This assignment really made me dig deep to find a trip I always wanted to take, but didn't. When I finally found the inspiration, I researched the topic and got some good imagery to write from this site. As always, please refrain from accessing the link until AFTER you read my story. Thanks!
MK
Papa died fifty years ago today. I never had the pleasure of knowing the man, but I feel like his spirit resides within my chest, as much now as it did when he lived and breathed. If Papa hadn't left such a profound legacy of work, which reached out to my heart and soul after all the years, I'm not sure I'd be living the fuller life I am today. I've long since had the urge to make a simple gesture, one to say thank you to the man who taught me so much about myself. Today is that day.
It's beautiful and sunny. Just a few wispy clouds high in the stratosphere which add a marble-like character to the big blue sky. I find myself standing in front of a modest iron arch straddling over a narrow driveway. The words "Ketchum Cemetary" span the arch in large uppercase letters. Beyond this arch lies a large hill. It might be a mountain by some standards, but in the Rocky Mountains of Idaho, it's a hill. Between the hill and the arch is a bright expanse of closely-mowed green grass. It's been cut recently and the smell of the grass has mixed with that of the pine trees scattered throughout the cemetery. Below the pines lay a mixed bag of gravestones. Somewhere, between two of these trees, I will find the spot where Papa lies. I know, from the pictures I've seen on the internet, he's interred underneath a simple granite monolith, which is laid even with the ground.
I'm near Papa...
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"...the great artists of the world are never Puritans, and seldom respectable. No virtuous man--that is, virtuous in the Y.M.C.A. sense--has ever painted a picture worth looking at, or written a symphony worth hearing, or a book worth reading..." - H.L. Mencken
I found what gets me is words. The connection first came to me in novels, short stories, and philosophical works. Later, I would come to find the same feeling in well written song lyrics. For me, finding a connection with someone pouring their heart and soul out into words is the closest I will come to finding God in this lifetime.
My parents may have been the ones who put the spark of life into me. They were also a great influence in shaping the framework of my mind. However, my ability to connect deeply with written words wasn't revealed to me until I struck out on my own.
My first realization of this connection came through the works of a man who passed away long before I was born. The man known simply as "Papa", by those who feel a strong connection to him, is my favorite writer of the 20th century. No, strike that, Papa is my favorite writer of all time.
As a teenager, I read a few of his works. At that time I was able to really appreciate how vividly Papa could paint a picture in my mind, but I hadn't lived enough of my life yet to make a deep emotional and spiritual connection with his words. It wouldn't be until I had lived through trying experiences that I could really find the meaning that Papa and other experienced souls express through their art.
My "Eureka!" moment came when I was twenty years old. I was a sophomore at the University of Hawaii-Hilo and in a bad place. I was fresh on the heels of a devastating breakup. I had survived the war, but my heart and soul were left broken. Somehow, in between the frequent self-medicating, a copy of The Sun Also Rises made it's way to me.
To me, critics have ruined so many good works by trying to tell me their interpretation of what something means. Many people try to academically destruct Papa's "Iceberg Theory" to try to find some sort of absolute hard meaning below the surface of his writings. What I've come to realize is this: the meaning is whatever I need it to be. In this particular instance I was able to feel connected to the protagonist. I had survived something horrible and it left me scarred and lost. I saw so many parallels in the life of Jake Barnes and my own trying times. By the time I was done with the book, I knew I didn't have to live the rest of my life in that rut because I possessed something Jake didn't: the ability to heal myself.
Since that time, I find the more meaningful words I read, the more self-aware I become. It hasn't been until recently that this process has come full-circle. I've always been able to write. Communicating well through written words has always been something which comes easy for me. What has taken time to develop are my abilities in expressing the deeper parts of my soul. Finding a sense of self-awareness has finally imparted in me the ability to take the things deep inside myself and put them in a way I feel others can relate to. It has been a long road to get where I am, and there's many more miles yet to go, but I never would have found my inner voice if Papa hadn't lit a fire within me.
Somewhere along the way the notion entered my head to find a very personal way honor these writers. Some way so that whatever remains of their souls, wherever they may be, might be eased in the knowledge that they continue to make a difference. Call it morbid curiosity or whatever you will, visiting graves was about the best thing I could come up with. Naturally, Papa's would be the first on the list.
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I cross under the archway and begin my search. As I'm looking, my mind begins to wander.
What is it with me and dead writers?
It seems I never discover someone's work until they have passed. Hell, I didn't discover Kurt Vonnegut until two years ago, and he was alive five years ago.
Why didn't I discover him when he was with us?
If only I had sought him out sooner. It would have been wonderful to write old Kurt a letter and tell him how much his work opened my eyes. Perhaps he would have been pleased to know that Slaughterhouse Five completely changed my views on war and the indifference to human suffering. Maybe he would have read it, maybe not. The fact is, there would have been a possibility that I could have let a conscious soul know that he had made a difference in this world.
I'm walking around the perimeter of the graveyard when I spy a rather gaudy looking crypt. In a sea of simple headstones it's the only crypt and it reminds me of another grave I should visit.
Next year, Paris?
I start to envision the bazar lipstick-kiss smattered tomb of Victorian England's greatest poet and playwright. His quest to create beauty for beauty's sake left behind some of the greatest one line quotes ever constructed. It's just a tragedy that he had to pay such a bitter price in his lifetime for being different. I'm sure, wherever he is, Oscar wouldn't mind the respect and adoration of a straight American.
Get back on track!
I shake my head and return to the task at hand. I continue my stroll along the periphery. It's not long before I notice the two trees and the single slab of granite. I turn and walk towards Papa.
Papa, I'm here.
After reaching the grave, I look down and smile. I think Papa knows he's got a visitor, and that visitor has brought something. I take off my backpack and sit propped up against one of the trees.
I set the backpack to my side and reach inside. The first thing out is a pint glass, which I set between my knees, and reach back into the pack. Soon, the rest of the pack is emptied. Before me there is a grapefruit, two limes, a ziplock bag full of ice cubes, a tiny bottle of Maraschino liqueur, a small knife, and a flask filled with Bacardi Silver. It's all the mandatory ingredients to make Papa's favorite, the "Papa Double".
I pack the ice into the glass, halve the fruit and squeeze the juice on top of the ice. It fills half the glass. I take the flask and eliminate the remaining space. Last in is a few drops of the Maraschino, for color.
I chuckle. It looks like hell, and I've got sticky liquid all over my hands. Still, I know Papa's gonna appreciate this. Why not? He hasn't had one in over fifty years. I rise to my feet and shake the glass a little bit.
I look down at the cocktail in my hands. The last one of these I had was at a place called Sloppy Joe's in Key West, ten years ago. It was Papa's favorite bar, but his spirit has long since left that place. Now it's just a stop for drunk tourists. This experience is far more personal.
Gazing down at the granite, I silently read aloud the inscription for the first time, "Ernest Miller Hemingway. July twenty-first, eighteen ninety-nine to July second, nineteen sixty-one."
Chills climb my spine, and the drink in my hand doesn't seem that cold. Papa, or what remains of him, is right here in front of me. It's as close as I'm ever going to get to my literary hero.
Here goes.
I raise the glass towards the slab in salute to the man, "Gracias Papa". I close my eyes and take a gulp.
It's the best goddamned drink I've ever had. In an instant the chills are gone, and the warmth of the Idaho sun returns to me. When I've finished savoring the drink I bend down towards the stone. As gently as I can, I place the nearly full glass underneath the inscription.
"Enjoy that one buddy, you've earned it."
Slowly I stand back up, collect my pack and silently start the walk out. I can't remember the last time I've smiled this big.
See you Papa, I've got some more friends to visit.
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