...and the Littlefield pilgrims of New England came to the Southern Tier of New York. They had children, and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren and I am one of them. My roots are there, no different than the roots of the trees that have shaded my family's graves and grown as I have grown during my lifetime. It is my thoughtful spot, a place that brings me calm and peace and where I feel surrounded by those I have loved so dearly, and where I will lay my head to rest when my temporary human being experience comes to an end. So many of us are there. My great-grandma, who I was named for, my great-grandpa, who had "the patience of Job" in my grandmother's words, my grandma Gopie - whose love is still palpable to me to this day, my Aunt Betty - a sweet little girl who died too young, my great-aunt Noni who created memories for us all, and my sweet baby brother Doug. How could a part of my heart not be here? Somehow, it doesn't make me sad to be there - although I have cried many times during my visits - it makes me feel safe and content and close to the spirits of those who will always live on in my heart and memories. I loved to sit on that cement bench through every stage of my life, and in my times of trouble, I close my eyes and put myself there, and I feel safe and at home. "Bury me not on the lone prairie"...but when my time has come, take me back to Barnard.
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