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THE HILLS OF COMMERCE by Marilyn Hutchings The sun floated just above the trees -- a beautiful ball of red- orange flame. I worried for a brief moment about the trees catching fire, but a cool breeze brushed against my cheek, assuring me that the trees were in no danger. I grinned thinking of all the superstitions that must have grown up around the sun when it turned that particular shade. But the only thing I could think of was "Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night sailor's delight." My mother had taught me that ditty -- along with the "Thirty days hath September . . . mnemonic device for the months. The two were linked in my memory. Memory. Memory is a funny thing -- contrary might be a better word for it. It will remember every slight ever done you, but won't let you think of the word, name, place, or number that you want right now -- you know what I mean. Maybe it's some kind of deeply hidden genetic memory that keeps driving me to these hills. These hills where my mother grew up; and her mother; and her mother. I really didn't know why I was trudging up this deeply rutted graveled path to see this old cemetery. None of my kin were buried here -- just a bunch of people named Anderson whose only connection to my family was the coincidence of living and dying in the same town. The cemetery was a jumble of different shaped and sized headstones. Some had been installed fairly recently. These stood taller than me and were still readable. Time, weather, and moss had not worn the chiseled words down to the illegible ridges that remained on the short round-topped tilting stone markers of the past century. Weeds had grown up between the markers, obscuring the shortest stones -- testimony to the inattention this little graveyard had suffered. "_The Anderson family must have had some money_," I thought, looking at all the markers, old and new. "All the Sanders' could manage were large rocks at the head of the graves." I envisioned the little graveyard on my cousin's farm that held the first two generations of the Sander's clan in Missouri: big Maple and Pecan trees shading the 15 by 15 foot plot, two or three actual markers, and nine or ten large rocks. No weeds grew up around these graves, for all that no one still living knew exactly who was buried here or where. My cousins made sure our relatives were well cared for. All the succeeding generations of Sanders were buried in Oakdale Cemetery where someone came by on a regular basis to mow the grass and pull the weeds. The majority of the graves had headstones, an American flag flew on a pole at the center of the cemetery, and the local VFW put little flags on the graves of veterans every Veteran's Day. This was an "active" cemetery. I remembered all the times through my life that I had attended grave side services at Oakdale: my mother's parents, my dad's father, several aunts and uncles, and, the latest, my dad. Months had passed, after my dad's death, before I could visit his grave. Now, I visited more often, but the grave I visited most was that of a woman I had never met. She died seventeen years before I was born, but I felt drawn to her -- To Emma -- my grandmother. I felt pulled to visit Emma. She had died young, of influenza, and had been buried on one side of the cemetery while all the rest of her family -- and mine had been buried on the opposite side. Not only had she been separated too early from her family, but she was separated from them for all eternity. This little cemetery, that I felt drawn to today, sat on top of a hill, enshrouded in trees with a two-foot-tall iron fence protecting it. The fence formed a circle around the graves and marker, like the circle of life, but this circle only measured about twenty feet across. I think this place reminded me of the old grave stones that my Uncle Dick showed me and my dad one Sunday when I was a kid. My uncle led us into the woods in back of his house and we all tromped after him. All civilization had disappeared when we stepped into the woods. The trees and other vegetation were so thick that just a few steps past the edge you couldn't see my aunt and uncle's big two- story white wood-frame house. I felt like we had stepped back to pre- Civil War days when my great-great-grandparents had moved from the hills of Tennessee to the hills of Missouri to homestead 90 acres and raise a family. We wound through trees and up and down hills until my uncle stopped and pointed. I looked in the direction he indicated at the side of a hill -- deep in gloom from the thick tree cover even at midday -- and saw the first rounded tombstone that looked like it had started tumbling down the hill, but had been frozen in mid tumble. We walked over to the area and suddenly the firm ground became soft, sinking with our weight about four inches, as we walked over ground turned up decades ago for the last resting places of these unknown people. I expected to see bones sticking out of the side of the hill, but I guess the local dogs and the other woodland animals had scattered those long ago. I felt sad that no one had cared for these graves -- that no one except my uncle, knew these markers were here. We didn't stay long. I looked out through the trees and noticed that the sky was turning the rose-pink of approaching dusk. I checked my watch just to be sure -- I had about an hour before dark. I looked toward where I thought my uncle's house had been and knew that I had to find out if those grave- stones were still there after all these years. It took about five minutes to drive through town to the bottom of the hill where that white two-story house had once stood . . . before it burned down. I took off into the woods, walking up the hill to take a perpendicular course away from the house. I moved as fast as the dense underbrush would allow, glad that I had worn my jeans and my black short boots. After just a few hurried steps, I had to slow my pace. Fallen trees leaned against living trees; I could climb over a few, and the rest I had to skirt. Forced to slow my pace, I took the time to look around. The hills around here supported a wonderful variety of trees: Maple, Oak, Mulberry, Persimmon, and Sassafras. I wondered if either of my grandmothers had ever made sassafras tea. I know that Granny Wise used to take my mother along when she went out scouring the hills for Polk and Dandelion greens. A person could still probably live off the land around here. Oops! My foot had slipped on something round. I looked for what I had stepped on and saw the tough, round, green pod that protected ripening pecans. It's no wonder that my great-great grandfather had liked this area enough to move here from Tennessee. I looked up into the treetops as a squirrel jumped from one tree to another. The limbs of some of the trees were so close together that they looked like a wooden suspension bridge. The local critters would have a feast before too long, if the profusion of green pecans and green persimmons that I could see decorating the upper-level bridge was any indication -- unless some of the local human denizens still ventured up this way. I stopped at that point and leaned against one of the larger trees -- looking at every hillside for evidence of a fallen headstone, a broken piece of stone, anything that would tell me I was in the right place. How I thought that after all this time I would be able to just walk right to the spot that I had only visited once was really stupid. I hung my head, ready to turn around and admit defeat. There probably wasn't anything left to find anyway. I lifted my head slowly and took one long, last look around me. I turned almost a complete circle, gazing at the woods, looking past the trees, seeing wild ferns, Queen Anne's Lace, and other things that were probably poisonous, and just staring at one spot on the hillside, not really seeing it. Then my eyes focused. There was something irregular about the hillside. I took a couple steps toward it for a better look and sank about four inches into the soil. I gasped and stopped. I had found it. I looked up the side of the hill and saw a couple other stones sticking out. They were covered with moss and algae, but they were unmistakably tombstones. I knelt down to see it any inscription was left on the stone. I had pencil and paper in my pocket (I never went anywhere without it), but time had taken its toll and erased this soul's record completely. I sat on my heels just contemplating the stones and the woods for a moment. Dusk was settling in and all the leaves and all the tree trunks were turning to grey. I needed to start back so I wouldn't get stuck in the woods in the dark. As I rose to my feet, a movement just at the edge of my vision caught my attention. I turned to look, but there was nothing there. Another movement made me look back toward the hill. Mist was forming. "_Great_," I thought. "_I really hate driving in the fog_." The mist spread out -- twining around the trees, climbing the hillside. And the temperature had dropped -- I shivered with the cold. A piece of the mist broke away from the whole and drifted toward me. I took a step back -- away from the mist -- and sank again into the soft soil. My heart beat faster -- I wanted to run, but my feet seemed to have put down roots. "Ah, come on, what am I afraid of -- a little water vapor?" The mist coalesced into a form. It was a little taller than I --