It was almost time for the annual family grudge match baseball game, but this year it would be different because our captain was no longer with us. The game was between the Martins and my clan, the Schmoes, at our family farm. This was not a softball game, mind you—that would be way too tame.
In my family when “the farm” is mentioned, it is understood that we are talking about a 40-acre dairy farm in the Willamette Valley where we, my three brothers, my sister and I, grew up. This farm is mostly pastureland complete with two creeks and a pond.
Several years ago, we discovered that many cousins also had memories of the farm during their growing up years, and as a result, an annual family picnic evolved to relive old memories and make new ones.
Now, this picnic doesn’t consist of sitting around eating and telling stories. While a great deal of that does occur, there is also a lot of activity. The volleyball net is secured, and the nine-hole cow pasture golf course is laid out. This golf course is shared with the cows, who have the right of way on the farm, leaving a great deal of residue; therefore, the winner of the golf game is the one who can pick up his ball without the use of a glove. And everyone is curious to check out the current year’s theme for the outhouse’s interior decorations!
However, it is the ball game that highlights the day. So much so, that the ball field is complete with a PA system and a perpetual trophy for the winning team. Oh yes, the grudge match baseball game is very serious business. And my oldest brother, Russell, was a good baseball player. That’s why he was the captain of our team.
It was just before a picnic one year when Russell disclosed that he was being treated for cancer. But he was able to visit the farm and plant several trees along the creek and in the back field. He was able to check on the growth of those trees until the cancer became too advanced. During his illness, he requested his brothers and sisters come to see him as a group. In late June, I remember getting the call from my sister-in-law saying we should make that visit very soon. Living in different towns, we all gathered at the farm the evening before our visit. Knowing that planting trees on the farm was a way for Russell to be connected to our family home, my sister had brought a tree and suggested that we plant it together. So, at dusk we, his brothers and sisters, crossed the creek and took it to the back field where we planted the tree for Russell.
The next afternoon, along with our spouses, we made the trip to see Russell at his home. We told him that we loved him, that he would always be in our hearts and a part of the farm.
That night, he died.
The big family picnic is always held in July. We questioned if it would be too painful to have the get together so close to Russell’s death. How were we going to have the grudge match ball game without him? We decided, as hard as it might be, what we needed most was to be together.
To this day I don’t know whose idea it was or how it evolved, but when the other Oregon branch of the family came to the farm for the picnic that year, they brought a tree. When the Seattle area family group came down from Washington, they brought a tree. When the Whittier, California family arrived, they also had a tree. That year, before the big game, all of us crossed the creek and made our way to the back field where each family planted a tree for Russell—all next to the location of the tree we had planted for him.
That was many years ago. For these past picnics, we Schmoes have continued our attempt to beat the Martins for the trophy. They always win. But for many of us, we find quiet times when in small family groups or as individuals we walk across the creek and into the back field, to spend a few moments with Russell’s trees.
