A promise kept

It has now been four years since we buried our parents at Hilltop Cemetery in Millfield, Ohio, their work on this earth complete and their spirits now with God. It still surprises me that I find solace here amid  these cold, stone memorials, but I do.

When I survey the cemetery in its humble surroundings and see how lovingly the graves are tended, how many have fresh flowers adorning them, I know that if we are fortunate, when it comes time for us to leave our loved ones behind, we will not be forgotten. Rita and Don visit often and tend to the grave site.

To the right of  Momma's and Daddy's grave marker is a smaller one for Robert Lee Simpkins, their first-born child who lived only one day in April of 1935. Even though there were five other children who came after, I'm sure that my parents never forgot their first child -- the one who never had a chance to live the fragile life he was given. Would he have been shy or bold, practical or a dreamer? We may never know, but we can still imagine our oldest brother Robert and keep a special place in our hearts for him.


The little marker on the left is mine. No date of birth or death. No "Falter" or "Whalen." Just Nancy Lynn Simpkins, daughter of James A. "Peck" and Roena, with the inscription at the top that reads "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." Rita and Don helped me put it there, with Don setting it in a bit of cement to keep it in place. The older I get, the more important it seems to keep that circle unbroken.

Our dad wanted us to be buried in the Simpkins plot, in a place that held fond memories for him, a place that provided all he needed to dream big, to learn what makes people tick and to know that "the man upstairs" was whom you were accountable to -- not the boss man or somebody in the government. More than anything, I think that those early years in Millfield helped him learn to be resourceful and provided lots of space for his imagination to run free. We disagreed about burial versus cremation, Peck and I, but the last promise I made to him was that some part of me would be left in that spot next to him and Momma. I guess home really is where the heart is, no matter how trite it sounds,



Momma noted before she was gone that none of "her people" were there among the Simpkins clan. Her people, the Shafers and Wilsons, were not the scalawags and rough-and-tumble types more typical of the Simpkins. They were quiet and steady, strong and modest. I wish I could say that I feel some of their DNA or blood coursing through my veins, but I don't. To be outspoken was to be impertinent. To push the envelope was to be insolent. To rebel was to  play with fire. They weren't loud or unruly, didn't raise their voices or double-dog-dare or take to drink or behave badly. To Momma's dismay, I wasn't obedient and didn't show the proper decorum a young woman should. I questioned. I challenged. I was a bit of a trial to her, if not an outright disappointment, especially since old Doc Hamilton said to her when I was born that she "finally got one who looked like her."

Rita is more like Momma, and she was a mother to me when I was growing up. Now, just like Mom, she keeps things orderly and tidy, and she is helping all of us understand where we came from, what we're made of, with her extensive ancestry research. Right now, she is stuck several generations back on the Simpkins line, but eventually she will round up every last one of those scalawags and put them in their places in our family line. I think we all suspect that she will find  a few horse thieve, black sheep or worse, but she is undeterred.

There's something contrary in that Simpkins line, something that caused them to draw the line in the sand and then dare anyone to step over it, something that is restless and mischief-making. But they are bound to be the people that you can't fool any of the time -- the ones who could read people and their motives, who knew better than to accept anything at face value, who just didn't suffer fools gladly. If Roena's line can be credited with my better angels, then it is Peck's side that explains my love for a good story and my chafing at authority and willingness to go to the mat for what I think is right. Some people would call that "opinionated." To me, it's just standing up for myself and not expecting anybody else to do that for me. The last words I spoke to Daddy as he lay sleeping on his 95th birthday were, "Whatever you do, Daddy, don't let anybody push you around." As I turned to close the door, I saw him raise his fist high in the air. What a sweet, sweet memory that is.