Image via WikipediaComing from Upstate NY, we arrived abruptly in January of 1969. Snow on the ground then, as it was yesterday, when global cooling was not yet the anthem of a lone climatologist.
My Dad would needle my Mom, "Welcome to the Sunny South." She grew up in Charlottesville. Fewer cloudy days, less snow and no cold: These conditions were touted. Dad knew better. A native Upstate New Yorker, he graduated from UVA Law School, where they met. He was having fun. Feeling good about the change of residence, leaving his law practice behind, beginning anew with Lawyer's Title Insurance.
Change: You can't escape it. As sure as air will penetrate your lungs this moment and your heart lumbers to make another pump.
Even in Goochland, a little town outside of Richmond, Virginia, people weren't sure of the address of our first appointment. We drove by the sign three times before seeing it. We were looking for a street number.
Street numbers and road names go together out here. Residents know the roads and turns. Navigate unconsciously. With few visitors, directions are unnecessary.
On first impression: People in Goochland are friendly to strangers; we were familiar strangers, my son and I. We came here to visit the milestone of the most tragic event of my life, my family's life, when we were all young. Happy, then incredibly stunned, testing human resilience, changing directions.
Until July 20, 1969, I did not know the void. A black, empty, bottomless hole that has been tagging along with me ever since, like a distant relative. There. The hole is a place where memories descend with a force for which mortals are no match.
I sat and explained it all, in front of a perhaps mystified childhood friend, the leader of our rock band, JB Hodges, who I had not seen since our last, and best-paying, gig at a Christmas party in Charlottesville in December 1969. At my Godmother's place. Aunt Lucy. We were a hit. Ray, singing on the stairway to the second floor, to a girlfriend in the mirror, with JB and Mike somewhere below. I was back in the corner with a trimmed down drumkit, playing with brushes. We were mindful of an oxymoron, playing rock music quietly. Christmas songs interspersed.
We spoke fondly. We were friends, never argued, came from different worlds, connected for the purpose of playing music for appreciating fans. For 14-16 year olds, we played as if professionals. Always. The glimmer of an idea to make money at the American Legion Hall: A dingy, white-painted cinderblock, building. That was not to code, I am sure. No AC, no fan. Playing there on Thursday nights, in the summer, was a test of stamina. We kept our clothes on back then. It was rock music, but played with style and harmony; JB recalled that it was the singing which carried us. Still, we played loudly and with conviction, as far as our equipment would allow. The drummer, me, cautioned, on occasion, to keep it down. A ritualistic solo was granted to exhaust my excess energy.
We played weekly gigs, rehearsed together for all of two months, I figure. My mom and dad were chaperones for the maybe six weeks of dances. JB remembered him as polite, interested, and a nice man. That he dropped me and my small pile of drums off at the Hall for practice. Death brands an unforgettable impression on our beings when we are young, innocent, inexperienced.
The film will show a man, soon to be 58, eyes closed, lids flickering, as he looks slightly upward for the visuals, the sounds of a long ago time, to help his drummer and his drummer son film Goochland's past. As with all memories, they are nudged from crevasses in flashes from somewhere by a word. A sound. Something.
It's more amazing that the resident of the address we had trouble finding, our first interview, now 90 years old, and our family's real estate agent could dig that far back. Vigor must not leave us, if it was ever there. Mrs. Frances Truett. The Truetts. The sign was plainly visible from the road. The trees had grown around the sturdy brick house. Same house. The sign was the third one, she said.
Goochland County lies 40 miles deep. We were speaking with Goochland's first real estate agent and a businesswoman. Her practice, begun in 1945, give or take. She worked until 84.
We are filming a story about a father and son making a documentary movie together. Traversing life's landscape. But, we're really filming the stories of people from a small town in Virginia. That could be any town in America, where generations live. Tombstones, the reminders.
Her story was powerful. An opportunity to recall a splendid career that began on a different path. To laugh about "Fun Farm", the name of the place she found for our family to rent. The barn, she recalled, was much bigger than the house. Barns were scarce back then and with horses in tow, more important than people. That was all Mom.
After a two hour session, cookies and coffee, we made our way to Grace Church. Met the Rector there. Filmed the 130 year-old church. I well-remember the small doors, greeting the then Reverend Brietenbach on Sunday morning's exit. I was an acolyte, along with his son, Tim, and daughter, Amy. I showed Corey the secret place, the sanctuary, where we dressed and prepared for the 8 AM service. My boyhood rendition made the current Rector wince a bit. From 12 - 15, it was my honor to serve, but still it was like a hiding place. A small protected corner of the world.
Though we attended the church for a few weeks thereafter, it was the special service for him which I will always remember. I thanked the Reverend for bringing meaning to prayer that to a teenager would usually sound like an unintelligible, run-on sentence, Amen. Would rather be honest than not.
For me, that day, faith hit home, like the same thunderbolt that struck Dad. You have and feel it or you don't. No mortal man can give it to you. JB reflected on the reason "God took your Daddy." He did not know why. All he understood, accepted and believed was in the idea of destiny and a plan. Even on the worst of days, I never questioned the event's reason. Simply experienced the void for the first time.
As children we are accidentally taught to fear the dark. The Christian's child's prayer, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. Turns out that fear is a good thing. A human thing. Respecting it, we stay in-line. Recognize that we co-exist with each other.
The Trenches arrived in Goochland with fanfare, lived happily for less than a half-year, and departed minus one. Humbled. Dad was not buried at Grace Church. Several people asked. He was happiest here, I felt.
Our relationship was just beginning in many ways. Coming back, I wanted to pay my respects to what might have been. Acknowledge people. You live many places, you might repeat that phrase, Might have been. Could have been great, but maybe not.
In life, you create a character, an ideal, and then you live by it, I suppose. It becomes your guide until you grow into a person who moves less self-consciously. A moment must come when that transition occurs. I don't remember it, exactly. When you are part of your own family unit.
We returned to say good-bye, film a conclusion and say hello. Begin again, again.
Mrs. Truett did not miss a beat and researched Fun Farm. The news, she said, was not good. The house property was gated and locked. Sacred grounds were less friendly. The house thought to be gone, we confirmed, from a safe distance, was still there. The barn, a neighbor confirmed, was large and standing. He advised us to speak with the caretaker before embarking on any foolish adventures. Dogs were around. The neighborhood not connected positively to the property's owner.
We tried, but were turned away. What happens next will appear in the trailer.
The goal was to collect enough material to make a trailer for the documentary, then to see if anyone would sponsor a more involved project. In documentary filmmaking, the material takes you to a place. We definitely have characters. Now, we shall see what the filmmaker does.
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