It may seem like any old ordinary day—one where goats stand upright against persimmon trees to yank their fruit, and hymns among family are sung around an unlit campfire. The invite to the HoDown had dwindled to the bottom of Dave’s and my priority list, not because we weren’t interested, but because of the medical unknowns surrounding Dave’s brother, Matt. I’m heartbroken to say that Matt’s body could no longer sustain his life. After two of the most broken days I’ve seen in the seven years I’ve known Dave, we figured the potential for making new friends was worth leaving the house.
New friends who, funnily enough, had also recently moved from Washington, just like us.
Looking back, there’s much to say about our five hours there. About the 96-year-old grandpa’s insistence that I teach Evelyn about Jesus, and how he crossed a line that turned me into a cobra, ready to strike. Not to worry—we both calmed down and by the end of the day, it felt like we were old friends. Funny how things work like that.
Later, I found myself sitting in a circle with him, his three sons, a couple of their wives, and his grandchildren. What I’d imagined would be a casual gathering of people our age turned out to be more of a family reunion. Yet, by the time we left, it felt like we’d adopted another family. There was none of that awkward standing in the corner, hoping and not hoping someone would talk to you. Instead, it was arms thrown over each others’s shoulders and conversations picking up right where they left off.
As I learned more about them, I found out that family had flown in from California and Washington, and many were camping on the property. The energy was so high between them that most didn’t go to bed until 4 a.m. or even 7 a.m. this morning. Despite running on fumes, their closeness with each other and their desire to enfold us in it felt nothing short of incredible.
My favorite part? Singing together. Especially Folsom Prison Blues and The Race Is On. The way their voices harmonized, the laughter in between verses—it reminded me how music connects us in ways words alone can’t.
The person I felt closest to was Keith. You’d never guess it by looking at him, but his body is riddled with pancreatic cancer, and he doesn’t have long to live. Yet his zest for life was contagious. He even pointed out a place just beyond where we sat where he planned to be buried. His death seemed accepted by everyone, even his mother, who at 93 had originally wanted her three boys to sing Amazing Grace at her funeral. But today she admitted that her wish wouldn’t come true. One of the family members recorded them singing it earlier in the day, so who knows what will happen when that time comes.
Some experiences are too big for the page, too profound to be fully shared in a story. They etch themselves on your heart, and that’s where they stay. This day was like that. These people were like that. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have been there. On the drive back home, I thought, “It felt like home.” And that wasn’t lost on me, that I am.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 