Kintsugi

Deanie's kitchen

       I have just returned from a family reunion. Have you ever felt something happen that you knew was deeply rooted in life yet so far above this earth that to try and put it into words would be impossible? This is what is going to happen here. But I must record it as best I can  because when strength rises up out of immense sorrow it should be noted. It practically demands attention and respect and to ignore it I think decreases the capacity to live life with our heart- a full heart, perhaps even a broken heart. I am learning this slowly. It's the down in the dirt hard stuff that yields the most fruit in our life, the most grace. This is where those golden lessons dwell that produce a harvest of courage and strength. We just have to make sure we digest these lessons instead of trying to spit them out simply because they have a bitter taste.

     This is my Aunt Deanie's kitchen-Junior's farm. I have come here since I was a little girl. We all have-the cousins- running in and out of these doors like wild dogs, squealing, playing, arguing- always covered in farm mud, drinking from outside hoses, bare feet packed with red Georgia Clay running down a path that led to our grandmother's house. A heart is full when I stand still in this kitchen and remember. I cannot imagine the day when I will no longer be able to do that. My cousin put it nicely when she said, "It's a comfort zone for all of us."

The Old Dairy

     Deanie and Junior have had this farm for a very long time. When I was small it was a dairy farm. Now the dairy house is smothered in weeds and spider webs. But it doesn't take much to look at it today and see it white washed and humming with the business of making milk.

     My mother loved coming to Deanie and Junior's. It was here she was reunited with all her siblings-all six of them. That kitchen was filled with the "Hutto sisters" yapping away about their lives while their young children crawled underneath their chairs or climbed up onto their laps-women relieved to be done with a World War and ready to live uncomplicated lives. And while the women were gathered in the kitchen, the men seemed to always be  outside standing around a gas pump, talking, some even smoking! That probably didn't seem dangerous to them after surviving a horrendous war. I can hear them laughing-always laughing. The house and land are full of such times.

    Here are the seven Hutto children. Today only three remain alive. My mother is not among them. Neither is Linah, G.W. and Edra. Their absence creates a noticeable empty space at these reunions. No one says anything but I imagine their children,sisters and brother can look over and see the empty space staring back at them. I know I can. Is a big portion of life about loss? I don't want to admit that it is, but the older you get, this is the case. It stares you down and is that bitterness we all have to taste sooner or later. 

The Seven Hutto Children-front Betty, right to left G.W., Deanie, Linah.  Back row right, Edra, Dee (my mom) and Basil.

But the very bitter pill, the one that is most hard to swallow, is when loss comes when it is not expected. It crushes hearts and stomps over dreams-the dreams of parents, spouses or children. My uncle G.W. was killed in a car wreck in the 1970's. It left his family devastated. His wife was still young, the children even younger.  This week I went to pick up an item at an antique store in Buena Vista (the nearest town). We were collecting old things to use for a game we would play at the reunion. The owner said, "Here, I have something to give you." It was a little metal token with Uncle G.W and his wife Barbra's name stamped on it.  I was dumbfounded. The man explained, "It's a token people had made at the local fair. I don't know how it ended up here." That day at the reunion I gave it to G.W.'s daughter. His granddaughter looked at it closely. A long time ago her grandaddy had worn it around his neck at a country fair or maybe he had given it to his wife to wear. They had been high school sweethearts. For a just a blink of an eye G.W. occupied that empty space of his at the reunion. The moment was full, bitter but very sweet.

Uncle Basil 1950. I love this picture...the porch, the shadows.

      My Uncle Basils' heart is working at fifty percent. This is what the doctors told him and this is what Martha, his wife, told me. Not long ago Basil and Martha lost their beautiful daughter Wanda, my cousin, to cancer. She was in her forties. Wanda loved family and dug deep into this families roots. She scribbled down all her findings. I remember one day a few years before she died an unexpected envelope came in the mail for me. Inside was a detailed family tree and little bits of personal information Wanda had gathered about some of our relatives. She knew I loved this kind of thing. Wanda was a cousin I stomped around with on Deanie and Junior's farm. But as we grew older we didn't keep up with each others lives. At later reunions we would try and cram in lost years and information while balancing plastic plates of food on our laps. I wish we had spent one of those long cricket filled Georgia nights sitting up late talking about family.  The anniversary of her death was on the very day of our family reunion this year. She hasn't been gone from us that long. I don't think anyone realized this until the day of the reunion. I remember when someone reminded us of it we stood very still and quiet in Deanie's kitchen. We wondered if we should say anything about Wanda. Would this make her family sadder if we mentioned it or would they feel she was forgotten if we did not? These are those times in our lives when the answers aren't very clear. But one thing was clear- the entire family was coming to the reunion. I have children and I have sisters. I can't imagine what it took for Martha, Basil, her brother and sister to even walk in the door; to decide to come instead of visit her grave or sit and stare out of a window. But there they were and it nearly knocked the breath out of me because I can't imagine that kind of courage. What if that had been one of my children? my sister? Would I have come to the reunion where people are usually laughing and talking about things that are only pleasant to talk about? 

Wanda

     Basil is the last male in the Hutto clan. I was told not to ask him to speak, maybe to pray but nothing else, mainly because it takes so much strength for him to speak out these days-so much breath and besides that day was well-that day. But during the reunion he slipped his hand in the air and said "I have something to say." And so the family gathered around to the place where he sat and listened. He told us how life was so very fleeting- "how you young people won't understand this until you are a little older", and as he spoke his eyes filled with tears. He told us about his daddy, Jonah Benjamin and his mama, Lula. He told us about some good times and some hard times. He didn't mention Wanda and I understood why. Too much loss is too much loss. I looked around at the eyes watching him - everything silent but the sound of his very weak voice speaking from a heart that was only working fifty percent but the love that was behind all those words was working at a full one hundred percent. For him to remember his own life, his mama and daddy, gave him strength. He wanted us to know, to remember. He knew it was important no matter what had been taken from him, no matter what had caused his heart to weaken. This is what southerns call backbone. A hundred years ago it would have been called valor. I know the younger generation will remember that day, remember Uncle Basil talking about family. Some asked questions. And one day perhaps when they have children of their own they will realize what kind of giant like faith and character it took to utter a word -even one word on the anniversary of his daughter's death. This was something deep as earth but so very far above us.

Marisa and Celeste

   And then there was Marisa, a fifteen year old, singing a duet with my niece Celeste-singing her heart out about family when suddenly the loss of her own mother who died a little over a year ago overtook her and squeezed her throat so tight that she could no longer sing. She cried hard tears,tears she had tried to hold down ever since her mother had died. 

 But sorrow usually gets it's way with us and on that day, this precious girl could not fight it any longer. Thank God that Celeste kept singing that sweet song, which took an immense amount of courage, while family gathered around and draped their arms around Marisa-held her tight-let her cry as she allowed herself to cry. Thank God that during that time we all were listening, were all quietened by the reality of loss, we could look around  and see the obvious strength of survival in other children who had lost their parent, a mother and father who lost a child, a sister who had lost a sister, a brother who had lost a sister, a niece that had lost her aunt, and two other mothers that had lost their children. There have been losses in this family, tragic losses, but this year it seemed these wanted to surface, wanted to be heard. It was a reunion like no other. 
     Someone posted a picture today of Kintsugi which means golden joinery. It is a repair technique that dates back to the 15th century in Japan. If the Japanese break a piece of pottery they repair it by adding gold dust to adhesive resin. This way the cracks are made beautiful and even emphasized. This is a picture of an old bowl that was repaired. When something has suffered damage it becomes beautiful. I absolutely love that.  Such is life!  Such is my family.