2-20-18 SMOKE

1. of the Marlboro variety

Dad was a Marlboro man. Or maybe it was Camels. I would probably have to be led back to my childhood under some sort of hypnosis to remember most of the details of my childhood. (I am reminded that a bad memory is not always bad.)

Dad had that Dean Martin look - slender bodied, with a bit of a swagger, beautiful dark hair that was combed to the side with a perfect Elvis-like wave near the forehead. He had the aura of  James Dean, with his baggy khaki pants and a cigarette balanced between two fingers, its smoke snaking mysteriously up into the air. above his head. He had a green bean-bag ashtray beside his chair in the basement. It was filled with cigarette butts and ashes. That part was not nearly so romantic. 

That was a time when we all smoked: Everyone in the house, at the restaurant, on the airplane. Even if you never put a cigarette in your mouth, you smelled like smoke, tasted smoke, and inhaled enough to cause lung cancer just by existing in the same space. Nowadays my grandkids get nauseated at the smell of cigarette smoke. They are blessed to not know what it is like to have your eyes burn and throat sting all the way from Pittsburgh to San Francisco aboard a seven hour flight. I am reminded when we visit Europe that things in America are much better these days. 

2. of the matchstick variety

I picture my mother, when she was young and dying her hair and working 16 hours a day. I  see her standing at her bathroom sink. He long slender fingers flick the head of a matchstick across the rough bottom of her pewter matchstick holder. The stick ignites, a sharp flash of light followed by a thin blue dancing flame. Smoke rises from the matchstick in a swirl as she moves her wrist in circles. She places the red and white sulphur head of another matchstick against the flame, igniting it as well. Then she takes turns blowing out and relighting the sticks, alternating, allowing smoke to rise from each one before she re-igniting. The room acquires the scent of matchstick smoke, refreshing and earthy, overpowering other smells. She takes turns lighting and blowing until the matches burn down to her fingertips. I see her lips purse up as she raises the stub of a stick toward her mouth and blows gently, bending the flame until it can resist no more and flickers out. The burnt stubs make a screeching noise as they hit the water in the toilet. 

I recently asked my chemist-brother George why people burn matches as deodorizers. He explained as best he could to a non-chemist, something about carbon in the smoke adhering to other particles in the air, overpowering them into submission. I still use matches in my bathroom.

3. of the smoke signal variety

My friend Bernice Smith lives down on Main Street here in Farmington. She called after our mom died, to offer her condolences. We got to talking about the Farmington Cemetery in our conversation, and she told me about how the cemetery came to be located where it is, south of State Street along the main road between Centerville and downtown Farmington. She told me that her grandmother used to tell her stories about who was buried where, and how her favorite tombstone was that piece of white marble carved in the shape of a little child's chair marking the grave of a little girl. That headstone always tugs at my heart.

First, a disclaimer: I am remembering this story from the mind of a person with ADD who was grieving at the time, so I cannot vouch for any of the details,  and for all I know this is complete folklore, but here goes:

The hill that holds the graves of many of Farmington's finest was once just a lonesome foothill covered with sagebrush. It was situated about halfway between Ogden and Salt Lake City. At the time, before Farmington was deep rooted and sprawled along the foothills like it is now, the leadership in Salt Lake City was trying to deal with some problems that involved restless Native Americans who had territorial issues with settlers and travelers between the two cities. The leadership of the city or the LDS Church, or both, hired a young man to keep watch on the travels of the Indians. This fellow had married and recently welcomed a new baby to the small cabin he had built at the foot of what was known as Sagebrush Hill. He was to keep an eye out for the natives, and if he saw them moving toward Salt Lake City, he was to light a fire on the hill and send smoke signals warning officials to the south. 

To earn extra income, the settler and his wife put up fresh peach jam every fall, and he took a wagon load to Salt Lake City in October to sell at market. 

That year, after he had left with his supply of preserves, a fierce east wind came howling down through Shepard Canyon. An early snow had met with the icy blast coming from the east, causing the windows and door of the small isolated cabin to quake. The roof seemed to rise off the cabin, and the wind shrieked and howled through the cracks in their tiny home. We have lived in modern Farmington for over 30 years now and we know the fierceness of those east winds. That storm brought so much snow and wind that it was not possible for the young man to return to his home so he waited out the storm. His young wife, driven mad by the noise of the wind coming through the cracks and the snow drifting under the doorway and window trim, took her baby and braved the icy chill outside. Apparently someone passing by found the bodies of the mother and child frozen against the door. It's likely she could not open the door into the strong wind once she was outside. 

The story goes,  the husband finally started making his way back through the snow days later. He stopped in Centerville at the home of a friend who was a woodworker. He found his friend building a small coffin. When he inquired as to who might occupy the box, his friend told him about his wife and child.

Bernice says the young man buried his wife and child there on sagebrush hill, which eventually became Farmington Cemetery. 

Before my mom died we bought plots there on sagebrush hill. This was back when you could buy 4 plots per household, and since we had four households in our family, we bought a good chunk of plots. We used to go visit there before we had any eternal interest in that real estate. We chose where we would go. Libby laid down on various pieces until she found one that felt right. Our mother rests right next to that spot today. Our friend Cindy Gardner, who bought her plots at the same time so we could be eternal neighbors, is also resting in her spot just east of our mom. Before we know it we will fill up that space. It is strangely comforting knowing where we will be resting, and knowing who will rest beside us. I can imagine my loved ones stopping by now and then, or blowing kisses as they pass by. We specifically chose plots near the easterly road to accommodate drive-by grieving.  

Our mother's headstone, bronze sculpted by Stan Watts

I like to pretend it is the future, how long from now I do not know, but I do know that it is an awesome moment in time, anticipated by many. Over the hills, from the east, the light exceeds the usual sunrise. It is magnified and glorious as the Son of God makes his way back to us. The graves of all of us buried there on Sagebrush Hill open up and out we come, neighbor greeting neighbor, families embracing, songs rising through the branches of those old sycamore trees. I make my way over to that little child's chair headstone to find out who rested there, and to see if Bernice and Syd happened to be around as well. And I imagine searching the landscape of this place I know so well for an old man with his arm around a young wife and a tiny child, pioneers of Old Farmington, who first walked this hillside when the smoke signals from the northern foothills carried the scent of sage.