REFLECTIONS
A SUMMER INTERLUDE
Teresita Bacani-Oropilla, MD
O
ne sunny summer afternoon, favored
by blue skies and a gentle breeze, a
group of ladies drove from the city
of Louisville to a small country town less than
an hour away to attend the wake of a beloved
pastor’s mother. They chose the back roads,
and wended over gently rolling hills where
fields of soy beans or corn not quite ready for
harvest were much in evidence. Every now
and then, goats and sheep grazed near unpainted barns, and silos
would suddenly loom up. Someone mentioned this was part of the
now-getting-more-famous bourbon country. Another said it was
Kentucky Holy Land because it was where the first Christians settled
east of the Alleghenies, its families and churches had fostered many
vocations to religious life, whose orders had started educational and
charitable institutions which exist to this day. To the uninitiated, it
seemed like time had stood still in another clime.
Destination reached, one of the ladies, a native to that town,
pointed to a building where once stood a country store that doubled
as the town’s meeting place. On weekends, people young and old
would gather to exchange news or pleasantries while the younger
ones would dance the evening away in the hall. She was one of the
latter then. In one of the small valleys was a church. Its spire shone
in the sun; it was surrounded by a cemetery of varied headstones,
where her family was buried and where she had a place reserved, for
when her time came. The parish school, once teeming with children,
was now closed because of urban migration of the inhabitants.
Nestled among trees was a large house converted into a funeral
home. Family pictures of the original inhabitants still hung from
the walls of the living room. Among the myriad flower offerings,
an elaborate baptismal baby gown had been framed and displayed,
with the names of five generations of those who had worn it. The
lady we were honoring was of the second generation. The hand
sewn relic had to be retired because it had become so fragile after
more than a century of use.
Chairs lined a huge dining hall. Full of people, they were kin to
each other either by blood or marriage or just by long association,
with collective memories of joys, sorrows, tragedies or loves lost
or gained. People were not embarrassed to hug each other, or hold
hands while they spoke or introduced those that came with them.
The mood was celebratory instead of somber or sad.
After a brief reli