With Decoration Day coming up I thought this might be appropriate. I'd written it several years ago (2012 I think ) but somehow its always been one of my favorites. Its good for a Sunday morning too. And I warned you about the length. Hope you enjoy it.

Decoration Day

The Buttram house had been empty since the early 1940s.The last of the family, a very sweet spinster named Emily, had quietly passed away in her sleep, (or so it was hoped anyway), on a bright cold March afternoon. The estate was promptly settled, a sale quickly performed, and the house closed. It remained closed and undisturbed for the next twenty-four years.

Being located on the old wagon turnpike and after the new highway was built which bypassed the house altogether, few visitors came by and as the years passed fewer remembered the house’s existence whatsoever. The house stood quietly in a patiently peaceful state in a somewhat pre stage of regal depreciation on its wide-open pleasant setting. A few old oak trees with widespread thick limbs, a cedar copse, and a dozen or so mature maple trees defined the house’s boundaries. A long unused well house with roof, crank, chain, cement base, and bucket stood in the east corner. It had been sealed in the late 1930s when an electric pump station was added to the rear of house. Having been solidly built in the late 1880s style, the old house had weathered the effects of time well.

The house faced to the east and had a wide welcoming porch accessible by solid concrete steps. The covered porch surrounded three sides of the house. Its wide double front door opened into a foyer. The formal parlor was to the right, the kitchen the next room on the right; a graceful yet practical stairwell ran up from the center of the foyer to a landing with banisters. A less formal sitting room was on the left that led into the dining room. Large open fireplaces were in each room. Upon ascending the stairs the landing opened allowing access to two large bedrooms with connecting doors on both sides. The master bedroom was on the right with a large connecting bathroom. A small narrow stairwell led to the spacious attic. The windows throughout the house were six feet tall. The ceilings were all ten feet. The house was bare. Nothing remained of the previous inhabitants. The real estate office in the nearby town of Hanson, located twelve miles distant, had shown the house infrequently. It would be difficult to heat and cool, would require complete wiring and plumbing, and was isolated.

It was exactly what the young Buxton family had been looking for. Sarah Buxton, twenty-nine, college educated and with a four and seven year old in tow, knew the house was perfect the first time she saw it. Her husband had been transferred from out of state to a management position at the tire factory and his future looked very bright. Sara saw potential in the old house, plus she knew it would be very affordable. The price was quickly negotiated which was much less than the asking, and the house purchased. After six months of hard dirty work, long hard hours of labor, painting, plumbing, wiring, and cleaning, the family moved in and was living the life Sarah had dreamed when she first saw the house. It was a cool March afternoon, there was much more to be done, but the air was clean and brisk. The family was young and healthy and the future promising.

The old wagon turnpike ran past the house on the east side and wound into the woods beyond. At places its boundaries were clearly defined, at others much less distinct. Once one had the knowledge that it had been a road and viewed it as such the boundaries were easily seen. The turnpike had not been used for perhaps twenty-five years. If one was to trace its route, about two miles past the Buttram house the road wound past a small cove. Here another trace of a road led into the cove. Within this cove, located several hundred yards past the main turnpike, were the stone foundations of a building.

Beyond the foundations, defined by a thick cedar copse and opening to the east, was a long forgotten country family cemetery. The two-dozen or so tombstones faced squarely east. Lichen and moss covered those standing. Several were on the ground. The writing upon them was barely legible. There were many more grave markers in the form of arranged stones. Should one have had cause to read the tombstones they would have seen predominate dates of death were in the early winter months of 1919. The returning WWI soldiers from war torn Europe brought with them a virulent strain of deadly swine flu. Entire communities were decimated. The deaths were mostly the young. Because of this entire family lines ceased. This loss to the small rural yet unnamed community was more than it could endure. After burying their dead the remaining stayed for a while and then moved on.

The church was abandoned. With the exception of the Buttram house and maybe an old barn or two no dwellings remained from this tragic era. A new highway was built, the town of Hanson grew, and the old turnpike forgotten. The church and many of the old houses were torn down for lumber. The cemetery was eventually forgotten as the few survivors of this tragic era died. But at one time the center of the small farming community was the country church. It was built of pine with four windows on each side. Sundays were special. The congregation gathered in the morning, attended services, had Sunday dinner on the ground, passed the afternoon in singing, and then attended evening services. Flaming pine knots illuminated the church at night. There was a steadfast security and rhythm attached to the church. The old passed and were buried, the young brought into the church community. The most special day for the church besides Easter was Decoration Day. It was also known as Homecoming.

The event occurred the first Sunday in May. The day began with many of the families leaving their farmhouses before dawn. Those with longer distances sometimes left the day before and camped in the oak grove near the church. The services this Sunday were special. Most importantly, the graves were all cleaned and decorated with flowers and fresh cut cedar boughs. The family visited the graves, spoke of the departed, cried, remembered the good and the bad times, and then entered the church for services. For many families this was the only time they had been reunited since the event last year. It was indeed a very special time of reunion. The singing from the cove could be heard from far away. They sang the old songs. They sang with the passion that only those who truly believe could sing. What was perhaps lacking in formally taught musical skills was more than made up with enthusiasm.

After the evening services the families carefully packed their belongings, gathered their numerous children, and returned home. The music seemed to echo throughout the cove long after the last wagon had departed. The flu epidemic of 1918/1919 ended it all. The Buxton family had now lived in the house for nearly two months. The house, once forlorn and abandoned, now was reborn in abundance with the explosion of spring and children and new paint. Two dogs slept lazily on the porch when not chasing rabbits, behind the house clothes were hanging purposefully on the line, and toys were scattered in the yard. A radio played a local station. A station wagon was in the driveway, and a substantial garden had been planted on the east side of the property. Red checked kitchen curtains blew gracefully in a light breeze. The Buttram house was again a home vibrant with life and activity.

The Buxton family soon discovered the old wagon turnpike. They walked along it as a family various distances on Sunday afternoons. Had they known of its presence they perhaps would have visited the old family cemetery. They had walked past the entrance to the cove several times. It was a pleasant walk. They wondered where the road led but it wasn’t a matter of importance. They were grateful just to have a location for their family excursions.

Early one morning at about seven Mrs. Buxton stood in the kitchen at the sink and was cleaning up breakfast dishes. Her husband had left for some overtime at work. The children would wake up soon. It was Saturday and there was no school. Her oldest, Josh, attended the first grade at the elementary school in Hanson. As she did her work she absentmindedly hummed a light song. Later, when she thought about it, she couldn’t remember what it was. The kitchen was on the southeast corner of the house. One window faced east and another south. She stood at the sink and looked out the window to the east. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was up fully; the buttercups at the edge of the yard were bright yellow. In some places dew sparkled on the grass. The oak trees were sprouting their new leaves and from up in its thick limbs a squirrel chattered at the dog lying lazily in the sun on the porch. Sarah later realized she had heard the noise before she realized it was something different. It seemed to be natural.

When her consciousness realized what it was the sound had already passed. Also, it was not something with which she was familiar. When she heard the voice she knew something was different. The noise was a combination of faint squeaking, rattling, jingles, crunching, thuds, slaps, and clicks. When she later described it to an older gentleman, he knew it immediately as the sound of a farm wagon pulled by a team of mules. It was a harmonious blend of related sounds that all fit comfortably together. The voice she heard,the voice that woke her consciousness to reality, was of a male. He said “ Hup, Buck, Hup Ben, Come on boys. Hup”. As she walked through the house to look out the front door the sound faded away.

She opened the door, stepped out on the porch, and saw nothing except a beautiful spring morning. Sarah shrugged, her oldest, Jacob was awake, and there was work to be done. She put it out of her mind. The day passed uneventfully. Sometimes around midmorning she thought he heard another voice, this time a young girl, but it was indistinct. She was singing an old hymn. At about two in the afternoon Sarah knew something unusual was taking place. Her youngest, Jessica, was playing in the front yard with a dollhouse and several of her dolls. Jessica prattled incessantly to her dolls, asking questions, providing replies, talking about everything and nothing. Sarah was in the backyard hanging the flowered sheets on the line when she noticed that the tone of Jessica’s conversation had changed. She was now speaking directly to someone. There was a pause and then Jessica would answer.

Josh was in his tree house located in the maple tree to the east of the house. As Sarah was hanging out the last two towels she heard a rattling metallic sound. She hung up the towel, placed the cloth bag of wooden clothespins on the ground and walked to the front of the house. Jessica was playing contently with her dolls; Josh yelled something about attacking pirates and to man the cannons. Sarah walked up to Jessica, looked up and down the road, saw no-one, shook her head then as she was turning to leave hesitated and asked Jessica who she had been talking with. The nice man, Jessica answered. What nice man, asked Sarah. The nice man, she answered; the nice man with the red beard. He asked if he could get some water for his horses from our well. I said ok. He smiled and went away. Where did he go, asked Sarah. I don’t know. He just went away.

Sarah heard Josh holler for someone to walk the plank. She returned to the backyard. As she walked on the east side of the house, an uncomfortable thought entered her mind. She crossed the yard to the well house and stood up on its concrete base. The bucket was wet and water was dripping from the rusty chain. Sarah told her husband about the experiences. He had no explanation. Sometimes strange things happen, Sarah wasn’t sure he believed her but she had no answer for the occurrences either. Supper was served, the evening spent with the children, they went to bed around nine after obligatory bedtime stories and prayers, and the evening was quiet.

Sarah and Jim sat together on the front porch swing. It was a cool evening. Sarah brought an old army blanket with which they wrapped themselves. The moon was almost full. The stars were clear and bright. A whippoorwill sang its sad lonesome cry, a hoot owl answered in the distance. The breeze was from the east. They both heard it at the same time, yet neither acknowledged it because of its sudden inception. It came with a sweet faintness yet possessed a crystal like clarity. It was singing. It was coming from thewoods. The wind dropped and the voices faded. Then the breeze began and again came the song. They recognized it immediately by its simple direct thumping rhythm and repetitious lyrics. It was that Old Time Religion. It was faint yet distinct.

Sarah and Jim didn’t say anything for a while but just listened to the simple enthusiasm with which the people released their emotions into the song. They sang all the verses. The breeze faded, as did the singing. Thinking there must be a gospel tent revival close by and the wind obviously carried the voices, Sarah and Jim went inside, closed the windows and were soon asleep. They weren’t aware but the singing went on late into the night.

The next morning was another beautiful spring morning. All were awake by seven, breakfast finished by eight, and it was decided that since the day was so beautiful and regular Sunday school had been cancelled this Sunday that the family would take a long early walk instead of attending church. The sense of adventure appealed to the children, as did the simplistic somewhat mildly sinful concept of missing church. The family left soon after. Jim carried Jessica on his shoulders. Josh wore a tri corner black pirate hat, complete with skull and crossbones of course, and had a short plastic sword available for immediate use stuck into his belt. The family had walked perhaps thirty minutes on the turnpike, and with the exception of surprising a covey of quail and a rabbit running for his life from a determined yet not dangerous seven year old, the excursion was without exceptional mention. It was simply a beautiful day.

Sarah and Jim heard the music at the same time. It was louder and more distinct than the previous evening. Individual voices could not yet be determined, but the words to the songs were clear. They were the old songs, those not heard in church for many years. It must be the tent revival, they thought. This was the only plausible explanation so Sarah and Jim accepted it, enjoyed the music, and continued the walk. The songs were wonderfully sung, sung only the way that people who really want to sing and believe what they are singing can sing. Onward Christian Soldiers, Rock of Ages, Bringing In The Sheaves, I Love To Tell The Story, Since Jesus Came Into My Heart, all were sung clearly and with true enthusiasm.

The pace slowed as the walk brought the family closer to the singing. They were not really paying attention to their walk, but were listening to the songs and enjoying the Sunday morning. Sweet Hour of Prayer, Just As I Am, Softly And Tenderly, each was sung with the same intense emotion. Then there came a prolonged silence. Sarah and Jim, now realized they were near the entrance to the cove and this was the source of the singing. Before either could comment, began another song. The voice was mature and feminine – clearly untrained - yet magnificent.

Both recognized the song’s emotional beginning immediately:

I’ve reached the land of corn and wine, And all is riches freely mine; Here shines undimmed one blissful day, For all my night has passed away.

Then came the chorus; the cove filled with the sweet resounding music.

O Beulah Land, Sweet Beulah Land, As on They highest mount I stand, I look away across the sea, Where mansions are prepared for me, And view the shinning glory shore, My Heav’n my home forever more.

The entire congregation sang the refrain in repetition. As the second verse began Sarah saw that Josh and Jessica had run ahead into the cove. There was no fear by the parents, just a strange curiosity that a congregation would be singing in the cove. Truth is they were stunned by the magnificent voice of the singer. They stopped as the next verses were sung, then realized both children were out of view. Holding hands, walking, and listening to the angelic melodious emotion filled song the woman was singing, they entered the cove.

The song ended as the foundations of the old church came into view. There was no one there. The children came to mind first, Jim shouted for Josh and Jessica. Both immediately answered from the cedar grove below the stone foundations. They seemed to be talking to someone. As Sarah and Jim entered the cedar grove they had another shocking surprise. The cemetery was spotless. Fresh cut flowers and greenery decorated each grave. It appeared as a kaleidoscopic burst of brilliance against the dark green cedar trees. Sarah asked Josh to whom he had been speaking. The nice man with a red beard, he answered. He thanked us. He thanked us for visiting his family on Homecoming day.

The family visited each grave. They left. The years have gone by, Josh and Jessica are married and living lives of their own. Jim died of cancer and Sarah still lives in the old Buttram house. She sits on the porch, now with new dogs at her feet in the evening. Yes, she still hears the singing on Homecoming eve and day. The visitors still come by the house every year. She doesn’t speak of it. She frequently hums a favorite song to herself as time goes by:

O Beulah Land , sweet Beulah Land…

you have a way with the words, thank you sir.

Yes Sir, thank you I enjoyed the story.

Great story. Thanks for sharing it.

Thanks RK for sharing

Thanks for sharing Mr.Glenn. Beulah Land is a mighty special song for our family

Good stuff

It will be played when I go home. Thanks kind sir. As always great story.

Great story. Beulah Land was my Granny’s favorite song. It reminds me of her every time I hear it.

Thanks for the post RK!

Thanks for the kind words, glad you enjoyed it.

I've been waiting to read another of yours. Thank you.

Awesome story. You definitely have a way with words.

Wow, I get sucked right into the story every time you post one RK. I was there. I was there for a few minutes, watching it all unfold. Great writing and great story!! I can visit old cemeteries or homeplaces and imagine the history of the people there but I could never put it into words, and if I did, it would certainly lack the skill that you have for making the story intriguing.

I really enjoyed that sir. You are such a great teacher.