The year before my father-in-law, Albert, passed away, I
drove him out to the farm where he grew up north of St. Francis, Kansas. The ground upon which he lived into his teens is
rolling, rocky, and not quite as promising as neighboring farms bursting with
abundant wheat and corn fields.
No stately barn rests on the Burr piece of
land, which is now littered with several decaying wood frames and fence
posts. Albert pointed out where their
horse was housed in a squatty, leaning, bare-bones barn. He described fruit trees that once grew
behind the boarded-up house. As a boy,
he gathered eggs in a now-roofless chicken house and eighty years later, he
could still shake his head when remembering the dreaded job of cleaning the separator
in the tiny cream-separating house (about twice the size of the outhouse). In the family album, there is an old
black-and-white photo of Albert with his dog, Pete, in front of this small
building.
As we drove around the yard, Albert spoke fondly of his home
and the great times he had as a boy: a swimming hole, not much larger than a
ditch; the sticker-laden ground near the hog pen where the Burr Boys played
baseball; and a quarter-mile-long hill that sloped into the yard. He said that the hill was perfect for
sledding. Kids would come from
neighboring farms – twenty or more—and use grain scoops for sleds. Because it was dark, their parents would line
up along the snowy hill with lanterns, so their children could see the path. The
scene must have been magical.
As Albert weakened and made several trips to the hospital, I
decided to paint the sledding-by-lantern-light scene that Albert had described
to me almost a year earlier. I hoped he
could see the painting of “Papo’s Hill” before it was too late.
In June, Albert was admitted for
his final stay in the hospital, where he waited to be transferred to the retirement
home. When I showed him the painting, he
lacked the strength to speak, but his face glowed, almost like the lanterns on
the canvas. He smiled and nodded.
Our dear father and Papo died June 16, 2014
--C. Burr
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4 comments:
What a sweet memory and a painting that captures the magic of a sledding night from another era. It reminds me of illustrations from the Little House series. How wonderful that Albert got to see it. Lovely!
I just read your blog about Steve's dad and the sledding picture. It is so wonderful and reminds me of the wonderful sledding hills in Smith County that we used to go to--but never in the dark. The picture really captures his story. Thank-you for the trip down memory lane!
Grandmother Windsong, the trip you took with your Papo seemed like a memory neither would forget. So lovely that you shared it. The painting is magical as the night it took place must have been
Albert Burr was a good man, as are ALL the people of that magical county, my home!
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