The Native Iowan

The day started. Glow of promise. Awoke. Predawn gray. Lie in my bed. Yawned. Stretched. Slowly woke. The light in the East glowing bright. Orange. After a week of rain. Storms. – We’ll have a nice day – I thought. Rolled over. Gazed South. Clear, calm sea. What a change. From the storms. Then I remembered.

The day before. Had woken. A gray, wet day. No change. Much to do. Through mud. To my office. Early. Working. Catching up. Gone too long in December. Neglecting the golden goose. Too long. Much to do. To catch up on. A call. The Doctor from the government hospital. Old Ron. The cranky Texican. Dead.

I’ll be right there – I said. Added – oh shit – for good measure. Shut computer down. Grab cash. Thinking. Thinking – What’ll need done? How to do it? Who to contact? –  To the truck. A plan. Forms. I call Terry… Nineteen. Big. Young. Strong. Time to learn. So young. So alive. Time to learn. Touch. Death.

Another truck. At the gate. The same message. – Be right there. Tell Dudley. I’ll pick him up. –  To Ron’s one room castle. Grab his mattress. To a shop. Four yards plastic. Two sheets. – You ever touched Death? – I ask Terry. – How do you do it? – his response. – With honor – the only reply.

Hospital is busy. Life. Death. Their business in trade. Busy morning. The Male Ward. Used to be. Lime green walls. Too skinny Choiseul man. A darker picture of slow death. A bloody stub of a Malatian’s used to be leg. Young Shortlander. IV in arm. A screen in the corner. A crowd around. Ron’s bed.

Alloy tubing. Plastic wheels. Cheap, dirty plastic. A movable screen. Used to hide. Not let others see. Offer privacy. Protect. Conceal. Seeing may disturb. Death. In the Male Ward. Death comes. Often. It’s why they travel. Across seas. From comfortable homes. Illness too strong. Local clinic. Not enough. To. Used to be. Lime green walls.

It’s why Ron. Came to these. Used to be. Lime green walls. He was ill. Dying. – Of what? – you ask. – Why so soon? – I hear. – Sixty-one in November. A fit man. Paddled all over. To hell and back. – Some say. – He gave up. Gave up. Fighting. – Some say. – His kidneys. His lungs.-

Living crowd. Around a movable screen. Family. Closest. Friends. Still near. Well wishers. On the fringe. Gawkers. Safest. Farthest away. Craning. To catch a glimpse. I nudge through. The Crowd. I peer over. The movable screen. Yellow in death. Mouth. Nose. Stuffed with cotton. I sneak a glimpse. Too. Death. Lying where Ron. Was yesterday.

I have a song. In my head. Plaintive tones. A harmonica. – Way down yonder – I hear. Think.  Yesterday. I sat. Right there. Looking up. These used to be lime green walls. Far beyond in need of a cleaning. The dust, dirt accumulated. Years. The fabric of life, death. Congealed in and on these very walls.

Sentinels. Companions. Concubines. For both. Life. Death. Both. Come here. Abide here. Both are home. Here. These used to be lime green walls. Cobwebs. In every corner. Dust accumulating. Year by year. Each particle. A memory. Cold stainless bed frames. Plastic covered mattresses. Starched white nurses. All. Acholites. Attendants. Servants.  To the living. For death.

Way down yonder. In the land of cotton – The song continues. We dress old Ron. Low. Murmured grief. Tears on his bare chest. Yellow arms. Mouth open. Cotton stuffed. We dress him. In his best. Simple khaki slacks. Light blue shirt. No shoes. Hands placed on his breast. Wrapped. Mummy like. In new sheets.

Tears in my eyes. I stifle a sob. Turn. Leave the tending. Of death.  To the attendants. Of death. I can’t help. But think… Modern society. Has lost something. Never sees. Touches. Others paid to handle. Caress. Attend. The dead. The dying. This feels good. Natural… Tears in my eyes. I head to the truck.

Terry there. Has backed the truck in. Waits. Mattress wrapped in plastic. In the back. We’ll load the body. What used to be Ron. Wrapped in new sheets. Go to my house. Let Ron enjoy the view. We enjoy his cantankerous company. Drink a beer with. Share a meal with. Share tears. One last time.

A group of friends. We discuss… What to do? Where to bury? Who’s in charge? … George willing. Will organize the grave digging. Ora. Will get a coffin built. I call Annie. She’ll stay at the house all day. Terry will help. Play host / hostess. Dudley. His lady, Rachel, willing. Mike. Wants to get drunk.

Time enough. For that. Much to do. The song plays on – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten – Body loaded. Grieving wife. Head up the hill. Through the mud. Images of Ron sliding out. Half way up. Sliding through the mud. A mummy wrapped corpse. Downhill skiing.

We’re at the house. Lay Ron on the floor. Wife’s family fill the place. Friends. All grieving. We organize a meal. Feed the grief. The living tears. The living loss. Ron. No longer hungry. No longer ill. No longer in need. In his two new sheets. On his plastic wrapped mattress. The grieving touch. Remember.

Lots of running to do. Shuttle people up and down. The dogs go wild. Every time a new group arrive. They bark. Pretend. Fierce guard dogs. Guarding? What? The people sit. Women mostly. On the floor. Around the corpse. Tear stained eyes. Men. On the verandahs. Smoking. Quietly. Talking. In groups. Weak smiles. Uncertain eyes.

By noon. Things quiet down. I take time off. Lunch at the hotel. Pass the word. – Drinks with Ron. On the verandah. This evening.- Organize more cooking. More food. Feed the masses. The living. Their grief. The song still plays. – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten –Look away. Look away –

The corpse. Lying on the floor. In state. The family beside. Friends. Gathered. Near. The song plays on. – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten. Look away. Look away – As the grief blends a gentle harmony. As the tears punctuate the words. – Look away. To Dixie land. –

Ron looks. South. Expanse of sea. The day. Trying to shine. Bright. Does Ron see? Where is he? What is death? Why this song? In my head. Who’s singing? Which band? Is there reason? A reason? Does an answer exist? Why the song? Why the need? For a reason?

Does it help? The Grief? The grieving? Tears? I work through the afternoon. Hide in the mundane. Daily affairs. Normal. Known. Often a nuisance. Often drudgery. Today. An escape. A phone call. Coffin is ready. Ora to deliver to the house. Get a pastor. From his wife’s church. Bless the box. The womb of afterlife.

Words of comfort. Lift the corpse. Gently lay in the box. Simple plywood. Freshly constructed. Nail the lid. One step closer. One step farther. Ron closer. We farther. He to the grave. We from him. The song plays on. In my head. Can the others hear? Do we all play a song? Who’s it for?

– Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten. Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. To Dixie land. Oh I wish I was in Dixie. Hurray. Hurray. In Dixie Land. I’ll make my stand. To live and die in Dixie. Look away. Look away. Look away. To Dixie Land. –

I ask Pat to say a few words. Explain. “White man’s Custom”. To share a drink. Old friends. To say good bye. With a smile. A story. A laugh. To say good bye. We pull the drinks out. Pop the caps. Pass the bottles. Around. Solbrew. Soft drinks. The atmosphere changes. More voices. Louder. Laughter.

We talk and smile. Relax. Death. Is in the box. Contained. Sealed. More distant. A moment ago. Death. Wrapped in two new sheets. Lying on the floor. Reminding all. Used to be Ron. Now. The nails driven home. The box sealed. Death. Farther away. Now. We talk and smile. Relax. Death. Is. In the box.

Day ends. Supper cooked. Eaten. Mourners gone. Only the women. Remain. Sit near. Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. The women sleep. With death. Death. In the box. Used to be Ron. They comfort each other. Lie close. Hand woven mats. Hand made coffin. And death.

The day starts. Glow of promise. The predawn gray. Lie in my bed. Yawn. Stretch. Slowly wake. The light in the East glowing bright. Orange. After a week of rain. Storms. – We’ll have a nice day – I Think. Roll over. Gaze South. A clear, calm sea. What a change. The tempest. Then I remember.

Gotta dig a grave. Organize transport. Deal with the living. While we deal with the dead. – Hope the road to the cemetery is passable – I think, As I make my mental list. Things to do. Much to do. The surf. In the distance. Like a drum. Heralding the advent of morning. A clear, bright morning.

The road to the cemetery is pretty good. I take the diggers out. We look for a spot. A place. To dig. Six by three wide. Six deep. An old, disorganized cemetery. I light a cigarette. For Paul Sirell. I place it in the head stone. Honor the dead. Ram Dari. John Szetu-Ho. Francis Gill.

We dig next to Paul’s grave. They were similar. Two cantankerous Americans. Perhaps they will have something to talk about. Something to share. Their past unhappiness. Their loves. Their losses. Misadventures. Failures. Successes. Finding the Solomons. Finding Gizo. A home. Friends. Family. A place to rest. Relax. A place. Six by three wide. Six deep.

We’re ready to go. Ora takes the coffin. Rollo takes a load. I drive through town. Pick up stragglers. About forty people gather round the sight. Fresh cut logs span the hole. Mound of red earth. The Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. The women weep.

Ashes to ashes… Dust to dust… –  Words meant to heal. Spoken. Read. Translated. The tears continue. Strong ropes. Pulled tight. Logs removed. The Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. Lowered. Gently placed. Into the red earth of Gizo. Mother earth. The womb of death.

I drop a flower. In the hole. The grave. Ron’s resting place. Hands full of red earth. Sprinkle. Stain the white cloth. Damage the fragrant flowers. Bang the plywood coffin. Bid a final farewell. A final hand shake. Final salute. Hands on shovels. The hole fills quickly. Covers the box. Hides the flowers. Hides death.

The hole fills. The women sing. The diggers sweat. I look at my feet. The sun hot. Burning my neck. The red earth building a mound. We place concrete blocks. Around the grave. Slacks and Shirt. Two new sheets. Plywood box. Fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. That’s all Ron carries. Possesses. Owns. In death.

Pat says the final words. He keeps it simple. Says what we all know. Need to hear. Articulates what we all feel. Grief comes out in sobs. As the words touch the ears. The women cry louder. I still look at my feet. Blinking away. The tears. Well up. As Pat says – Adios Amigo. –

It’s one PM. Trucks head back. Some. Meet at the pub. Salute the old Texican. Beer in his honor. Jug of bushlime. Couple sandwiches. I’m exhausted. Not sure why. The song. In my head. Is gone. Words appear. Another story. A story of a cantankerous old Texican. Whom I had the honor of burying today.