My brother Jay and I grew up a country
field away and yet “here” was a constant destination, where my grandparents
Florence and Joe Drennan lived on the farm.
We slept here at their house most
Friday nights, waking up early Saturday mornings to help Grandpa with farm
chores. My grandma, meanwhile, cooked and baked the best of everything and not
for lack of trying have I duplicated any of those recipes in my kitchen.
My grandfather stood every morning at the kitchen sink, looking into a small mirror sitting on the window ledge where he’d comb what hair he had left with a oval-shaped, soft-bristled brush and then adjust the silver arm bands on his work shirt before he headed outside to the chores in the barn. He took such pride in the preparation before a day’s work.
Grandpa Drennan had a mighty soul
stocked with discipline and work ethics that measured hands above any draft
horse of his day.
And when I walk with intent today across
the yard from the farmhouse to the barn, I remember watching Grandpa do the
same thing, as if on a mission.
Yep, we are definitely related.
Family mattered at all turns and we
were a part of everything—planting potatoes in the spring or walking on the
cattle drive, harvesting hay bales in late summer, and cleaning cow poop out of
the gutters in the barn. Thank Heaven for all of it.
Grandpa and Grandma Drennan died in
1996 and 2006 respectively and this old farm has changed a lot in the seven
years since I purchased it. There are more trees planted and less farm
machinery parts lying around and the barn, old and shoddy as it is on the
outside, has had its face lifted on the inside.
I wonder what Grandpa would have done
if he’d have walked into the barn last week before the family reunion and caught
me dusting and vacuuming the place as foot stomping tunes belted out of two big
stereo speakers hanging from the ceiling.
I think he’d smile at my disciplined
nature and nod in understanding of the passion and pride that was bouncing
around in there. I miss you.
I worked hard on a summer’s mission to
ready this old homestead for the “Drennan Reunion” and for the spirited bunch
of more than 80 relatives who hadn’t partied here together in two years and who
would move in with their camper trailers and tents to take up the cause.
They came, they partied, they made
memories.
“We put our glass to the sky and lift
up
And live tonight 'cause you can't take
it with ‘ya
So raise a pint for the people that
aren't with us
And
live tonight 'cause you can't take it with ‘ya.”
I stood in a sea of Drennan
descendants in my neck of the woods on Saturday afternoon during a scavenger
hunt and soaked up laughter and camaraderie that funneled through all of us.
I thought to myself, “We’re all here
where we belong.”
When it got dark on Saturday night, we
lit and released 20 flying lanterns that pierced the sky above Frog Creek.
There was a moment of silence that spoke volumes as we all watched the lights
rise into the heavens.
Joe,
James, Jack, and Harry, Margaret,
Pat, Janet, and Tillie we remember you.
We belong. We are Drennan.
“May the road rise to meet you. May
the wind be always at your back. May the suns shine warm upon your face, and
the rain fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again, May God hold you
in the palm of his hand.”
