Golden Poppies
From "Windhover" (Volume 6, 2001)
“Six week old baby says ‘Solipsism.’” This was the caption sprawled across the cover of the National Enquirer. I was the smiling baby boy under the caption. A Ukrainian comedian turned freelance writer, that my mom was dating at the time, wrote the bogus story. He had promised my mom five hundred dollars to make up the story.
It seems ridiculous to think that there were people who believed that it was true, but there were. After the story was printed, hundreds of letters came addressed to me, a baby, from people who believed in it. One woman said I was the reincarnation of Henry David Thoreau, and she wondered if I had once hada love affair with Emerson; another, the priest of a naturalist church that worked for the conservation of wild chickens in Rhode Island, wrote to say I was the very same child he had seen in a vision, and I was sent to make his church known to the world.
Living is hard when you grow up in a small town where everyone reminds you of the past and everything you didn’t want to believe seemed to haunt you. When I started school, teachers would always pause at my name when they called roll and ask, “Aren’t you that boy that was in the tabloid?” And a month would never pass without someone spotting me in the grocery store and saying, “You’re that boy—the one in the tabloid. Was that story really true?”
I wished a lot growing up that the story was true. I used to have dreams that it was—that I had really said solipsism and now led a fairytale life. I was always a genius little boy who could speak complete sentences before his first birthday. People would never say, “aren’t you the boy from the tabloid,” in this dream—they’d call me by my name and throw in something about being the genius boy. And my mom would love me in these dreams.
When I was nine, my mom told me that she would have to go away to California for awhile and sort some things out. “I just don’t know who I am,” she told me while she stood in front of her vanity mirror naked plucking at her eyes, “I have to find myself—I have to find my peace. I just don’t have the money to take you along.”
“Where will I go?”
“Something will come up.” For encouragement Mom walked up to me, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I think your dad is still living in California—maybe we’ll get back together.”
A week later Mom drove me to my grandma’s house in Pergamum, an even smaller town than the one I grew up in, near Albany. I had never met my grandma; I had never seen a picture of her; I had heard her name only a few times.
I can still remember standing on the doorstep to a house I had never been, to see a woman I had never known, and my mom saying, “This is your grandma.” Then I was pushed inside and told to wait in the living room. I could hear only vaguely what mom and grandma said. They were arguing—it was something about the past. Finally the door slammed. Mom had left.
I would have cried if I had someone to cry to.
Then Grandma came hobbling into the living room supporting herself with her cane. She stopped in front of me, put on the glasses that hung around her neck by a gold chain, and looked me over carefully. “You have your grandpa’s eyes.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, so I scratched my neck (I do this sometimes when I’m nervous).
“If you’re going to be staying here, I guess I should show you around.” She hobbled out of the room, and I followed behind.
“Your bedroom,” Grandma said, opening the door to the first room on her tour. It was simple—bed, dresser, Bible on the nightstand. “It was your mom’s room,” she said shuting the door before I could look longer.
The bathroom was the second and final room she showed me. “Toilet.” Grandma said pointing.
I looked in the bathroom and saw hanging, framed over the toilet, the tabloid magazine with me on the cover.
“That’s the only picture I have of you. Your mom sent it to me with a note that said, ‘I thought you should know you’re a grandma.’”
“Why’s it in the bathroom?”
“Because it reminds me whenever I come in here that a lot crap goes into this world, but eventually that crap will come out. When it does we wipe up, get clean, and go on with out lives.”
“Oh,” my little voice replied.
“There’s a TV in the living room. I’m taking a nap.”
I played with the remote control, switching between cartoons and some religious station with a sweaty black man shouting “Jesus” and “road to salvation” in dramatic repetition. I got bored of this after thirty minutes and decided to take my own tour of the house.
Quietly I wandered down the hallway, sliding my hands against the wall as I walked, and quickly peeked my head in each of the open doors. The only room with the light on was the one at the end of the hall. It was Grandma’s room.
I stood in the doorframe and watched her. She did not sleep like she said she would. She was kneeling at the side of the bed praying out loud. She prayed for the town, her church, and that she’d grow stronger in faith and love. I giggled a little when she continued to pray that she would win the lottery. Then she let out a deep sigh and prayed for me; she prayed for me to know that she loved me even though she didn’t show it much; she prayed that I’d make lots of knew friends while I stayed with her; finally she prayed that I’d find Jesus.
No one had ever prayed for me before.
* * *
Making friends was easy in Pergamum because the town was so small and everyone was close. After school about seven or eight of us would always meet. We’d spend the rest of the day pretending we were pirates, space men, soldiers, or spies—I think we had been everything at one point.
One day one of us got the idea that we should try something new—more exciting. For almost a hour we threw out ideas of what we could do. Then someone, I don’t remember who, said “How ‘bout we play tag in the cemetery?” It got real quiet and no one answered. After a minute of stillness somebody said, “Okay,” and we all knew there was no turning back. To say it was a stupid idea would only mean we were too afraid to try it. So for about two weeks, until we got bored again, we played tag at the cemetery.
I was leaving one day when grandma stopped me at the door.
“Did you finish your homework.”
I nodded.
“You gonna go down to the old cemetery?” Grandma asked.
“Why would I want to go to the cemetery?”
“I talked to Patti Rosecran at the market. She said boys had been runnin’ around playing games down there.”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know who they are Grandma.”
She carefully eyed me down. I think she knew I was lying, but she nodded anyway. “I don’t want to hear ‘bout my grandson doing that stuff. Understood?”
I nodded.
“People need to teach their kids to let the dead be.”
“Can I go now?”
Grandma finally gave in, “But I want you home by five.”
I ran out the door and made it to the graveyard in ten minutes. Everyone was already there. “Did Grandma say it was alright to play?” My best friend, Alex, teased as I joined the rest of the group.
“Shut up.”
There was no more talking.
Alex was ‘it’, and the rest of us had 120 seconds to hide. Brian Rosecran and I ran together until we got to the tombstone of a woman Brian claimed to be his grandma, and we broke up. Brian stayed there, but I kept running.
I found a large tree not much farther from Brian and used its trunk as my shield from Alex. As I caught my breath, I heard the crackling of leaves and turned. A short, skinny, pale-faced, middle aged man in a Hawaiian shirt, stood grinning down at me. “Sure is an odd place for kids to be playing games.”
“I’m sorry,” I said backing away, “we didn’t know anyone was here.”
“No worries—you better stay put or your friends are going to find you.”
I stayed.
The man lit a small brown cigarette that he was holding, and carefully inhaled.
“Sure is a funny looking cigarette.” I didn’t know what he was smoking then.
He inhaled deeply, his eyes were wandering, “Yeah.”
I could see Alex running, not far from me.
“So you got a name kid?”
“Alex,” I lied.
“I live up on that hill over there,” The man pointed, “Come down here everyday. I love cemeteries.”
“That’s funny thing to like.”
“Lot’s of people are intrigued by them—look at you and your friends.”
“We never said we liked it—it’s just a good place to hide.”
He nodded, inhaling more of his cigarette. “I feel a certain sense of power when I come to this place. I think of all those people who died, and all the dreams they must have had, but never achieved. Cemeteries are the home of the greatest dreams—you know that?”
I shrugged.
“Everyone has one great dream. Most people never let that dream out though, and it dies with them. That’s why I like coming down here—I like to reflect about all those dreams that will never be. What’s your great dream, Alex?”
“I don’t know.”
He closed his eyes and swayed his head to a beat, like he was listening to music. Then he opened them and pointed, “Who’s that girl?” She was the only girl in our group. We only let her stay because she was a tomboy and Alex’s sister.
“Her names Jessica.”
“She’s a very pretty girl,” He closed his eyes. When they opened this time, I noticed for the first time how glossy they were. He bent down, tore out some grass, then fixed his eyes on it, “Green’s a pretty color.” He looked back down at me, “Do you think desire is an eternal thing?”
He continued before I answered. “It’s all eternal Alex. The trees. The animals. The colors.” He paused, closed his eyes, rubbed his hand, then looked back at me and continued his reflection, “I believe in syncretism. Happiness is there—do you know that?”
I scratched my neck and looked in the distance. Alex had spotted Brian. The game was over. “I gotta go mister.”
He nodded, “It was nice meeting you Alex—I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
* * *
After I lived with grandma longer, we developed a lot of little traditions that I think helped us grow closer together. Saturday mornings we’d eat oatmeal and drink hot cider on the porch. Grandma would tell me funny stories about things her and my grandpa used to do before he died. Sometimes she’d tell me stories about what my mom was like when she was little; I liked those stories most, because mom had never really told me about her past.
One Saturday I asked grandma what happened between her and Mom. Grandma was quiet. I could tell it hurt for her to think about. Finally she said slowly, “Your mom—she was a free spirited child. I never really could control her. When she was seventeen, she got herself pregnant—she never did say who the father was. Me and your grandpa tried real hard to get her to give it up for adoption. We thought that’s what she was going to do, but then one day she just left—ran away in the middle of the night.
“I prayed every night for my little girl to come home. Three months later she did, and she wasn’t pregnant anymore. Grandpa and her got into a real bad fight, and she left again. Twelve years later she came back with you and left again. Your aunt was able to find her when grandpa died, but she didn’t want to come down for the funeral.”
“Do you think I’m like her Grandma?”
“You’re everything good about her.”
From afar, I could see a black Lexus speeding carelessly down the road. It pulled into Grandma’s driveway, and I recognized the driver immediately as the man from the graveyard a month back, but I pretended I had never met him. He came out of the car quickly wrapping his arms around his frail body to warm-up, then reached back into the car and pulled out several Golden Poppies bunched together in a rustic bouquet.
He smiled, nodded at Grandma and me on the porch, then jogged towards us. “I’m the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare.” His right arm extended towards Grandma’s. Grandma did not shake it.
He turned to me, “And who may you be?” I could tell from his smile that my secret was safe with him.
“My grandson,” Grandma said before I could answer, “Why don’t you go inside for a while.”
I nodded and went quickly inside staying close to the windows. “I brought these for you,” I could hear him say. “It’s Golden Poppy, the state flower of California. Would you believe I got it to grow in my garden—in this climate!”
“No thanks.” Grandma replied, and I could hear the flowers hit the ground.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to introduce myself. You of course know about my church down the street.”
“I’ve heard some talk.”
“It will have its first service a week from Sunday, and I wanted to offer you my personal invitation.”
“I go to church in town.”
“The United Methodist on Main?”
I peeked out the window and could see Grandma nodding.
“Then you haven’t heard? Next month we’ll be combining our congregations and meeting as one.”
Grandma said nothing.
“We’ll be joined as brothers and sisters, becoming one spirit.”
I think he felt uncomfortable around grandma, so he decided to leave. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” He tried again to shake Grandma’s hand, but she again refused it.
I waited until I saw the reverend’s car pull out of the driveway, then I went back out to the porch. “Who was that man grandma?”
“He’s no concern of yours.”
“I sat back down next to her on the porch. “You think they’ll really close down your church grandma?”
“You were listening in on me?”
I shrugged my shoulders and shamefully nodded.
She shook her head, “You have to learn some manners.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, “Is it true though?”
“I don’t know.”
Grandma was a legend in her town history. She had served on almost every church committee, baked something in all the county fairs, and even had ran for mayor one year (that was the same year Grandpa got cancer, and she dropped out of the race before the election was held, though everyone says she would have won). She was well respected in church, led a Bible study, and was head of the prayer chain. She knew everyone and had a say in everything important.
Two nights before the pastor and his wife had come over for dinner. For almost two hours they had talked about the church and its congregation—he even asked grandma’s advice on what to do about some of the church’s problems. At no point was there any mention of the church merging or even the new minister, David Falsus Cambiare, though they both knew about him. She had no say in that matter.
Grandma was always serious—like she was on a mission. She was sad that day.
* * *
The minister did not give a sermon on Sunday. He rambled on for about ten minutes about a lack of church finances. Then he did the unthinkable—the unforgivable of any church pastor—he proclaimed that he no longer believed. He had not lost faith in Christ, he had lost faith in the Methodist denomination and all its Christian traditions. He finished by saying, “I’m tired of the disputes and controversies. I’ve taken a position at the Community Worship Center, and I’m asking all of you to abandon the church with me.” Then he left the pulpit.
When the minister walked out, the church became eerie quiet. Grandma and I were sitting in the second to front row; it was so quiet that I could even hear Peter Jonson’s dad, some twenty pews back whisper, “Oh crap,” as the minister walked out.
For three days, the new and old minister went to each member of the church, there were about fifty who came each Sunday, and personally convinced almost the entire congregation to go to the new church. Only Grandma and a few others said they would stay. By the end of the week everyone knew there was no finances to keep the church alive, and it would be forced to close.
The next Sunday Grandma got me up early.
“Are we going to the new church?”
Grandma nodded yes.
“I thought you didn’t like the pastor there.”
“We have to give everyone their chance I guess.”
We made it as far as the parking lot of the new church the next Sunday, but we never went in. From her car we sat and looked. The church was twice the size of the old church, but it did not resemble a church. There was no steeple, stain glass, bells to call worship, or even a cross to say Christ is welcomed here; it was round, with a dome-like ceiling. Near the front doors a large sign stood tall with the church’s name, the sermon, and the pastor—“Community Worship Center” it read in big bold letters, followed by smaller print, “What God Doesn’t Want Us To Know, by the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare.” Next to the sign was Cambiare, wearing a yellow robe and thongs.
Grandma wouldn’t go to church there—Grandma couldn’t go to church there.
She left the parking lot, then the town, never saying anything to me.
“Where we going Grandma?”
“To church.”
“How come you didn’t like the new church?”
“Because it wasn’t a church.”
“Oh.”
She continued driving east, past churches of science, temples for gods, and even one that simply read church, which we discovered was a place for people who did not believe in God or a god, but liked the idea of church.
Fifteen miles out of town, we saw a sign, hidden shamefully behind poorly trimmed bushes, which read ‘Sunday Message.’ She could not make out what the message was but knew for sure it had one. There was a small church hidden behind tall oak and pine trees.
It was nondenominational and had only about twenty members. Everyone seemed a little uncomfortable at our presence. We sat in the back and listened for twenty minutes to a man strum praise hymns on an out of tune guitar, then the pastor delivered his message. I don’t understand a lot of sermons but his was simple and pretty easy to follow. Grandma said she liked it, and I was certain we’d be back the next Sunday.
When we came back into town after church, Pergamum seemed different—changed. Children and adults alike ran wildly in the streets with no direction. There was chaos and a lack of order. I knew some of the faces that ran the streets, and I waved when we past them—nobody waved back.
At home grandma went to her bedroom, shut the door, the window, and the curtains. I left her alone, but inside her room I could hear her crying, praying, then crying some more.
That night it was muggy and rained a little. There was a leak on the roof, and I used a pan to catch the water. The roof was falling apart. The entire house was falling apart.
* * *
The Saturday of the first snowfall I sat on the porch with grandma, but we didn’t tell stories. “Have you ever heard the sound of snow melting?” “No Grandma.”
“I love that sound. It’s so soothing and comforting. It’s a hard sound to hear—you have to be real quiet—but it’s worth it. You know when you hear it that how ever hard the winter was there’s hope—there’s warm weather soon.”
“Will you tell me the next time you hear it Grandma so I can hear it to?”
“I can’t hear it any more.”
I looked up at her, and I could see a tear rolling from her eye.
“It’s okay grandma.”
There was a tear in her other eye, “Maybe there’s just no more to hear.”
Grandma’s close friend, Margaret Hatcher, died of a stroke the next day. The Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare called bringing her the news and telling her when the service would be to release her spirit from her body.
Grandma thought about going to the service, but the church haunted her. She did not go.
* * *
Months turned to years. For awhile we would go out of town for church, then Grandma stopped going altogether. The trip out of town became too much for her. On Sundays, Grandma would read her Bible and I would sleep in.
When I was sixteen, I went to the Community Worship Center. It was more peer pressure then curiosity (though there was some of that). All my friends went there, and it became odd that I did not do the same.
I didn’t like it. The first part of the service someone played Celtic music, then someone read announcements—mediation class on Monday, a seminar class taught by the old Methodist minister called “Understanding Your Spiritual Self” on Wednesday morning, a more advanced seminar Thursday night called simply “Acosmism,” and Saturday a ladies breakfast. There was no sermon; instead there was what the minister called “Words To Reflect,” and that day he was reflecting two things: first, whether or not there was more than one way to heaven; and second, did he believe in a theory he called Adoptianism—his answer to both was yes. It was too complex to understand most of it, and I didn’t like him as a minister, but the next Sunday I went back.
I think I just felt like a lot of people that went to church there—welcomed. Grandma did not talk to me a lot any more. She was dying. But I also wanted to know about spirituality—I wanted to know the force that made Mom leave me, and Grandma so strong; the Community Worship Center was the place I thought I had to go to find that.
Grandma found out I was going to the church a month later. The reverend had called up to invite me on a youth retreat while I wasn’t home and gave Grandma the message.
“Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare called,” she said when I walk through the door.
“Oh.”
“What made you go there?”
“It was just my friends were all going, and—I don’t know. I just went.”
She nodded, then slowly walked back into her room.
I followed behind her, “I was going to tell you Grandma.”
She didn’t answer. I felt guilty.
“Don’t be mad at me Grandma—I don’t even like the church.”
This time she did turn around, “You look like your mother more everyday.” She turned back around and looked out the frosted window, “Does anyone ask about me anymore when you go out, or do most people figure I’m dead?”
* * *
The first day of Spring, a Friday, just as the sun rose, Grandma died.
I found her when I went to tell her I was leaving for school. I got on my knees and said a prayer for her like she had said for me the first day we met.
The minister from the last church Grandma had ever gone to held a small service for her at his church fifteen miles away. Only a few people showed up. My aunt drove down from Buffalo for the service and to pick me up. My mom had arranged for me to stay with her until I started college. In the back row the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare sat; he left before the service was over.
At her burial, a single Golden Poppy was put on her grave, with a small piece of paper signed by the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare that said, “Agape and Eros.”
Grandma’s house was sold and torn down. My aunt sold most her other stuff at a garage sale and donated what was left to the church. My aunt told me I could have anything I wanted. I kept her Bible.
A lot of things have changed sinse Grandma died. I heard the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare’schurch has grown even more. Mom moved up to Oregon—she tells me she’s close to finding herself spiritually. And me? I’m…
Often I’ll rub my fingers across Grandma’s name, inscribed on the front page of her Bible. It makes me feel close to her sometimes, but mostly it reminds me that she’s dead. It’s dead. I wonder about my own life—my own spiritual self. I wonder what they’ll say when I die—“that boy—the one from the magazine”. Maybe they’ll even call me by my name.
From "Windhover" (Volume 6, 2001)
“Six week old baby says ‘Solipsism.’” This was the caption sprawled across the cover of the National Enquirer. I was the smiling baby boy under the caption. A Ukrainian comedian turned freelance writer, that my mom was dating at the time, wrote the bogus story. He had promised my mom five hundred dollars to make up the story.
It seems ridiculous to think that there were people who believed that it was true, but there were. After the story was printed, hundreds of letters came addressed to me, a baby, from people who believed in it. One woman said I was the reincarnation of Henry David Thoreau, and she wondered if I had once hada love affair with Emerson; another, the priest of a naturalist church that worked for the conservation of wild chickens in Rhode Island, wrote to say I was the very same child he had seen in a vision, and I was sent to make his church known to the world.
Living is hard when you grow up in a small town where everyone reminds you of the past and everything you didn’t want to believe seemed to haunt you. When I started school, teachers would always pause at my name when they called roll and ask, “Aren’t you that boy that was in the tabloid?” And a month would never pass without someone spotting me in the grocery store and saying, “You’re that boy—the one in the tabloid. Was that story really true?”
I wished a lot growing up that the story was true. I used to have dreams that it was—that I had really said solipsism and now led a fairytale life. I was always a genius little boy who could speak complete sentences before his first birthday. People would never say, “aren’t you the boy from the tabloid,” in this dream—they’d call me by my name and throw in something about being the genius boy. And my mom would love me in these dreams.
When I was nine, my mom told me that she would have to go away to California for awhile and sort some things out. “I just don’t know who I am,” she told me while she stood in front of her vanity mirror naked plucking at her eyes, “I have to find myself—I have to find my peace. I just don’t have the money to take you along.”
“Where will I go?”
“Something will come up.” For encouragement Mom walked up to me, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I think your dad is still living in California—maybe we’ll get back together.”
A week later Mom drove me to my grandma’s house in Pergamum, an even smaller town than the one I grew up in, near Albany. I had never met my grandma; I had never seen a picture of her; I had heard her name only a few times.
I can still remember standing on the doorstep to a house I had never been, to see a woman I had never known, and my mom saying, “This is your grandma.” Then I was pushed inside and told to wait in the living room. I could hear only vaguely what mom and grandma said. They were arguing—it was something about the past. Finally the door slammed. Mom had left.
I would have cried if I had someone to cry to.
Then Grandma came hobbling into the living room supporting herself with her cane. She stopped in front of me, put on the glasses that hung around her neck by a gold chain, and looked me over carefully. “You have your grandpa’s eyes.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, so I scratched my neck (I do this sometimes when I’m nervous).
“If you’re going to be staying here, I guess I should show you around.” She hobbled out of the room, and I followed behind.
“Your bedroom,” Grandma said, opening the door to the first room on her tour. It was simple—bed, dresser, Bible on the nightstand. “It was your mom’s room,” she said shuting the door before I could look longer.
The bathroom was the second and final room she showed me. “Toilet.” Grandma said pointing.
I looked in the bathroom and saw hanging, framed over the toilet, the tabloid magazine with me on the cover.
“That’s the only picture I have of you. Your mom sent it to me with a note that said, ‘I thought you should know you’re a grandma.’”
“Why’s it in the bathroom?”
“Because it reminds me whenever I come in here that a lot crap goes into this world, but eventually that crap will come out. When it does we wipe up, get clean, and go on with out lives.”
“Oh,” my little voice replied.
“There’s a TV in the living room. I’m taking a nap.”
I played with the remote control, switching between cartoons and some religious station with a sweaty black man shouting “Jesus” and “road to salvation” in dramatic repetition. I got bored of this after thirty minutes and decided to take my own tour of the house.
Quietly I wandered down the hallway, sliding my hands against the wall as I walked, and quickly peeked my head in each of the open doors. The only room with the light on was the one at the end of the hall. It was Grandma’s room.
I stood in the doorframe and watched her. She did not sleep like she said she would. She was kneeling at the side of the bed praying out loud. She prayed for the town, her church, and that she’d grow stronger in faith and love. I giggled a little when she continued to pray that she would win the lottery. Then she let out a deep sigh and prayed for me; she prayed for me to know that she loved me even though she didn’t show it much; she prayed that I’d make lots of knew friends while I stayed with her; finally she prayed that I’d find Jesus.
No one had ever prayed for me before.
* * *
Making friends was easy in Pergamum because the town was so small and everyone was close. After school about seven or eight of us would always meet. We’d spend the rest of the day pretending we were pirates, space men, soldiers, or spies—I think we had been everything at one point.
One day one of us got the idea that we should try something new—more exciting. For almost a hour we threw out ideas of what we could do. Then someone, I don’t remember who, said “How ‘bout we play tag in the cemetery?” It got real quiet and no one answered. After a minute of stillness somebody said, “Okay,” and we all knew there was no turning back. To say it was a stupid idea would only mean we were too afraid to try it. So for about two weeks, until we got bored again, we played tag at the cemetery.
I was leaving one day when grandma stopped me at the door.
“Did you finish your homework.”
I nodded.
“You gonna go down to the old cemetery?” Grandma asked.
“Why would I want to go to the cemetery?”
“I talked to Patti Rosecran at the market. She said boys had been runnin’ around playing games down there.”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know who they are Grandma.”
She carefully eyed me down. I think she knew I was lying, but she nodded anyway. “I don’t want to hear ‘bout my grandson doing that stuff. Understood?”
I nodded.
“People need to teach their kids to let the dead be.”
“Can I go now?”
Grandma finally gave in, “But I want you home by five.”
I ran out the door and made it to the graveyard in ten minutes. Everyone was already there. “Did Grandma say it was alright to play?” My best friend, Alex, teased as I joined the rest of the group.
“Shut up.”
There was no more talking.
Alex was ‘it’, and the rest of us had 120 seconds to hide. Brian Rosecran and I ran together until we got to the tombstone of a woman Brian claimed to be his grandma, and we broke up. Brian stayed there, but I kept running.
I found a large tree not much farther from Brian and used its trunk as my shield from Alex. As I caught my breath, I heard the crackling of leaves and turned. A short, skinny, pale-faced, middle aged man in a Hawaiian shirt, stood grinning down at me. “Sure is an odd place for kids to be playing games.”
“I’m sorry,” I said backing away, “we didn’t know anyone was here.”
“No worries—you better stay put or your friends are going to find you.”
I stayed.
The man lit a small brown cigarette that he was holding, and carefully inhaled.
“Sure is a funny looking cigarette.” I didn’t know what he was smoking then.
He inhaled deeply, his eyes were wandering, “Yeah.”
I could see Alex running, not far from me.
“So you got a name kid?”
“Alex,” I lied.
“I live up on that hill over there,” The man pointed, “Come down here everyday. I love cemeteries.”
“That’s funny thing to like.”
“Lot’s of people are intrigued by them—look at you and your friends.”
“We never said we liked it—it’s just a good place to hide.”
He nodded, inhaling more of his cigarette. “I feel a certain sense of power when I come to this place. I think of all those people who died, and all the dreams they must have had, but never achieved. Cemeteries are the home of the greatest dreams—you know that?”
I shrugged.
“Everyone has one great dream. Most people never let that dream out though, and it dies with them. That’s why I like coming down here—I like to reflect about all those dreams that will never be. What’s your great dream, Alex?”
“I don’t know.”
He closed his eyes and swayed his head to a beat, like he was listening to music. Then he opened them and pointed, “Who’s that girl?” She was the only girl in our group. We only let her stay because she was a tomboy and Alex’s sister.
“Her names Jessica.”
“She’s a very pretty girl,” He closed his eyes. When they opened this time, I noticed for the first time how glossy they were. He bent down, tore out some grass, then fixed his eyes on it, “Green’s a pretty color.” He looked back down at me, “Do you think desire is an eternal thing?”
He continued before I answered. “It’s all eternal Alex. The trees. The animals. The colors.” He paused, closed his eyes, rubbed his hand, then looked back at me and continued his reflection, “I believe in syncretism. Happiness is there—do you know that?”
I scratched my neck and looked in the distance. Alex had spotted Brian. The game was over. “I gotta go mister.”
He nodded, “It was nice meeting you Alex—I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
* * *
After I lived with grandma longer, we developed a lot of little traditions that I think helped us grow closer together. Saturday mornings we’d eat oatmeal and drink hot cider on the porch. Grandma would tell me funny stories about things her and my grandpa used to do before he died. Sometimes she’d tell me stories about what my mom was like when she was little; I liked those stories most, because mom had never really told me about her past.
One Saturday I asked grandma what happened between her and Mom. Grandma was quiet. I could tell it hurt for her to think about. Finally she said slowly, “Your mom—she was a free spirited child. I never really could control her. When she was seventeen, she got herself pregnant—she never did say who the father was. Me and your grandpa tried real hard to get her to give it up for adoption. We thought that’s what she was going to do, but then one day she just left—ran away in the middle of the night.
“I prayed every night for my little girl to come home. Three months later she did, and she wasn’t pregnant anymore. Grandpa and her got into a real bad fight, and she left again. Twelve years later she came back with you and left again. Your aunt was able to find her when grandpa died, but she didn’t want to come down for the funeral.”
“Do you think I’m like her Grandma?”
“You’re everything good about her.”
From afar, I could see a black Lexus speeding carelessly down the road. It pulled into Grandma’s driveway, and I recognized the driver immediately as the man from the graveyard a month back, but I pretended I had never met him. He came out of the car quickly wrapping his arms around his frail body to warm-up, then reached back into the car and pulled out several Golden Poppies bunched together in a rustic bouquet.
He smiled, nodded at Grandma and me on the porch, then jogged towards us. “I’m the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare.” His right arm extended towards Grandma’s. Grandma did not shake it.
He turned to me, “And who may you be?” I could tell from his smile that my secret was safe with him.
“My grandson,” Grandma said before I could answer, “Why don’t you go inside for a while.”
I nodded and went quickly inside staying close to the windows. “I brought these for you,” I could hear him say. “It’s Golden Poppy, the state flower of California. Would you believe I got it to grow in my garden—in this climate!”
“No thanks.” Grandma replied, and I could hear the flowers hit the ground.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to introduce myself. You of course know about my church down the street.”
“I’ve heard some talk.”
“It will have its first service a week from Sunday, and I wanted to offer you my personal invitation.”
“I go to church in town.”
“The United Methodist on Main?”
I peeked out the window and could see Grandma nodding.
“Then you haven’t heard? Next month we’ll be combining our congregations and meeting as one.”
Grandma said nothing.
“We’ll be joined as brothers and sisters, becoming one spirit.”
I think he felt uncomfortable around grandma, so he decided to leave. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” He tried again to shake Grandma’s hand, but she again refused it.
I waited until I saw the reverend’s car pull out of the driveway, then I went back out to the porch. “Who was that man grandma?”
“He’s no concern of yours.”
“I sat back down next to her on the porch. “You think they’ll really close down your church grandma?”
“You were listening in on me?”
I shrugged my shoulders and shamefully nodded.
She shook her head, “You have to learn some manners.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, “Is it true though?”
“I don’t know.”
Grandma was a legend in her town history. She had served on almost every church committee, baked something in all the county fairs, and even had ran for mayor one year (that was the same year Grandpa got cancer, and she dropped out of the race before the election was held, though everyone says she would have won). She was well respected in church, led a Bible study, and was head of the prayer chain. She knew everyone and had a say in everything important.
Two nights before the pastor and his wife had come over for dinner. For almost two hours they had talked about the church and its congregation—he even asked grandma’s advice on what to do about some of the church’s problems. At no point was there any mention of the church merging or even the new minister, David Falsus Cambiare, though they both knew about him. She had no say in that matter.
Grandma was always serious—like she was on a mission. She was sad that day.
* * *
The minister did not give a sermon on Sunday. He rambled on for about ten minutes about a lack of church finances. Then he did the unthinkable—the unforgivable of any church pastor—he proclaimed that he no longer believed. He had not lost faith in Christ, he had lost faith in the Methodist denomination and all its Christian traditions. He finished by saying, “I’m tired of the disputes and controversies. I’ve taken a position at the Community Worship Center, and I’m asking all of you to abandon the church with me.” Then he left the pulpit.
When the minister walked out, the church became eerie quiet. Grandma and I were sitting in the second to front row; it was so quiet that I could even hear Peter Jonson’s dad, some twenty pews back whisper, “Oh crap,” as the minister walked out.
For three days, the new and old minister went to each member of the church, there were about fifty who came each Sunday, and personally convinced almost the entire congregation to go to the new church. Only Grandma and a few others said they would stay. By the end of the week everyone knew there was no finances to keep the church alive, and it would be forced to close.
The next Sunday Grandma got me up early.
“Are we going to the new church?”
Grandma nodded yes.
“I thought you didn’t like the pastor there.”
“We have to give everyone their chance I guess.”
We made it as far as the parking lot of the new church the next Sunday, but we never went in. From her car we sat and looked. The church was twice the size of the old church, but it did not resemble a church. There was no steeple, stain glass, bells to call worship, or even a cross to say Christ is welcomed here; it was round, with a dome-like ceiling. Near the front doors a large sign stood tall with the church’s name, the sermon, and the pastor—“Community Worship Center” it read in big bold letters, followed by smaller print, “What God Doesn’t Want Us To Know, by the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare.” Next to the sign was Cambiare, wearing a yellow robe and thongs.
Grandma wouldn’t go to church there—Grandma couldn’t go to church there.
She left the parking lot, then the town, never saying anything to me.
“Where we going Grandma?”
“To church.”
“How come you didn’t like the new church?”
“Because it wasn’t a church.”
“Oh.”
She continued driving east, past churches of science, temples for gods, and even one that simply read church, which we discovered was a place for people who did not believe in God or a god, but liked the idea of church.
Fifteen miles out of town, we saw a sign, hidden shamefully behind poorly trimmed bushes, which read ‘Sunday Message.’ She could not make out what the message was but knew for sure it had one. There was a small church hidden behind tall oak and pine trees.
It was nondenominational and had only about twenty members. Everyone seemed a little uncomfortable at our presence. We sat in the back and listened for twenty minutes to a man strum praise hymns on an out of tune guitar, then the pastor delivered his message. I don’t understand a lot of sermons but his was simple and pretty easy to follow. Grandma said she liked it, and I was certain we’d be back the next Sunday.
When we came back into town after church, Pergamum seemed different—changed. Children and adults alike ran wildly in the streets with no direction. There was chaos and a lack of order. I knew some of the faces that ran the streets, and I waved when we past them—nobody waved back.
At home grandma went to her bedroom, shut the door, the window, and the curtains. I left her alone, but inside her room I could hear her crying, praying, then crying some more.
That night it was muggy and rained a little. There was a leak on the roof, and I used a pan to catch the water. The roof was falling apart. The entire house was falling apart.
* * *
The Saturday of the first snowfall I sat on the porch with grandma, but we didn’t tell stories. “Have you ever heard the sound of snow melting?” “No Grandma.”
“I love that sound. It’s so soothing and comforting. It’s a hard sound to hear—you have to be real quiet—but it’s worth it. You know when you hear it that how ever hard the winter was there’s hope—there’s warm weather soon.”
“Will you tell me the next time you hear it Grandma so I can hear it to?”
“I can’t hear it any more.”
I looked up at her, and I could see a tear rolling from her eye.
“It’s okay grandma.”
There was a tear in her other eye, “Maybe there’s just no more to hear.”
Grandma’s close friend, Margaret Hatcher, died of a stroke the next day. The Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare called bringing her the news and telling her when the service would be to release her spirit from her body.
Grandma thought about going to the service, but the church haunted her. She did not go.
* * *
Months turned to years. For awhile we would go out of town for church, then Grandma stopped going altogether. The trip out of town became too much for her. On Sundays, Grandma would read her Bible and I would sleep in.
When I was sixteen, I went to the Community Worship Center. It was more peer pressure then curiosity (though there was some of that). All my friends went there, and it became odd that I did not do the same.
I didn’t like it. The first part of the service someone played Celtic music, then someone read announcements—mediation class on Monday, a seminar class taught by the old Methodist minister called “Understanding Your Spiritual Self” on Wednesday morning, a more advanced seminar Thursday night called simply “Acosmism,” and Saturday a ladies breakfast. There was no sermon; instead there was what the minister called “Words To Reflect,” and that day he was reflecting two things: first, whether or not there was more than one way to heaven; and second, did he believe in a theory he called Adoptianism—his answer to both was yes. It was too complex to understand most of it, and I didn’t like him as a minister, but the next Sunday I went back.
I think I just felt like a lot of people that went to church there—welcomed. Grandma did not talk to me a lot any more. She was dying. But I also wanted to know about spirituality—I wanted to know the force that made Mom leave me, and Grandma so strong; the Community Worship Center was the place I thought I had to go to find that.
Grandma found out I was going to the church a month later. The reverend had called up to invite me on a youth retreat while I wasn’t home and gave Grandma the message.
“Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare called,” she said when I walk through the door.
“Oh.”
“What made you go there?”
“It was just my friends were all going, and—I don’t know. I just went.”
She nodded, then slowly walked back into her room.
I followed behind her, “I was going to tell you Grandma.”
She didn’t answer. I felt guilty.
“Don’t be mad at me Grandma—I don’t even like the church.”
This time she did turn around, “You look like your mother more everyday.” She turned back around and looked out the frosted window, “Does anyone ask about me anymore when you go out, or do most people figure I’m dead?”
* * *
The first day of Spring, a Friday, just as the sun rose, Grandma died.
I found her when I went to tell her I was leaving for school. I got on my knees and said a prayer for her like she had said for me the first day we met.
The minister from the last church Grandma had ever gone to held a small service for her at his church fifteen miles away. Only a few people showed up. My aunt drove down from Buffalo for the service and to pick me up. My mom had arranged for me to stay with her until I started college. In the back row the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare sat; he left before the service was over.
At her burial, a single Golden Poppy was put on her grave, with a small piece of paper signed by the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare that said, “Agape and Eros.”
Grandma’s house was sold and torn down. My aunt sold most her other stuff at a garage sale and donated what was left to the church. My aunt told me I could have anything I wanted. I kept her Bible.
A lot of things have changed sinse Grandma died. I heard the Reverend Doctor David Falsus Cambiare’schurch has grown even more. Mom moved up to Oregon—she tells me she’s close to finding herself spiritually. And me? I’m…
Often I’ll rub my fingers across Grandma’s name, inscribed on the front page of her Bible. It makes me feel close to her sometimes, but mostly it reminds me that she’s dead. It’s dead. I wonder about my own life—my own spiritual self. I wonder what they’ll say when I die—“that boy—the one from the magazine”. Maybe they’ll even call me by my name.
