An honor that made a tough walk worth it

My mother was 24 years old when she gave birth to me. My father was 33. I know this because last week I received a copy of my birth certificate from the Illinois Department of Public Health, a document that tells me I am the same person I’ve been portraying lo these many years. It was both a relief and a boring disappointment, knowing that my parents were who they said they were. I’m not the child of famous people, just beautiful ones, both long gone.

I think about my mother often. She has been gone for 35 years, yet on a regular basis, people tell me how much they enjoyed knowing her and working with her. Because I live close to the town of my growing I often bump into my past, as well as my mother’s. When I’m gone 35 years, the best I can hope for is some elderly person saying to another, “Remember that one guy? Thinning long hair. Blue glasses. Eccentric.” I wanted my tombstone to read “THAT ONE GUY,” but my wise wife ignored me, and the stone is carved with my name and the year of my birth, which, as it turns out, is accurate, having been confirmed by bureaucrats in Illinois.

The glass by my chair that was filled with summer is almost empty, and I’m ambivalent about it. Later today, I’ll be on my tractor, cutting the grass of a field out in front of my house. From that chair, I look out on the expanse of the field, as does my cat Luna from a table in the living room. All day long, and at night too, I suppose, all sorts of wild creatures move across that field, munching on the grass, before disappearing into the dense brush and trees to the west. I don’t get too excited about the wildness out here, and then someone from elsewhere visits, sees three deer crossing twenty yards in front of the house, and their eyes widen, an unanticipated grin fills the room, and my smile joins theirs.

Walnut trees in the hollow are dropping leaves, leaves on maples along my lane are turning orange, and sumac in ditches are bright red and orange, a subtle sign that time continues to pass without slowing. Mirrors confirm it. The fact that many of us can recall things from what feels like a thousand soft years ago also confirms it. Listening to the mild, smooth beauty of Brubeck, Getz, Coltrane, and Hancock while driving evokes the feeling that a great deal of time has moved past me, time I can never retrieve or fully recall, but it’s OK, because tomorrow I won’t likely remember much about today. It’s the way of things.

On a chilly autumn-like night last weekend, I walked across a high school football field in front of a full grandstand just prior to a varsity game. It was the place where I played ball as an offensive guard and defensive linebacker more than 55 years ago, and there were spirits there, tangible and pleasant, even though I limp because of a long-ago injury from a play on that field. But the walk wasn’t about me, as I was representing my wife, who was to be inducted into her high school hall of fame the next night. I have a bad back and had arranged for a Gator to carry me. The other inductees and I were getting ready to play our little parts when a former school administrator said to me, only half-jokingly, “Wait a minute. You set a record in the pole vault and you can’t walk fifty yards across a field?” He was correct, and I’ll have to thank him for the lovely walk when I next see him. It was well worth the pain. For both me and my love. Thanks, man.

Kurth Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com