The Cemetary

There is something about country funerals. The abscence of a church is one thing, contrary to the stereotypes of country folk. The last two I attended were in the VFW hall and the funeral parlor, respectively.

The room is always full of burly men, with big hands and fish belly white foreheads. Several have cowboy hats in their hands, others bear the crease in their hair of wearing a cowboy hat for most of their lives. The wives are dressed up a little, wearing nice blouses and good shoes. These are fierce women, make no mistake. Many have had to bury at least one child, others have worked beside their husbands trying to make a living on the land. They are mostly elderly, as the younger generation has gone off to the city to make a decent living.

There's always a cowboy poem, usually pretty bad. If there are musicians, they are surprisingly good, even if you don't particularly like cowboy music. Today, the music was a recording of Vince Gill singing "Go Rest High on That Mountain", guarantee'd to bring tears to the eyes of all but the toughest of us.

It might sound blasphemous but you can't beat the food at a country funeral. It's as if the women all try to outdo each other. Baked beans made with ham hocks, and molasses. Pot roast or sloppy joes, and home made buns. Corn pudding, almost unheard of in America today. Every kind of jello salad imaginable, including one that had raspberries, strawberries and blueberries in it. Potato salad, pasta salad, broccoli salad, green salad, three bean salad, and sliced tomatoes. The desert table is a child's Christmas eve dream; three kinds of brownies, four different chocolate cakes, homemade lemon meringue pie, berry cobbler, that chocolate pudding-coconut-whip-cream-pecan concoction that I can never remember the name of, and a german chocolate cake tall enough to be featured on a cooking magazine cover. Not one single thing that you would think of as "good for you", but somehow, cooked with such love that you are convinced it can do you no harm.

Some families are there with four generations, and the children are allowed to move freely about the hall, without fear of kidnapping and amber alerts. Sticky children, hot and tired from the cemetary, chase each other back and forth.

People are eager to update you on all the tragedies that have occurred in the community since the last time you saw them, as if to say, "It happens to all of us."
The list of oldtimers that have died increases so quickly, I can't help but wonder what will become of this beautiful valley. Will it be filled with houses like every other valley in Colorado?

Standing in the cemetary, looking out over the bluff, I can see about 50 miles. There are maybe 10 houses in all the space.

How long can that last?