The Sixty Fifth on the Church Lawn

Calling the church

On the Monday after that kitchen table talk, I called the church at the bottom of the hill on my lunch break.

I am a dental hygienist. I have worked for the same dentist in Mifflintown for twenty-two years. I made that phone call sitting in my car in the office lot with half a turkey sandwich on the seat beside me.

The pastor there now is a young man, younger than my own son. He grew up two counties over and he has only been at the church three years. I had expected to explain everything twice.

I didn’t have to. When I said the names Clair and Arlene Shirk, he said, “Oh, Arlene brings the shoofly pies to every funeral lunch. Of course. What do you need?”

I told him. I said I wanted to have their 65th anniversary on the church lawn, on the Saturday closest to the actual day, the second Saturday in June, outside under the maples where the wedding pictures were taken.

“The lawn is yours,” he said. “I’ll put it in the bulletin. And if you want, I could say a few words out front. Maybe they could say their vows again on the steps, if your dad is up to it.”

I had to put the phone down on my lap for a second. Then I picked it back up and said yes, and thank you, and I would let him know.

Finding Elam

The hard part was the wedding party.

I went through the album at Mom’s the next Wednesday while Dad napped. Mom sat beside me and named every face. She didn’t need to look twice. Sixty-five years, and she knew every one of them by the back of their heads.

There were two bridesmaids. One was Mom’s cousin from Thompsontown, and the other was her best friend from the egg route she drove with her father as a girl. Both were still living. Both were in their eighties.

There was a flower girl, a solemn little thing in white anklets, holding a basket in both hands. “That’s Lottie,” Mom said. “Dad’s brother’s girl. She was five. She cried because her shoes got wet.”

And there was Elam, with his curls and his grin and his soaked white shirt.

“Is Elam still living?” I asked.

“Last I heard,” Mom said. “He went to live with his daughter down in Lancaster County after his wife passed. That was, oh, six or seven years ago. They had a card from him at Christmas but I didn’t keep the envelope.”

It took me four evenings of phone calls to find him. I called a cousin, who gave me a number that was disconnected. I called another cousin, who knew the daughter’s married name.

I called the daughter, who told me Elam had moved into a retirement home near Ephrata the year before, about 80 miles east of us.

She gave me the number for the front desk. I called it on a Thursday afternoon, and a nurse’s aide carried the phone down the hall to his room.

“This is Elam,” he said. His voice was thin, but every word was clear.

I told him who I was. I said Clair’s younger girl, Meg, the one who came along late. He was quiet for a second, and I was afraid he didn’t place me.

Then he said, “The little one who fell in the spring house and we fished you out by your overalls.”

I laughed out loud in my kitchen. I had forgotten that. I was three.

I told him about the anniversary. I told him about Dad. I didn’t dress it up. I said, “He forgets a lot now, Elam. He may not know you. I want you to know that before you decide.”

There was a long pause on the line. I could hear a television somewhere behind him, and a cart going by.

“Tell Clair I’m coming,” he said. “Tell him I’ll bring the umbrella.”