homecomings

Yesterday I returned home from a 10 day absence, the beginning of which was a wonderful, yet probably not deserved, respite from responsibility, but the majority of which was spent giving comfort, receiving comfort, and mourning the death of my grandfather. The visit to my hometown, county, township was somewhat formulaic, I feeling like the lead character in a movie about homecomings, family, and discovering who we really are, with the houses, buildings, and big yards that contained our childhoods. I, having left to aquaint myself with bigger cities, returned home to the farm, the quaint country church, and hosts of relatives and friends whom I had not bothered writing or calling. After my visit there, I am in no way eager to move back to Central Illinois, nor do I feel like I have to rearrange my life, reprioritize, or gut the infrastructure of my personality in tune with what I feel I may have discovered during a time of sorrow with the people who taught me my earliest lessons. However, I feel that I did, in a way, emotionally come back home. I had been angry, not with my parents, but with others and their failure to live up to my expectations, their failure to be the sparkling idols that I had set them up to be. The farm, my grandparents’ farm, had been my Utopia growing up. Everything that was good, everything that was worked for, earned, and enjoyed was in my mind and my heart somewhere on those farms. I loved the pastures of the North farm, the creek of the Homeplace, the red-winged black birds, the dogs, the kittens, and the calls of the livestock. I enjoyed being in the middle of nowhere. And I loved my Grandpa, the man who worked the farm, whose touch could calm the animals, who worked hard without complaint and without ever counting down to vacation. I remember praying for him with all my might when some sort of machinery would break down (which was every week), just begging God to cut Grandpa a break, give him a taste of success, let him be glad at the fruit of his work. I thought my Grandpa could do no wrong... imagine my devastation when I found out that he could. I, little by little, realized that the farm was no Utopia, that my grandfather was not infallible. I don’t know if I was angry, was hurt, or was just frustrated, but I distanced myself from the farm for a long time. I returned there in the wake of Grandpa’s death, however, and found myself no longer angry or frustrated or wanting to not be there. I don't know why, but I was just at peace with everything. Things had been done wrong, things were not ideal, and in some ways things were just the opposite of what they could have been if only Grandpa had stopped striving long enough to consider us, his family. But, I forgave the farm, my grandpa, and myself. I came to treasure my role as granddaughter once again. I felt satisfied with my place in the family tree. I felt like Grandpa would have been proud of me, even though he wouldn't have known how to show it. I know Grandpa loved me, even though he didn't understand me and was scared to try. I know my grandfather is Grandpa, and even though we are now paying for some of his mistakes, we loved him, and I forgive him. That is at least one less load to bear.