Life’s Roads: U.S. Highway 52

When open to them, signs of connection and faith come. Already in a reflective mood as I got in my car to head to my Uncle Dick‘s funeral in northeast Iowa on Monday, I backed out of our garage. The radio came on and the first song was “This is the Time” by Billy Joel, which always reminds me to be present, here and now, and also reminds me of my sister Mary Jo. I heard the song in the days before she died, and it took on meaning it never had before, even though I had always liked it.

The second song was “Get Together” by the Youngbloods. “Come on people now, smile on your brother.” Get together for a funeral and smile on Mom’s youngest brother, who passed away at age 82. As I took a look at which SiriusXM station the radio was on, it was fittingly The Bridge-mellow classic and contemporary rock. I smiled. My heart was warmed by the messages the Universe sent my way in those few minutes. They come when we are open to them.

Before going to the church for the service, I stopped to visit my mom, at the same nursing home where Uncle Dick had lived the last year and a half or so. As I suspected, they were just starting the rosary when I arrived. I sat in the chair that Dick had often sat in and brought Mom’s chair close. We prayed the rosary with a few other residents, with Mom sometimes following along with a “Hail Mary” or “Glory be . . . “ and sometimes losing track. This rosary happened to be on the “glorious mysteries,” fitting for a day that we would be celebrating a life well-lived.

It was a very nice service, and then a chilly, but moving, military tribute graveside before heading back to the church basement for lunch and conversation with relatives. I saw siblings, cousins, an aunt and an uncle who, besides Mom and another uncle, are the only surviving siblings left in their family. I saw friends and acquaintances. I saw people I see regularly, and others I haven’t seen in many years. It seems funerals are what bring such a group together these days. By the time I got in my car to head back home, I was appreciative of the time together, from stopping to visit Mom, to taking in the service and luncheon.

Just a few hundred yards from the church, I took this picture:

It is U.S. Highway 52 that brings me most of the way to northeast Iowa and my family. It was what I primarily was driving on Monday. The church where Uncle Dick’s service was held is just a quarter-mile from the intersection with U.S. Highway 52. I couldn’t help but think of this poem. I wrote it five years earlier, after attending my Dad’s sister’s, my Aunt Jenny’s, funeral a few miles down the road in my hometown.

52 South

Leaving the edge

of urban

for the heart of

rural on an

early morning trip,

I took the on-ramp

for U.S. Highway

52 South.

Traversing the winding

roads and rolling hills

of my current home state,

I was treated to

beautiful skies as

daylight arrived.

Clouds and sun

played together to

beckon me.

52 South led me

right into my

native state,

into the county

of my birth and

upbringing,

into a mix of

emotions and memories.

Arriving at my destination,

adjacent to 52 South,

I pulled up to the church

where my aunt’s funeral

was about to take place.

The same church my dad’s

funeral took place 19 years

prior, also in the fall.

Siblings laid to rest in the

same cemetery as their

parents and brother.

Just yards off of 52 South,

family history closes

another chapter,

even as new ones

are being written.

A generation is

fading away, as cousins

of the next generation

speak of memories that

now span decades.

There is laughter along

with quiet wisdom.

We are bound together

by bloodlines, and

brought together by

U.S. Highway 52.

A well-traveled road

uniting us to honor

well-lived lives.

 (Lisa Valentine    November 2017) 

Lives well-lived. My recent memories of Uncle Dick are of him sitting in that chair at the nursing home, sharing a brief conversation when we stopped to visit Mom. I recall the way, when Mom was still able to sit next to him in a chair, he would take care of her and her comfort in the little ways he could. It was so sweet to see these aging siblings together. My sympathies to his six children and their families. I smile as I consider a reunion, on some plane, between Dick and his wife Joyce, who passed away in 2020.

Lives well-lived. The other number on that road sign is 24. Just live well today, these next 24 hours. It’s all we can do. Be kind and gentle with ourselves and one another.