Lisa, November 12, 2007

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After lunch, we took a walk in the old German graveyard, and for the first time all day, Sam dropped her sullen act.

"Look Mom, this one died when she was a baby."

She grabbed my hand and pointed to a gravestone.

Margaretha Schwab. Born June 3, 1842. Died August 12, 1842.

"1842," I said. "This was practically the frontier back then. A lot of infant mortality."

"That means babies dying, right?"

"That's right."

We walked toward another gravestone, her hand still in mine.

Hanna Schwab. That must be the mother. Born 1823, Leipzig. Died 1867. Here. That would be...

"Sam, what's sixty-seven minus twenty-three?"

"Forty-four."

My age. When Hanna died. How many more children did you have, Hanna, after losing Margaretha at...

"What's 42 minus 23?"

"Oh god, Mom. Nineteen." She looked at the stone. "You're figuring out how old she was..."

"Yeah."

"The gravestones are so gross," said Sam. "Somebody should clean them."

"Those are lichens," I said. "They grow on the old limestone. The calcium neutralizes the acid rain. It's a good place for them to grow."

"So they shouldn't clean them?"

"I would leave them just the way they are. Graveyards are good for nature."

We strolled quietly among the stones, still hand in hand. Keydel. Otterbein. Baum. Walsch. In England, they teach nature courses in graveyards. Rocks and weathering. Human populations. Biodiversity.

"Mom," said Sam, "are you a Wiccan?"

"I don't think so," I said. "I'm not very religious."

Who needs a nature center? You could hire the buses, set up day tours. Would that work here?

"Grandpa's an Episcopalian," said Sam. "And Dad says he's a half-assed Taoist—"

"Is that so?" I said.

"—and Grandma Shepanski is a Catholic, and that leaves you."

An old truck rumbled by on County E. There must still be a few working farms around here. The driver probably wouldn’t dream of stopping at the old church, now that it's been converted to a little café. What would he make of a busload of eco-tourists? Those old guys have a different relationship with the land—harsh. Hateful, sometimes. But intimate.

Sam tugged at my hand. "Mom! I'm asking you a question! What religion are you?"

"I'm not much of anything," I said. "Are you doing a report for school?"

"No," she said. "I'm just curious. I read a book on religions of the world."

I suppose this place could make you feel religious. Very quiet and peaceful. But then as soon as you think about it—as soon as you focus on the quiet—you can hear the highway. No buzz of transcendence. Just the distant angry roar. What is it? Ten miles away?

"You worship nature, don't you Mom?"

"I don't know about worship. I fight for it sometimes."

The wind shifted a little, and for a moment it filled my ears, masking the sound of the highway. The bleak November wind that Hanna Schwab would have heard, the season after baby Margaretha died, while her husband cleared the land, not primeval forest, but a forest a century or two old, grown unchecked since the European microbes had decimated the native population. You and your husband didn't need to fight the Indians, did you Hanna? Smallpox had done that already.

Sam let go of my hand, and ran off to study something—a few yards away. Under that bush—what is it?

I hope you had a daughter, Hanna. One that lived.