If I was the girl from Cherry Valley, then he was the boy.
The boy from Cherry Valley.
He was our grandfather’s pride, our grandmother’s joy. His father’s humor, his mother’s love, his sister’s loyalty. A proud uncle, an inspiring god father, a dependable cousin. He was a little bit of everything, of all things good, all mixed into one. And he carried the spirit of the old, with the light and hope of the present.
He was the image of what any man from Cherry Valley should look like.
The avid hunter, the proud son, the prolific gardener, the champion catcher, the handyman, the jokester, the man of so many trades, everybody’s best friend (his tribe ranged from the Gage boys, to the Freer’s, to the South Valley crew, to the hunting teams who ventured up North and all across the county, to Dalton, Dana, Brett, The Ryans, Lukey), the one boy cousin in our league of all girls. The Capital C, that signature “Ch” sound that I teach my kids in school, always representing and reminding me of “Ch”ad. The one person we always just felt a little lighter, a little better, by being around. That was Chad.
It recently occurred to me, that whenever I think of Cherry Valley, my mind instantly thinks of him.
When the memory of what our town is and represents to me, whenever a picture of it pops into my head, it takes me right to Chad. And I never realized that until now.
That piece of land that used to be the gardens, the stoney path through the woods from Aunt Kim and Uncle Lyle’s house to his, the stretch of birch trees along the tracks, the four-wheeler paths cut through the woods. The way the sun set looks on the western horizon, right below Rt. 20. The old tree that was cut down, right in front of his house, that we would swing from as kids. That was all him.
To walking on the tracks, and having his four-wheeler ride up beside me, asking “want a ride?”, when he always knew my answer was “Na. I’d rather walk.” To stretching on his back deck and tying my running shoes, having a quick catch-up conversation with him every time I came home. To running along the road into town, and the beep from his truck, his hand waving out the window and his yell of a “Hey Moooooook,” fading into the wind.
To watching his sunflowers grow in gramma’s old garden. To waiting for him when I was young to ride out to the best blackberry patch on the other side of the tracks. The patch that Chad found, the one that Gramma was so proud of him for finding, and the one I was always afraid to go to alone. I only wanted to go with Chad. I felt safer with him.
Cherry Valley was walking the woods with him looking for Ginseng. Waking up with the hunters one early Thanksgiving morning and tracking the deer with him. Parking four wheelers at the Water Works, just to simply listen to the water after a hard rain. To Judd Falls, to the railroad bridge, to late nights in the Shop, to golf cart rides, to the fort that Beth and him made out back along the creek, to playing with Legos and our road as kids for hours in the back bedroom. To riding our bikes around the Hop house. There was a time, later in life, when I would meet him at the rock ledges every time before leaving Cherry Valley. It was almost like a ritual. Say goodbye to Cherry Valley, say goodbye to Chad.
Little did I know, he was the Valley.
He’s the deer, the buck you rarely see. The fresh tracks of footprints in snow. The howl of a Beagle. The stir of an old tractor. The smell of wood smoke and how it clings to your clothes. The smell of damp motor oil that would linger in the shop. The clang of a horseshoe, the smack of a cornhole bag. The songs of ACDC and Foreigner blaring through an old speaker. The taste of venison jerky and sour black berries from his patch. Always the winning hand in game of Pitch. The yellow of his sunflowers. The dirt under your fingernails, after picking potatoes all day in the hot summer sun. The brilliant stars in the night sky, as you look up to the Valley ridge and search for his house light. How you always felt comforted, just knowing he was there. The beep from your car, every time you rode up his drive, hoping he heard it and knew that it really meant an “I love you.”
The last time I was at his house, I remember getting ready to leave, and remarking on his Rubber plants. We stood beside the plants together, and he told me, if you cut one of the leaves, it will sprout a new plant. He asked me, do you want one. I said, “No, I’ll get it my next time home.” Well Chad, I’m home again, and instead of just me taking a leaf, may we all take one and continue to grow your memory. (I’ll have this Rubber plant in the back after the service and can help anyone who wants to take a leaf and regrow it on their own.) May each leaf, each new plant, serve as a beautiful remembrance of who Chad was.
We love you Chad- more than words could ever say, and more than all of our memories could ever explain. Thank you for showing me, for making me realize, that wherever I go, you will always be here. You were born to be, and will always be, my favorite Boy from Cherry Valley.