On the wall in the back corner of the museum,
behind displays of dusty drilling equipment, is a big picture of a
group of young roughnecks standing under a derrick. The year was 1920
and it wasn’t long after oil had been discovered in southeastern Kansas
. One of the men in overalls, with a serious expression on his face,
was my grandfather. My dad and I stood in front of the picture and met his stare.
I was in
Kansas
to give a speech at a church convention, and invited my 79-year-old dad
to come along. I knew I’d have lots of free time between my parts in
the event, and I knew how much my dad loves to travel – especially with
his kids. So we flew to Wichita for the weekend. We spent many happy hours sharing stories as we drove and walked around, without much of an agenda.
But we did plan a trip to the Kansas Oil Museum, not too far from Wichita
. Dad and Mom had found the place serendipitously while driving across
country years ago. Dad was amazed to find the picture of his father,
Ray Burklo, on the wall of the museum. He wanted me to see it.
My
dad, his father, and his grandfathers were roughnecks – oil field
workers. Ray Burklo had worked on the oil wells of western Ohio , then
in Kansas for a year or so, and then settled in the oil patch of Taft , California . My dad, Don Burklo, worked in the oil fields of Taft until he left for college.
I was captivated by my grandfather’s gaze. He seemed to stare past the blank horizon of Kansas
, beyond Taft’s desert landscape, past his own lifetime, past time
itself. He stared into my eyes, and through them to whatever lies
beyond. That face, those eyes, still haunt me since Dad and I flew
back to California . It’s a good kind of haunting. I didn’t know him
very well; he died when I was pretty young. Looking into his eyes, I
had a comforting sensation of knowing the depth of his being, even
though I am at a loss to explain it.
After our sojourn at the museum, Dad and I went to a pub in
Wichita . Over some mega glasses of micro-brew, I asked him to tell me more about his father. I’d heard a lot of stories but now was thirsty for more.
My dad loved his dad dearly. He
really appreciated the way that Ray was always there for him, always
present and available, but never interfering with his own process of
learning. Ray was close, but he didn’t hover over my dad. As he talked, I realized that this was exactly what I appreciate about my father, too. Being close to his kids matters supremely to him. Dad was sometimes over-protective of us when we were young, but even then, he was never overbearing or
controlling. As
long as we were safe, he would let us figure out life on our own, while
always being available for support and advice along the way. My
grandfather Ray’s legacy is still powerful in my life, and I’d like to
think it’s powerful in my daughter’s life, too, to this day.
When
my daughter was born, I was sleep-deprived, since her mom’s labor was a
long one. So I suppose the boundary between my inner and outer levels
of awareness was fuzzy at the time. I was staring at my daughter as
she quietly lay in her swaddling blanket. Staring for a long time, in
a state of blissful awe. Suddenly I saw other faces superimposed on
her face. Faces of her dead ancestors. I saw my mom’s mother, Nana.
Then I saw my grandfather Ray’s face. Then the face of my
great-granddad P.R. Coil, my dad’s maternal grandfather. And others,
fading in and out, and then the visions passed.
My
daughter Liz is 21 years old now, and I still see different members of
her family, living and dead, in her face, mannerisms, and
proclivities. Sometimes she makes gestures and facial expressions that
are uncannily similar to those of my sister Kathy (who, happily, is
still alive). She has the grin and the spunk of her mom’s late
grandmother, Nanie. My daughter is haunted, in wonderful ways, by
those who have gone before her. As am I. Each of us is a
meeting-place for the souls who shape us.
All Hallows’ Eve, Halloween, All Saints Day
– however you name it, this is a good time for me to reflect on those
who haunt me. Those precious people who have lived and died before me
still have life in me, whether or not I am conscious of their
influence.
“Do
you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you,
which you have from God? You are not your own...” ( St. Paul , I
Corinthians 6: 19) This is a time to remember the presence of the
past, a time to be humbled by awareness of how closely our lives are
bound with others. It’s a season to offer
hospitality to the memory of those departed ones whose lives have
shaped ours. Each of us is a sanctuary for spirits who have gone before
us.
Have a happily haunted Halloween!