Week Two : A funeral on a hill.

         Somewhere along the winding, bumpy and old line on the map called Route 9, a tiny little farm house sat atop a hill. In the summer, the yard of the home is decorated with flowers and bushes of every color. The view from the back window of the house was a scene of green rolling hills; the kind of view where you could see for miles. On a sunny enough day, you could even see the shadows of the clouds in the sky on those hills. But today, it was snowy and cold. The overcast sky shown no sign of the sun. The air was too cold for comfort and there wasn’t a breath of wind. 
The driveway was overflowing with trucks and cars. People bundled up in their coats, gloves and scarves to fend off the January Maine cold. They all walked up the hill behind the house with solemn faces. Some were wearing black; some were in casual clothes. 
A man stood in front of three grave sites. He held a bible in covered hands; his aged face held a warm smile. 
Locals all gathered around. There were at least 60 people; almost all of them were ones you could easily run into at the general store and hold a conversation with, or ones you’d cheerfully sit down next to at a high school basketball game. Every person there was connected, not only by the gravestone that represented a lost life, but also by the place where you decided to hang your hat. They all chose a different little life; one without many luxuries and plenty of bumpy paths, sort of like this old Route 9. 
From the place where these people stood, the pine trees lined the horizon for as far as the eye could see. A young woman with dark hair, a polka-dot dress and an oversized camera bag scurried up the hill a little late. She greeted her family with hugs, kisses and kind words. 
A very famous Psalm was read once the ceremony started. The one about walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and knowing that you are not alone. Whoever this funeral was for, it was clear that they were never alone in life. 
The gravestones had names of them represented resting places of members of a family who wanted to be placed here on this hill. 
“Everyone in town could count on her,” The man with the bible says, “She was known by ‘Grammie’ to everyone, even if she wasn’t related to them. Her home was always open to everyone, and she was always there to help anyone in town who needed it.” 
Suddenly, a woman standing by the grave bursts into tears. She runs in front of everyone and embraces with another woman, muttering incoherent words. 
Once the short and very appropriate ceremony was over, everyone was invited into the little house to celebrate the life of Barbara. 
Three friends joined together on the walk back to the house. A blonde girl, the dark-haired girl with the polka-dot dress, and a young man in a black suit with a red tie. They all smiled and exchanged some words as the wind picked up and they seemed to shiver in unison. The one in the dress stopped to snap a few pictures with her camera. Once to the house, they entered together, still youthfully smiling. 
If it weren’t for the overwhelming bunch of people in the old house, you’d be able to see just how full of a home it already was. Pictures of family members decorated the walls as did hand-painted portraits of mountains and other beautiful scenes. Quilts, probably ones made by family members, were scattered on every chair, sofa and bed visible. Decorative plates hung on the walls with words that said happy 20th, 30th and 50th anniversary. Everything in the home seemed handmade and one of a kind.
Voices and laughs traveled through the walls of the home. Everyone knew each other’s names; everyone was happy to see one another. It was not only a celebration of life but also a reunion of sorts. The young friends all went to three separate and very different colleges. 
“She’s a ‘home girl’, my granddaughter.” An old woman with olive-toned skin said to another lady as she pointed to the girl in the polka-dot dress, “She’s been in the big city for a while but now she’s coming closer to home.” 
Families poured in and out of the doors of the house. Food was welcome to everyone, as was a place to rest your bones. There was either a cold soda or a hot coffee with your name on it, and food was practically forced in your hands. Everyone was family. 
The house creaked and shook because of all the activity, and the floor was clearly uneven and there was clearly not enough room. But no one seemed to care. Children bounced on the knees of their parents and toddlers curiously walked about looking up at all the new faces. It was a huge spectrum of every walk of life; rosy-cheeked babies, little girls in tutus, teenagers chatting in the corner, young adults sharing their college experiences, parents talking about the weather and the elderly reminiscing. Every step of life was here under one roof, and all because of one grim reason. 
Pictures of Barbara were all gathered together on a board in the full living room. The girl in the polka-dot dress stopped and peered at the board as she pushed her glasses up her nose. 
Clearly still very youthful, this selection of pictures made her smile. All of the pictures were collected from very beautiful parts of Barbara’s very full and well-lived life. Parts of her own life that have yet to arrive. As if it was a perfectly placed time line, you saw pictures of her as a young woman and you watched her age. Married for over 50 years and living until she was 85, Barbara clearly made an impact on the lives of many people. 
“She never did anything for herself,” A woman who sat in a chair near the fireplace said, “She was always doin’ things for others.” 
The girl in the polka-dot dress saw the sorrow and the equal amounts of happiness that surrounded her. The walls of this home had harbored many memories and much love; the young woman could only hope that she would someday hope that she could create a life this full. 
She was snapped out of her thoughts when a smiling face called her name. 
“Holliann! Over here!” 
It was one of her friends calling her to join a conversation. For a split second, she paused and seemed to be lost in thought. But whatever thought it was, it lasted only a moment. She joined her friend with a smile and a plate of food. 
The snow continued to fall slowly from the sky. It seemed as though the whole town was sitting together in the house. From every path of life, and every familiar face, a few hours were shared together to celebrate the end of a life of one of their own. 
There was no better way to do it. 

Rest in peace, Barbara Rhoades.