I called Uncle Junior and Uncle Ralph before I went outside.
I found myself walking to the family tree my father showed me. Once there, I cried.
Had I not come home, there would have been no pain. My father would have died without me noticing his passing.
I found out things were far more complicated than I believed them to be as a boy.
Going home was like going home should be. I found the family. I found surprises. What I gained by going home to see my father far outweighed the loss of him.
Nothing had changed but me. Home was still home. I’d lived in half a dozen places in Portland. None of them were home.
I blamed my father for my mother’s death, adding to his pain. He didn’t hold it against me. I was his son after all.
*****
My life had always been about me. I decided my father’s death would be about him.
When we talked about his death, he told me, “Since I can’t be buried next to Sven, being cremated, putting my ashes in the wind, maybe we’ll find our way back to each other.”
I’d do my father one better than that.
After Uncle Ralph and Uncle Junior paid their respects and they agreed to let me take care of my father, I did have him cremated.
I located a colorfully hand painted glass decanter I thought he’d appreciate. My father went inside. I could easily tuck the jar under my arm.
I decided I wouldn’t release the ashes in the meadow, his preference.
I always wanted to see Italy. I thought my father would like it. Flying to Rome, I took the short train ride to Anzio.
The train rocked gently. I enjoyed it. It was a slower way to go but the scenery was terrific. I’d rarely taken time to enjoy travel. My job meant I needed to hurry.
It was a nice day, until the train moved close to the coast. I had a hotel room reserved in Anzio. I could stay a few days if necessary.
The window next to my seat dampened as the train moved south. The sun peaked through at times. I was encouraged.
The door to my compartment slid open. I turned from the scenery and nodded my greeting at the older woman who came to take possession of her seat.
We left the station some time before. I was sure I’d have the compartment to myself, but company was good.
I watched as she clumsily arranged her things on the seat opposite me. She sat down facing me, rearranging her things again. She wore the most amazing hat. Her red outfit matched the hat perfectly.
“Nice hat,” I said.
“Thank you,” she sang. “It’s a lovely day.”
She either hadn’t bothered to look outside or she liked rain.
“Do you come to Italy often?” she sang in what I thought was an English baritone.
Somehow she knew I wasn’t Italian.
“No, I’ve never been,” I confessed in my American version of English, turning back to the window.
“Are you traveling alone?” she asked in a song.
“No, I’m traveling with my father. He’s never been to Italy either,” I said, hopefully avoiding the next question.
“How wonderful,” she sang for everyone to hear. “What a beautiful vase. Did you pick it up in Rome?”
“No, Iowa,” I said, seeing confusion on her face.
“Is your father far?”
“No,” I said, patting the vase. “I like to keep him close.”
She eyed my father’s resting place curiously.
The train began to slow for Anzio. Once I stood, tucking the jar under my arm, I slid the door open, and turned to bid her farewell.
“My father says to tell you it was nice meeting you,” I said, smiling an irreverent smile and patting the jar as I left.
I was sure she was the kind of woman who would tell the story of the odd American she met on the train.
I gave the cabby a nice gratuity when we arrived at the hotel.
“Gracie,” he said with a friendly smile.
I hesitated half in and half out of his cab.
“English?”
“Not so much,” he said with a wonderful accent.
“Anzio? I go to Anzio at nine in the morning. The American portion of the cemetery. Will you take me?”
“Yes! Can do. Will take.”
“What time will you pick me up?”
“Yes. Nine I pick up to Anzio. I take.”
“Gracie,” I said, and felt better about going to the cemetery and not being left while I conducted my business.
*****
My taxi was waiting the next morning and the rain had stopped, but it looked like it could rain any time. He drove me to a gate with a guard shack beside a pole with an American flag hanging lip in the still air.
“Let me off here. I want to walk up. I’ll be a few minutes,” I said as the driver nodded and smiled.
I brought a canvas bag with a shoulder strap where I put my father. Carrying a jar might be a dead giveaway.
The driveway was smooth and perfectly paved. As I approached, a uniformed soldier stepped out of his post to greet me.
“Sven Olie Gustoff, please. I’ll need directions. I haven’t been here before.”
He stood at attention, clicked his heels, executed an about face, and went back into the enclosure. He checked a chart and turned to look at a map of the graves. He pulled a notebook size sheet of paper from a stack under the map. He circled Sven’s grave, returning to me.
“Sir, if you’ll follow this drive, take your first left turn, walk to the end of the paved surface. Turn right, staying on the pavement. You’ll find Sgt. Gustoff at the fifth stone. Here’s a map showing you where he is.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing down at the paper to see if it agreed with his words and it did.
By that time he was standing back at attention as if I’d disappeared. I couldn’t help but feel honored to be allowed to enter there.
I felt a bit guilty about what I planned to do.
Before I turned I looked back but he was gone. I walked through the rows of gravestones. There was white marble on green grass with concrete paths to transport people so they didn’t step on the graves. It was all quite impressive.
I removed the jar from the canvas bag. I read the name on the gravestone where I stopped.
“Sven Olie Gustoff. Well, Daddy, I’m here. You and Sven are back together again. It’s as close as I could come to making your dream come true. I love you, Dad.”
I unscrewed the top of the jar.
“I didn’t know you, Uncle Sven, but you must have been one hell of a man. I think you remember my father.”
Turning until I felt the slight breeze on the back of my neck, I spilled the ashes out gently around the edges and then spilling the rest in the middle of Sven’s grave.
“You two enjoy your eternity together. Godspeed.”
The clouds had begun to boil overhead and I was sure it was going to rain on their reunion. I tucked the jar back into the canvas bag and hurried, hoping to make it back to the cab before the storm began.
By the time I’d reached the first turn going back, it was dark. Not dark as night, but darker than I liked. I kept moving, until I turned back toward the entrance.
The wind began to blow. It was going to be a gale. The temperature was dropping. I felt like something was sucking the oxygen out of the air.
Dirt and debris began rising to be sucked into what looked like a vortex; a miniature tornado. I moved faster, not looking back. I wanted the safety of the cab.
Who knew Italy had weather like this?
Why on today of all days?
The guard stood outside his enclosure, hands on hips, looking into the sky. I turned in time to see a swirling cyclone shooting upward, above where I’d just been.
It was moving higher and faster, creating a rumbling sound. The low hanging clouds opened. The cyclone was sucked through in an instant.
The clouds closed. The wind died. The day brightened.
“What the hell! I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said with astonishment. “Did you see that? What was it?”
“Oh, that,” I said, as I passed the bewildered soldier. “That was just my father saying hello to an old friend.”
By the time I reached the cab golden rays of sun streamed down. The clouds thinned to reveal a royal blue sky with pink and red hues. Its beauty defied description.
*****
I’m taking the train to Verona, once I see Rome. I want to be in the place where Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet lived. Just maybe it will bring me some luck.
I wanted to keep thoughts of love on my mind.
I’m taking a leave of absence. I’m returning home with a film crew.
For the second time in my life, a story has fallen into my lap. The plane crash didn’t require much imagination to report. The story of the Sorensons, as seen through my father’s eyes, took a little longer for me to develop.
It’s a fascinating story my journalistic side can’t let go.
I think I’ll call it The Farm Hand.
THE END