Waterloo, Pennsylvania
"At the bend of the road, by a well-kept, single-story brick church with a white gingerbread steeple, was the town of Waterloo and the Upper Tuscarora Cemetery. We walked for a long time, braiding our way through tombstones, before we found Jim’s immigrant forefather. I left Jim standing pensively at the tall white marker, his chin in his hand. I sat in the truck with the passenger door open, the dogs watching him among the graves until the sun began to move toward the mountain-ridge horizon.
I wondered what he was thinking and why he stayed so long. Was he imagining the trip from Ireland across the ocean to Pennsylvania? Was he aligning Irish history with the dates on the gravestone? Was he thinking about the fights between the settlers and the Indians? Was he considering his own mortality?
A low mountain mist was gathering by the time he leisurely walked back to us. He leaned on the open door with a puzzled look on his face.
“I can’t remember how the family lineage goes,” he said.
Suddenly I understood. He’d been standing there the whole time trying to remember what he’d repeated to me hundreds of times over the years. So often, in fact, that I had it memorized myself. Hoping I had hidden my shock, I slowly recited the male generations for him. He nodded his head and scooted me over to the driver’s seat, the 17 percent hanging in silent jeopardy.
Then Jim smiled and broke into song. 'Waterlooooo. Waterlooooo. Where will you meet your Waterloo? Every puppy has his day; everybody has to pay; everybody has to meet his Waterloo.' "
Hover over pix for captions. Double click to see larger image.
I wondered what he was thinking and why he stayed so long. Was he imagining the trip from Ireland across the ocean to Pennsylvania? Was he aligning Irish history with the dates on the gravestone? Was he thinking about the fights between the settlers and the Indians? Was he considering his own mortality?
A low mountain mist was gathering by the time he leisurely walked back to us. He leaned on the open door with a puzzled look on his face.
“I can’t remember how the family lineage goes,” he said.
Suddenly I understood. He’d been standing there the whole time trying to remember what he’d repeated to me hundreds of times over the years. So often, in fact, that I had it memorized myself. Hoping I had hidden my shock, I slowly recited the male generations for him. He nodded his head and scooted me over to the driver’s seat, the 17 percent hanging in silent jeopardy.
Then Jim smiled and broke into song. 'Waterlooooo. Waterlooooo. Where will you meet your Waterloo? Every puppy has his day; everybody has to pay; everybody has to meet his Waterloo.' "
Hover over pix for captions. Double click to see larger image.