Calling
Me Home
by
Robert
S. Wilson
When I was a kid,
my mother told me about the time she saw her father’s ghost. Looking back, I
can’t help but think she imagined it or maybe caught a glimpse of something
explainable and her mind, still mourning his loss, filled in the blanks. I used
to be a believer. In all sorts of things. I grew up a believer in Greencastle ,
Indiana Indianapolis and Terre
Haute . Now, I’m what you call a skeptic. I only believe
in things like evidence, peer-review, and verified theory. Things you can see,
touch, smell.
Almost seven years
ago I moved out of state, away from those rows of corn fields, dry cold
winters, and beautiful fall mornings when gentle shades of orange, yellow, and
brown blend and blanket the ground. Packed up my guitar, my family, and headed
south to Nashville , Tennessee
Mom calls often. I
don’t get to visit much, though.
The cost of living
here and the lack of time both make it hard to make it up north very much. In
fact I haven’t been for at least two years now. And she’s been calling a lot
lately. So last week I decided it was about time I headed home to say hi. Spend
some quality time with Mom.
It’s about noon . I’ve been driving 65 North about three
and a half hours now. I just crossed over the bridge from Louisville ,
Kentucky Jeffersonville ,
Indiana Indiana
shape on it, no matter how long I’ve been gone, no matter how far I move away,
I always feel like I’ve come home.
In typical Indiana
style, I drive for two or three hours through at least three seasons. At one
point its raining enough I can’t see more than a blur in front of me, then it’s
a wintry mix, and by the time I’m passing Seymour ,
the sun is shining and the sky is blue. And of course for the entire trip,
there’s very little to see that I’ve not been seeing practically in a loop since
I crossed the Ohio . Fields.
Exits. More fields. A tractor here and there. Cops hiding in the median under
overpasses, and even more fields. But still it’s home and I can’t wait to get
to Putnam County
Exiting onto 465, Indianapolis
seems like such a small quiet city now compared to Nashville .
And yet so much more urban. Maybe it’s all the factories, the smoke stacks sending
huge plumes of smoke up into the endless sky. The smell of some highly processed
something I’d rather not be able to identify. Or the constant roadwork that’s
always happening somewhere. Maybe it’s the contrast between downtown and the
rest of the city that Nashville
just doesn’t seem to have. Maybe it’s just all in my head.
The circle brings
me around past East Kentucky Avenue ,
and then I’m crawling up the ramp for 70 East. Stealing my way into traffic
from the exit, I can’t help but remember the first time I drove on this very
highway when I was only nineteen years old. I’d gotten on Westbound from State
Road 231 in Cloverdale with my huge green ’79 Cougar, it was morning or maybe
afternoon. I felt so exhilarated trying to keep up with the fast-moving semis
and cars, and now, so many years later, they almost move like slugs compared to
what I’m used to.
Before long State
Road 40 takes me to a large white barn and what looks like the largest Bonzai
tree known to man and I veer right onto 240. From there it’s all corn fields
and farm houses until Greencastle springs up from nowhere. Several vast
factories greet me as I enter town and then the “new” Wal-mart pops up and
before I know it, I’m really here.
Turning onto the roadway
that cuts through town, a few minutes pass and I pull in front of Mom’s
driveway. A large black open gate greets me as I drive the car onto the thin
gravel stretch that circles between rows and rows of headstones of various
shapes, sizes and colors. Some are old, weathered, dark, and hard to read while
others are new, clean, lightly colored and then everything in between. Looking
up the hill I see her tree.
I pull the car
into the little fenced-in parking lot that didn’t exist when Mom first came here
to rest her bones beneath the earth. After I park the car, I have to sit and
take a deep breath. The weight of how long it’s been hits me like a ton of
bricks. I get out of the car and walk around looking for her. She’s never
exactly where I remember, but about three or four wrong headstones later I find
myself right in front of Mother’s grave.
Sharon L. Gastineau
“Hi, Mom.” I give
a half-hearted wave.
My brother’s left
flowers again. He comes by often. He was always the better son, the one who was
there when Mom needed him most. And just like when she was alive, I’m late
again. I sit down Indian style unsure of what the dice will roll this time. Sometimes
I sit here and feel nothing at all. And others… Others I have to peel myself
away, tears streaming, and head back out into that huge empty world that’s
never been quite the same since she left.
Today, I feel
something I haven’t in far too long. I feel her presence. And then I think back to her father’s ghost
and that nagging doubt I’ve had over all these years. And the tears stream as I
realize she didn’t imagine anything at all.
I should know. No
matter how long I’ve been gone, no matter how far I move away, my mother always
calls me home.
