Dave Graber
We recently lost a dear friend, Louise Fisher, whose life impacted many people in our community. In celebrating her contributions last week, I was reminded of how we all touch the lives of our neighbors every day.
We had to drive through snow leaving the funeral in Busby this past Friday afternoon. As we crested the last hill before descending into Crow Agency, the clouds lifted enough to see what looked like a possibility of sunlight across the Little Horn and Big Horn rivers upon the ridgeline of the Pryor Mountains. Our destination was the Fairview Cemetery west of Hardin, for burial.
We parked, trudged through the snow and gathered around the casket in the cold. A few flakes descended from the dark metallic sky arching over the treetops, riding on a slight breeze and into the gathering. Folks sought to ward off the cold with tightened collars and scarves, gently brushing tears from freezing against faces focused on hearing, watching and caring. Words were spoken. Songs were sung mostly in Cheyenne. Announcements were short and to the point.
After it seemed all was said and done, the caretakers of the casket centered it on the lowering rack, removed the blankets and flowers, and one knelt in a corner to grasp a lever and start turning. Steel against cold steel lost static friction, and the casket began its descent into the earth with a squeaky cry. At that moment a Cheyenne elder stepped forward signaling to halt the descent. Carefully sensing the moment, he spoke. Then he sang. His offering was obviously well received, and appropriate for this moment in the heritage he shared with the deceased.
The sun attempted a few rays far to the southwest on the Pryor Mountains as he stepped back, signing to the caretaker to continue the descent. As the squeaks ended and the casket settled into the earth, a Cheyenne song was sung. After that came trilling, a high-pitched tongue-fluttered vocalization by women with strong voices, announcing closure for an honored person. Then a second, unplanned event happened: A barely discernable cry emerged from the southwest.
We weren’t the only ones defying the coldness that day. The distant voice grew steadily louder, and rose to a cacophony of many crying out as a large flock of several V’s of wild geese, barely at treetop level, began their flyover. Those of us removing the green canvas from the pile of soil and grasping shovels hesitated and looked up. The geese were low almost to the treetops, oblivious to humans just below through the green branches. Their white wingtips maintained unflinching synchronicity. The distances between flyers in each V’s arm were kept precise. The forward velocity and vector of the entire flock remained constant. It was as if they knew exactly where they came from, knew no one would be left behind, and knew exactly where they were going.
The sound slowly converged again into one voice and wafted into the darkening north sky, disappearing into the distance down the Big Horn Valley. Recovering from my shock of the noisy appearance and departure of the geese so close overhead, I realized the soil beside the occupied grave was finding its way into shovels and bare hands, gently dropping in and enveloping the casket. Slowly, the empty space above it was heaped full. Through sound of the shovels encountering earth, steel, and human hands, weeping stayed quiet. But it was there.
Then we departed for the warmth of our vehicles, and the trip back to Busby to food, warmth, and a celebratory exchange of stories to remember our blessing from this life lived among us. I wonder whether we could emulate the power of the formation paying its respects to Louise that day. If each encounter we had with others in our community was made in the spirit of mutual cooperation and respect, how far could we all fly together?
This column can be accessed online at the Big Horn County News, and at greenwoodback40.blogspot.com along with archives of “Spirit and Dust” columns since 2012.
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