GREETING THE SEASON
A Widow Bit – Dec. 14, 2008 (or thereabouts)
By Mary Koch

                6:30 a.m. – I  check the weather forecast on the Internet and see that it will begin snowing at 10 a.m. A definitive forecast. None of this “percent chance” business. It definitely will snow, and at a time certain.

            That means I have three things to accomplish before 10 a.m.:

·         Roll the summer tires into their winter storage spot.

·         Get the snow blower gassed up and ready to go.

·         Drive to the cemetery.

              9 a.m. – I’m two-thirds of the way through my list, and I’m headed for the cemetery. The plan is to mark John’s grave in some way so I can find it under snow. This is in preparation for Christmas, which will be the 77th anniversary of John’s birth and the second Christmas since his death.

              Last Christmas we decided to observe his birthday by placing a blanket of greens on the grave. We started out with somber intentions but ended up in a fit of hilarity. It hadn’t occurred to me, until we got there, that we could only guess at the location of the grave under a foot or more of snow.

              Futilely, we tried brushing the snow from various likely locations. As we stomped around in snow up to our knees, daughter-in-law Becki said, “Can’t you just hear John laughing and telling us – ‘You’re getting warmer. No, no! You’re getting colder.’”

              We finally laid the greens approximately where we thought the grave might be, and Katie nestled a basket of tiny Christmas roses among them. Apparently we were close enough. When I went back on Easter, the snow had melted; the cemetery crew had cleared away the fir boughs and placed the roses – now dried but still lovely – on the temporary grave marker.

              I’m determined that this Christmas, I’ll be prepared. With minutes to go before snowfall, I drive up to the cemetery and tie a small, red ribbon on the wire fence, exactly six paces straight downhill from the grave.

              The dirt is still fresh around the permanent, flat tombstone, which the cemetery crew had put in place the week before. I’d been hemming and hawing for months over a catalog of commercial tombstones before I discovered that a local stone artisan and friend, Doug Woodrow, makes them. After an arduous search, Doug finally located an ideal slab of granite on Pitcher Mountain.

              It mattered greatly to have a friend create this final notation of life with material from the land John loved. My name is also on the gravestone, with space for the final date. Reason to pause as I gaze across the valley from the cemetery’s hilltop vantage. Together, John and I had chosen this grave site for its expansive view, a reminder to me that death is not an end, but a portal.

              10 a.m. – Check list complete, I’m back home.

              10:50 a.m. – The first snowflakes fall. I had 50 minutes of grace after all. That’s the trouble with precise predictions; they don’t allow for grace.