Priceless Heritage

There are certain experiences in life that are priceless. Those MasterCard ads really have it nailed. Money can't buy everything, especially memories that strike the deepest chords in a soul.

I had such an experience last weekend. It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was gathered with 30 of my extended family on my Mom's side, the Buttermores. Love these kin of mine. When we're gathered together, we are one loud, boisterous, and fun-loving group. My uncles and grandpa alone can entertain us all for hours with their ridiculous humor. It doesn't matter where we are or what we're doing. We'll have fun.

In fact, we all gathered in little Alma, NE, a small town in the south-central part of the state. We congregated there because it was the closest town to Woodston, KS (where my grandpa grew up) that had decent hotel and eating options. Even though the town was small, it was quaint and we had no problem passing the time by playing in the park, having a BBQ at the bed and breakfast where some were staying, or playing cards at night in the lobby of the Super 8.

We were in the area for a couple of days. On Sunday, a group of us traveled into Woodston to visit the church my grandpa attended growing up. I am a sucker for history in general, but it is even more poignant to me when entwined with my heritage. As a sad testament to dying rural life, our group easily doubled the congregation. The bulletin documented the attendance of the previous week as being just 17 folks.

After church, we went to a potluck dinner that was held in the building that used to be a general store. This dinner happens every year on Memorial Day weekend. Folks from the surrounding area come to reminisce over a sampling of old-fashioned potluck food (There were enough pies and meatballs to fill the grain silos outside).

I could probably ramble for awhile about many details, but I'll skip to the events of Monday which constituted the best part of the trip in my opinion. The day dawned with a promise of glorious weather. Though some disagree, I have always deemed Kansas and Nebraska to be amazingly beautiful states. The time I spent in the Kansas countryside on Monday only confirmed that feeling.

We said goodbye to Alma and caravanned with nine vehicles (a bit crazy, I know) for 50-some miles to Woodston. We headed for the farm where my grandpa grew up with many other siblings. I had seen the front side of the land before, but I had never gotten out to trek around on the property. Most signs of the farm are long-gone, but Grandpa drew us all some maps of how everything looked when he grew up, so with a bit of imagination, the place came to life.

I didn't exactly know what we were going to do so I didn't prepare well. I was wearing the wrong kind of shoes for one thing. I thought we were going to tromp around for twenty minutes. Little did I know we'd be taking a 2 and a half hour hike through the Kansas brush.

My 82-year-old Grandpa led our pack and he wasn't slow! At one point, my dad commented on how conditioned he was when he launched off from a small shady spot where we had all paused.  Some of the rest of us weren't so quick to leave the shade and move on, but Grandpa seemed to feel no heat or fatigue.  He is one tough man and being on his old stomping grounds seemed to transform him into a robust 20-somethings lad.

We saw a windmill he had helped to build, spied a cistern where three of his siblings had once gotten stuck, passed "Rock Hill" where Grandpa had engraved his initials, and trekked to a house where his folks lived before he was born. I was drooling in wonder at getting to enjoy a pristine day, time with family, an invigorating hike, and all on the land where my grandpa played as a child! Enchanting doesn't begin to capture it all.

At one point, we had to cross a creek. My grandpa started heaving logs in the river to make some sort of bridge (I seriously think he forgot his age completely at that point).  I had sandal-like shoes on, so I ventured out to cross first since it didn't matter as much if my feet got wet. After a few cautious steps, I realized that the bridge wasn't too sturdy.  One of my uncles told me to stop and come back so they could place some more logs down.  I felt a bit stuck where I was though and unsure about what any movement would do to the shifting wood beneath my feet.

That's when my grandpa suddenly flew by me. To the horror of the rest of us, we watched while gasping and gawking as he teetered a bit on the shaky logs but spryly bounced to the other bank. We all laughed in disbelief. We knew Gramps was a tough guy and in good shape for his age, but this was no earthly 82-year-old. This was a man transported by the joy of sharing his childhood territory with those he loves most. It was a wonder to see. It was especially impressive to me when I tried following him and couldn't replicate what he had just done. My foot fell into the creek and I lost my sandal in the murky, muddy water (thanks, cousin Jettie, for fishing it out!).

With sun-kissed cheeks and hearts full of life, we finally left the farm and went to visit graves of our ancestors. My grandpa held little ceremonies at the graves complete with song sheets. When the Buttermores sing, there's no ignoring it. Many of them have some powerful voices, especially the men. Singing with them is one of my favorite things to do. Belting "How Great Thou Art" in a cemetery is a moving thing. Tears were not absent.

So, in reflecting on that time, I am blessed. I am blessed to think on the family I have and the godly, magnificent role models I have in my grandparents. My grandma has Parkinson's disease and traveling is not always the easiest thing for her. She had to forgo the countryside adventure, yet she didn't complain or feel sorry for herself. Not then, and not ever. She is the picture of resilience and she radiates the love of Christ. I am blessed and I am thankful that God gave me such a wonderful family. I pray that I will devotedly carry the torch of faith and character on to the next generation.