June 15, 2001

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  "Momma, come quick, there’s a big spider on the ceiling." We don’t like spiders at my house, so I came quickly with the flyswatter. There is was, a furry black one with a white dot on it’s butt. I don’t know what specific species of spider it was, but I ended it’s life with a few smacks of pink plastic mesh.

  
  

  I thought I’d call my neighbor for sympathy. She hates spiders as much as I do. Plus I wanted her to commiserate with me over my poor destroyed lilies. We brought the goats out of their pen to eat bushes, and instead they ate all the buds from my lilies. She likes to laugh at my urban foibles as I try to squeeze my 21^st century soul into a 19^th century farm, so I knew the tale of the goats and the flowers would be good for a laugh.

  
  

  She wasn’t laughing. When she picked up the phone she was crying. Her dog, the beautiful golden retriever she’d raised from a puppy, is dead. We all liked Hester, she romped with my boys and teased the cats. She saved my youngest time and again from falling into the river where he never exercised caution. She licked the ice cream that dripped onto the porch beneath summer treats and she waited patiently for popcorn from the Christmas garlands.

  
  

  Hester died the way she’d lived, faithfully looking out for dumb farm animals. In this case it was a young Nubian kid. The baby goat was startled when the farm truck backfired. He bolted for the road. Hester chased after him and tried to herd him back to safety, but it was too late. They were both struck by a car at the bottom of the big hill where everyone drives too fast.

  
  

  Now my friend was grieving the loss of her friend. We talked about the little things being the hardest; waking up to quiet, having cold feet because Hester was absent her usual space on the other end of the couch. We talked of other losses, funerals where we were too numb to cry and cemeteries where dirt and wilting flowers marked the spot.

  
  

  Hester is buried at the back of the field under a little redbud tree. From the spot beside her grave, you can look back and see the house with the pond, cows, ducks, barn and garden. You can look in the opposite direction to the river. It’s a good spot. We talked about that too, and whether or not it was wise to turn a favorite place into a place of sadness by using it for a gravesite.

  
  

  It’s easy to extrapolate from that one site to all the earth as a grave. In the ages that creatures have walked across the soil, they have lived, died and been buried so many times and places that almost anywhere you dig, you find evidence of forgotten lives. When I tilled the dirt around my house for a flowerbed, I found multiple little fossils. To me they were a nuisance, nicking the tines of the tiller. But at one time they were life.

  • 2:12 pm
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