Roots

Dark Lane
By Eve Stedman (my Grandmother), September, 1997

The lane is shadowed, walled
by Devon sandstone cliffs.
On the left side
my father, then aged seven,
carved his initials
with his first penknife.
I can imagine
his shining sandy head
tongue between gleaming teeth
and knife blade glinting
as it dug deep and clean.

Dug deep enough, so that
thirty years on
still his initials showed
now shoulder level to his six-foot height.
“Lane must’ve sunk,” he said
holding our hands – my brother’s, mine.
We gazed in awe
at this, our talisman
on the road to school.

Later we walked each day
through the small wood
pine needles slithering underfoot
then, across a stream
a plank for footbridge
and up Dark Lane.
Every day we looked for those initials –
token of love and safety
our good luck charm
against imagined terrors.
Today I looked again
to show my grandson;
but they were gone
eroded by the weather.
The lane was even darker, even deeper.
The roots of trees
crooked and curved showed like gaunt ribs
in a red sandstone of cavern.
Overhead
branches entwined, shut out the sun.
My grandson climbed among the roots
dauntless, in search of dragons.

The lane is full of echoes:
my father’s whistled call
my brother’s laughter
grandson’s defiant shout.

The lane is dark — and long
a hundred years
but starred with brightness
by these young sparks.

~

I found this poem, like a prize, tucked away in one of my grandmother’s books. I remember the day she remembered. I remember walking down Dark Lane by her side. I was old enough to understand history, but too young to care about any but my own. I didn’t hear the past echoing.

My brother and I climbed up into the roots as my grandmother and great uncle had done decades before. My grandmother stood beside my mother, watching us nestle ourselves into her history. She searched for my great grandfather’s initials. They were gone. He was too, and her brother, and now her. There are only three of us left who can feel the depths of Dark Lane.

If that sounds sad or lonely, you’ve misunderstood. Because before the day my grandmother took us to see these roots, there was only one who knew how far they reached. It was like a secret that she didn’t want to keep. So she gave to us, not as an offering, but as an asking. Please don’t forget.

I am old enough now to see what lies beneath. I am constantly reaching further down into the past. I can hear the echoes of shouting and laughter. They are plentiful. They belong to me, and I am belong to them. This is what it means to have a family.

When I found this poem, I remembered the Devon sandstone cliffs, the shadows on the lane, the feel of the roots against my young hands, my grandmother’s voice. But I also recalled memories that were not my own – My great grandfather as a young boy, carving his initials. The day, years later, he showed it to his children. Eve and Johnny, making their way over the footbridge to school. Their fear and their happiness. Their innocence and their loss. I could feel all of this. I could trace it all back over a hundred years, down the deep, dark lane of history. I could climb into these roots and remember not to forget.

This is one way I have grown.