His large
weathered hands took ours as children to lead us down rocky paths to his
favorite fishing holes. Those same hands
wielded an ax to cut firewood. They held
his new born grandson, named for him.
I wore a warm jacket, not used to the cooler
mountain mornings. Next to my father, I
felt small. Uncharacteristically, I also
felt weak. Dark circles lined my blue
eyes and my skin was ghostly pale. No
amount of coffee infused me with the much needed energy I lacked. A month earlier, I went through a quick
delivery of my second son. Something had
ruptured and I lost more blood then normal.
My nurse midwife in the tiny town on the reservation didn't order a
blood transfusion. Being young, my
husband and I didn't think to insist on one.
Once out of the car, we pulled the plastic
wreaths out of the back. I always
thought fresh flowers would look a hundred times better, but the expense was
too much. Our tennis shoes grew damp as
we walked through the grass. Passing
rows of grave sights, we stopped at Grandpa Nixon's. Unlike many of the older graves, Grandpa's
marker was simple and flush with the ground.
Worth Helmer Nixon, born April 6, 1909, died December 10, 1977.
I don't remember much of my grandfather. He died when I was eight. I know my dad loved him dearly and still
missed him after eighteen years. Grandpa
was tall and thin. He wore bibbed
blue-jean overalls and a flannel shirt daily, unless going to a church
function. Dad bragged about Grandpa's
beautiful vegetable gardens, peonies, and lilacs. I believe both flowers where the favorites of
these two bigger then life men. I know I
think of both of them when all of my plants bloom. I will always have peonies and lilacs to keep
these men close to me. And the robin is
one of my favorites because Robin was Grandpa's nickname for me.
Besides the memory of Grandpa's pictures, I do
remember him in the kitchen. He cooked
pancakes for us at breakfast. I don't
know how he did it, but he mixed up Krusteaz Mix into the best pancakes in the
world. Grandma would make homemade
syrup. Now Grandma, Mom, and I all use
the mix to whip up a quick batch, but none of us make them so light, fluffy,
and perfect. In fact, I prefer not to
even eat them because there is no comparison.
My thoughts went back to that December so many
years ago while my dad put the wreaths in the ground. My parents and I were seated at the little
dinner table, snug up against the wall in the tiny kitchen in our single wide
trailer house. Baby Kimberly sat in my
old highchair. My feet didn't touch the
ground as I sat eating my meal of fried venison and potatoes with a side of
frozen peas from my parents' garden that I helped weed during the summer. I was thankful to not have to eat the
horrible mushy peas from a can.
Yuck!!! The phone rang. Dad grumbled, but got up to answer. He picked up the cream colored receiver from
the wall.
I knew something was wrong. The color drained from his face as de leaned
up against the fridge, tears falling from his eyes. Fear spread through me. I had never seen him cry until that evening. When he put the receiver back on the hook, he
informed us that Grandpa had passed away.
I didn't know it then, but life would never be the same for my dad
again. I learned the lesson thirty-nine
years later when I lost my dad because my life was never the same.
Coming out of my memory, I looked across the
cemetery anxious to go to our next stop.
"Can we go see Great Aunt Rebecca
now?" I asked.
Dad smiled and picked up a small set of
flowers. Hers was not a wreath. A brown vase held a handful of red flowers
which connected to a plastic spike. We
made our way across the large field of grass.
None of the other relatives rested near my dad's aunt, Grandpa Nixon's
older sister. In fact, only a few graves
were in this section. No trees shaded
the area. No one visited besides my dad
and I. Her marker was taller. Mrs. Rebecca Bowman and Infant, 1899, 1922. She was born on July 10, named Rebecca Mary
Nixon, and died on December 29.
"Will you tell me her story?"
"Well, in the spring of 1922, my grandfather
and three of the boys, my dad being one of them, set out on horseback for
Canada. They had heard of a prosperous
valley up north. They drove their extra
horses with them, but they ran out of money and stopped here in Libby for
work. Once they found a home, they sent
for Grandma and the rest of the family except Aunt Rebecca. She was married to a Wyola, Montana man named
Bill Bowman and was expecting their first child. Aunt Rebecca came later by train to be with
Grandma during the birth. On Christmas
Day, she had the baby and it died. Four
days later, she died. Her husband came
on the train at the start of the new year to find both had died. She and the baby are buried here."
I felt the sting of tears at the story.
"I wonder if the birth of her baby was
like that of mine with Clay. I wonder if
she lost too much blood and couldn't recover.
Or if she just gave up because of her broken heart?" My own recovery was going slow and I had the
joy of holding my healthy baby boy, Clay Douglas named after my dad. I couldn't imagine if he had died at
birth. I was also fortunate because I
had a healthy two year old boy to live for as well. Poor Aunt Rebecca had neither and her husband
was so far away. Yet, knowing the Nixon
spirit, I really don't believe she died from a broken heart. The fleeting thought was romantic
nonsense. Our family is made of sterner
stuff. She, like many women of the day,
died from childbirth due to so many things that doctor's didn't know how to
prevent. My prenatal care probably saved
me and Clay which Aunt Rebecca wouldn't have had.
I stayed with Aunt Rebecca for a while. I vowed to visit her as often as possible and
tell her story to my children. I didn't
want her to be forgotten. I was born
almost forty-six years later, but I felt a strong bond with her. Later that summer, my little family and I
moved to Hardin, Montana. Wyola was only
forty-nine miles away by interstate. She
remained on my heart almost daily for the three years we lived there. I daydreamed of stories of her teen years in
the tiny little town. I wondered about
how it was for her living on the Crow reservation. I might have been teaching a friend's
descendant. I will never know.
I think of her often still. My heart is broken knowing that no one visits
her grave on Memorial Day anymore. When
I go home, I visit with her. My parents
will be buried beside her one day. I am
thankful she and the baby won't be alone.
********************************
Great Grandma Maria probably would laugh at me
wondering about her life moving to Wyola and finally to Libby. How hard was it to take the young children by
wagon to Helena and the rest of the way to Libby in a Model T with her husband
already in Libby? I am sure at the time
she thought it mundane, but I, ninety-six years later, am fascinated by the
story that has died through the years.
She probably wouldn't want to tell me about the extreme suffering she
endured when her twin babies died in 1909.
They were born on August 6th. One
died that very day. There is no name in
the family Bible. I don't even know if
the baby was a boy or girl. Louis lived
until September 14th. Rebecca was ten
years old. How did her siblings death
affect her? She must have thought of the
twins when she held her own baby who failed to breath.
History posses so many questions. If we are lucky, we have lists of names and
dates of those who came before us. I
want more for my grandchildren and great grandchildren. I want all the people in my life to come
alive on the page. Of course, I am sure
there are better writers to do the task, but I refuse to wait for them. I, myself, have waited too long as it
is. In the last two years, I have lost
my last grandparent, my father, an aunt, and an uncle. Yes, I listened to their stories over the
years, but I have also forgotten them.
We can learn a lot from our elders. Mine are quickly fading away. Hell, I am fifty years old. I am becoming an elder. So, I begin my journey of writing about my
past for better or worse. I may be
entertaining. I may be boring. I may bring enlightenment and wisdom, or
not. Either way, this is my story.
I will use my imagination on the fine
details. Like in the story of the
cemetery, I haven't a clue what either my dad or I wore. Our spoken words are definitely not verbatim. However, the episode did happen. Others may remember the stories
differently. I do hope that someday
people read the stories and learn of my amazing father, my mother, my
supportive husband, the gifts of my children, the journey of my sister and I,
and all the other great and not so great people that came and went in my
life. We may only be remembered by a
few, but remembered we will be.
And if after you read these stories, you find
yourself in Libby, Montana, please stop by the cemetery off of Highway 2. Say hello to Mrs. Rebecca Bowman who died too
young at the age of 23. Give her my love
and tell her she hasn't been forgotten.
