The earliest memory I have comes from a trip my family took when I was two years old. It was a beach trip to Cape Cod, Massachusetts complete with a few side trips to Duxbury Bay, the childhood vacation spot of my father and grandfather. Living in Kentucky, I can only imagine the duration of the trip, but considering I can’t remember the drive or any other detail of the trip prior to arrival, I will assume it went off without a hitch.
What I remember is a vague image of a large hill. At the top of the hill, cars were parked and children ran and played about the lush deciduous and conifer trees. The path that led down the hill narrowed a bit but once through the constrained opening was Duxbury Bay complete with a beach and sand dunes as far as the eye could see. I remember playing in the frigid waters, climbing the mountainous dunes, and finding enchantment in the atmosphere of my grandfather’s paradise. I was two, and this is still the first memory of my life.
Throughout my childhood years, I developed a love for my grandfather that I could not explain. It was an intrinsic feeling and while we lived hundreds of miles apart, I identified with Pop Pop in a way that needed no greetings or salutations. We just fit, grandfather and grandson, old man and young boy, mentor and mentored, the way all grandfathers fit with their grandsons. And so it was that in my youth, I treasured the presence of my grandfather all though our visits were limited and our time was short.
The last memory I have of my grandfather bears a slight resemblance to my first memory over thirty years ago. The landscape, the same, the boy, now a man, my father, older and holding the urn of my grandfather upon the gently sloping waters of Duxbury Bay. The passing of Pop Pop did not come unexpectedly as he was well into his 80’s and in deteriorating health. My grandmother had passed a year earlier and he was ready to go home, lost without her, and losing his worldly body.
The harbor master had met us at the shipyard, arranged by Pop Pop’s brother. A pastor was present, Bible in hand, and the 5 of us boarded a trawler and motored toward Bug Light; a lighthouse in the middle of the bay. The water was placid that October day yet winter was on the horizon. It was a fitting moment, cloudy with just the right hit of gloom, a salty taste in the air, and a rolling tide gently rocking my memories to rest.
Once in view of the lighthouse, the pastor bared his Bible and read a few lines. His words eluded to those who had come before and to those who have all ready returned home. It was befitting of the moment and as his Bible closed and halted upon his hip, one foot resting on the ship’s hull, he presented a poem that I will never forget. It is a memory every bit as powerful as my first. The words he read, as my father spread his father’s ashes upon the sea were from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Crossing the Bar.
Pop Pop was laid to rest on the sea of his youth that cold, blustery October morning. It was a noble departure, a complete odyssey, a turning point from youth to death as the Almighty God called another child home.
The first memory I ever formed was on Duxbury Bay so many years ago and it will never fade, nor will it ever end. Those whom we’ve loved are always with us, a constant companion, night or day, just as the wave never ceases to roll to the land, but for a moment it stalls, and then back home again. Just a thought.
What I remember is a vague image of a large hill. At the top of the hill, cars were parked and children ran and played about the lush deciduous and conifer trees. The path that led down the hill narrowed a bit but once through the constrained opening was Duxbury Bay complete with a beach and sand dunes as far as the eye could see. I remember playing in the frigid waters, climbing the mountainous dunes, and finding enchantment in the atmosphere of my grandfather’s paradise. I was two, and this is still the first memory of my life.
Throughout my childhood years, I developed a love for my grandfather that I could not explain. It was an intrinsic feeling and while we lived hundreds of miles apart, I identified with Pop Pop in a way that needed no greetings or salutations. We just fit, grandfather and grandson, old man and young boy, mentor and mentored, the way all grandfathers fit with their grandsons. And so it was that in my youth, I treasured the presence of my grandfather all though our visits were limited and our time was short.
The last memory I have of my grandfather bears a slight resemblance to my first memory over thirty years ago. The landscape, the same, the boy, now a man, my father, older and holding the urn of my grandfather upon the gently sloping waters of Duxbury Bay. The passing of Pop Pop did not come unexpectedly as he was well into his 80’s and in deteriorating health. My grandmother had passed a year earlier and he was ready to go home, lost without her, and losing his worldly body.
The harbor master had met us at the shipyard, arranged by Pop Pop’s brother. A pastor was present, Bible in hand, and the 5 of us boarded a trawler and motored toward Bug Light; a lighthouse in the middle of the bay. The water was placid that October day yet winter was on the horizon. It was a fitting moment, cloudy with just the right hit of gloom, a salty taste in the air, and a rolling tide gently rocking my memories to rest.
Once in view of the lighthouse, the pastor bared his Bible and read a few lines. His words eluded to those who had come before and to those who have all ready returned home. It was befitting of the moment and as his Bible closed and halted upon his hip, one foot resting on the ship’s hull, he presented a poem that I will never forget. It is a memory every bit as powerful as my first. The words he read, as my father spread his father’s ashes upon the sea were from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Crossing the Bar.
Pop Pop was laid to rest on the sea of his youth that cold, blustery October morning. It was a noble departure, a complete odyssey, a turning point from youth to death as the Almighty God called another child home.
The first memory I ever formed was on Duxbury Bay so many years ago and it will never fade, nor will it ever end. Those whom we’ve loved are always with us, a constant companion, night or day, just as the wave never ceases to roll to the land, but for a moment it stalls, and then back home again. Just a thought.
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