The Unseen Here and Now

Last week I was spreading some dirt along the alley in our back yard with the thought that I may one day need it for a parking pad. Unfortunately, it is a sort of "sacred spot," set off and hidden by a short row of white pine trees on one side and a picket fence on the other that borders the alley. There is a low "dry stacked" stone wall beneath the pines and a mulberry tree in the corner that helps shade the whole area.

God speaks in such places, and the bright orange wild lilies growing along the fence in the corner seem to prove it.

The dirt was actually left over from a project at a neighbors house. I had been shoveling for almost an hour and was just about through when a small, faded brown piece of plastic flipped up and out of the fertile black soil. I almost didn't notice it.

It was the one-third remains of an ancient and long since canceled credit card. I wiped the layers of dirt away that concealed the raised letters and numbers beneath. At the top the highly stylized cursive letters "SM" and part of an "A" could be seen. Beneath were the beginning of an account number - "6967-766 ..."

The name "Ms Martina Z ..." was clearly visible at the bottom. I smiled at her memory. "Martina's 'Smartwear' card," I thought, "This hasn't seen the light of day for a while."

I never had a chance to know the "real" Martina. When my wife and I moved into our new home on Stanley Avenue in 1990 we had been married less than a week and while Martina lived next door, our world was a million miles and more from hers. She lived with 3 of her 5 sisters, the youngest of which was perhaps in her late 60s at the time. The oldest was at least 90, and I suppose Martina herself was in her mid- to late 70s. She was deep in the throws of Alzheimer's and her sisters had to keep a fairly close watch on her. This proved to be no easy task.

Having grown up on Stanley Avenue (her father built their house in 1929), Martina was used to "going out," and it was not unusual to see her sneaking out of the house and wandering about our end of the block. The first time I met her she had just pulled off one of her escapes and approached me under our big sugar maple in the front yard. I had no idea about her condition.

"Good afternoon," I said, wanting to make the best possible impression upon one of my new neighbors.

"Yup -- buried him here right underneath this tree -- pretty much where you're standing." She pointed at my feet.

I was caught off guard. I stepped backwards on to our front walk so as not to desecrate the grave and looking down incredulously said, "Uh, who, uh, what, uh, who did they bury here ma'am?"

"I'm not real sure," she replied, her lips tight and serious, "but they buried him here. That I know." She pointed again to the ground in the middle of the shade garden beneath the tree. "Right there."

"Oh," I said, thinking that these were the things that must happen to all first-time home buyers -- unknown graves found in the front yard. My first call would be to that Realtor. He was working for the other guy, all right.

"Uh,... I'm Stuart Revercomb," I finally said, extending my hand, "My wife and I just moved in a couple of days ago. I'm sure you noticed."

She paused a moment, and then with one hand cupped over the side of her mouth whispered dryly, "Don't worry -- they buried him deep."

With that she walked back to the steps leading to her front porch, and with a glance over her shoulder to see if I was still watching, disappeared inside. I had laughed after her remark to indicate I understood her joke, but she had shown no change of emotion. I wondered if maybe she knew something the rest of us didn't.

Over the next several weeks I spied Martina picking up sticks in both her yard and ours. Often they were of the smallest variety -- such that I began to question if perhaps she did suffer from some sort of dementia. The fact was finally confirmed when one of the other sisters asked if I had met her and then filled me in on her condition.

I replied that I would, but I remember thinking that if I did, I'd probably be calling a lot. Tini was good at slipping past her guards.

As it turns out I was right. I often found Martina out and about, either picking up all the sticks in the world or watching the birds fly from tree to tree in our back yards. Our conversations were always an adventure, but I became pretty good at discerning what was actual neighborhood history and what was fantasy. Despite her often uncertain and confused state, she was able to give me a wonderful sense of what her life and her beloved neighborhood was like so many years ago. Not even all that Alzheimers could hide such a good and radiant soul.

But when she passed away in 1996, I was in many ways grateful she was free of a body that would no longer allow her to speak and live as herself. Her sisters still miss her dearly, but one of them remarked to me not too long ago that she knows "Martina finally found her way 'Home.' "

As I held that little piece of dirty plastic in my hand with the name etched partially at the base, I realized that I have incorporated much of her memory into my own sense of place: that the gangly old roses that cling to the rusty iron trellis and the mature mulberry tree with its lilies beneath are as much mine now as they were once hers. And they are a large part of what makes this place we presently call "Home" something even more.

	The Unseen Here and Now . . .

2002 Archives 2001 Archives 2000 Archives			Stuart Revercomb Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays. E-MAIL Click Here to subscribe to "Thursday's Fare"
		JULY 20, 2000 An Unpaved Paradise Last week I was spreading some dirt along the alley in our back yard with the thought that I may one day need it for a parking pad. Unfortunately, it is a sort of "sacred spot," set off and hidden by a short row of white pine trees on one side and a picket fence on the other that borders the alley. There is a low "dry stacked" stone wall beneath the pines and a mulberry tree in the corner that helps shade the whole area. God speaks in such places, and the bright orange wild lilies growing along the fence in the corner seem to prove it. The dirt was actually left over from a project at a neighbors house. I had been shoveling for almost an hour and was just about through when a small, faded brown piece of plastic flipped up and out of the fertile black soil. I almost didn't notice it. It was the one-third remains of an ancient and long since canceled credit card. I wiped the layers of dirt away that concealed the raised letters and numbers beneath. At the top the highly stylized cursive letters "SM" and part of an "A" could be seen. Beneath were the beginning of an account number - "6967-766 ..." The name "Ms Martina Z ..." was clearly visible at the bottom. I smiled at her memory. "Martina's 'Smartwear' card," I thought, "This hasn't seen the light of day for a while." I never had a chance to know the "real" Martina. When my wife and I moved into our new home on Stanley Avenue in 1990 we had been married less than a week and while Martina lived next door, our world was a million miles and more from hers. She lived with 3 of her 5 sisters, the youngest of which was perhaps in her late 60s at the time. The oldest was at least 90, and I suppose Martina herself was in her mid- to late 70s. She was deep in the throws of Alzheimer's and her sisters had to keep a fairly close watch on her. This proved to be no easy task. Having grown up on Stanley Avenue (her father built their house in 1929), Martina was used to "going out," and it was not unusual to see her sneaking out of the house and wandering about our end of the block. The first time I met her she had just pulled off one of her escapes and approached me under our big sugar maple in the front yard. I had no idea about her condition. "Good afternoon," I said, wanting to make the best possible impression upon one of my new neighbors. "They buried him here you know," came the reply. "Excuse me?" I said. "Yup -- buried him here right underneath this tree -- pretty much where you're standing." She pointed at my feet. I was caught off guard. I stepped backwards on to our front walk so as not to desecrate the grave and looking down incredulously said, "Uh, who, uh, what, uh, who did they bury here ma'am?" "I'm not real sure," she replied, her lips tight and serious, "but they buried him here. That I know." She pointed again to the ground in the middle of the shade garden beneath the tree. "Right there." "Oh," I said, thinking that these were the things that must happen to all first-time home buyers -- unknown graves found in the front yard. My first call would be to that Realtor. He was working for the other guy, all right. Several awkward moments passed -- at least for me. "Uh,... I'm Stuart Revercomb," I finally said, extending my hand, "My wife and I just moved in a couple of days ago. I'm sure you noticed." "I'm Martina, but everyone calls me Tini," she replied. She paused a moment, and then with one hand cupped over the side of her mouth whispered dryly, "Don't worry -- they buried him deep." With that she walked back to the steps leading to her front porch, and with a glance over her shoulder to see if I was still watching, disappeared inside. I had laughed after her remark to indicate I understood her joke, but she had shown no change of emotion. I wondered if maybe she knew something the rest of us didn't. I've been throwing a little extra mulch under that tree ever since. Over the next several weeks I spied Martina picking up sticks in both her yard and ours. Often they were of the smallest variety -- such that I began to question if perhaps she did suffer from some sort of dementia. The fact was finally confirmed when one of the other sisters asked if I had met her and then filled me in on her condition. "Let us know if you ever see her out alone," she said. I replied that I would, but I remember thinking that if I did, I'd probably be calling a lot. Tini was good at slipping past her guards. As it turns out I was right. I often found Martina out and about, either picking up all the sticks in the world or watching the birds fly from tree to tree in our back yards. Our conversations were always an adventure, but I became pretty good at discerning what was actual neighborhood history and what was fantasy. Despite her often uncertain and confused state, she was able to give me a wonderful sense of what her life and her beloved neighborhood was like so many years ago. Not even all that Alzheimers could hide such a good and radiant soul. But when she passed away in 1996, I was in many ways grateful she was free of a body that would no longer allow her to speak and live as herself. Her sisters still miss her dearly, but one of them remarked to me not too long ago that she knows "Martina finally found her way 'Home.' " As I held that little piece of dirty plastic in my hand with the name etched partially at the base, I realized that I have incorporated much of her memory into my own sense of place: that the gangly old roses that cling to the rusty iron trellis and the mature mulberry tree with its lilies beneath are as much mine now as they were once hers. And they are a large part of what makes this place we presently call "Home" something even more. When the time comes, I don't think the kids will mind parking out front.

An Unpaved Paradise