I had a chance to visit the hills of home and catch a glimpse of the family homestead.

The hills aren't far away. Yet it seems I rarely get the opportunity to see them.But a few weeks ago, my hobby afforded me that chance. I was asked to ride my antique highwheel in Slatington's sesquicentennial parade. It was fun and led to a day of memories.Slatington is just across the river from Palmerton and family roots.The flood of thoughts, when I go there, is overwhelming, especially visiting Mom and Dad's graves. Actually, the entire family is there. Some are buried in Bowmanstown Cemetery, but most are just up the road in Towamensing.Truthfully, I don't feel peace when I visit graves. I feel heartache and a stark reminder of mortality. I sense the shortness and uncertainty of life, a singular gift without a guarantee.My mother felt the same way. She preferred to avoid cemeteries."Don't worry," she'd say. "We'll have plenty of time to be in a cemetery."How true, I thought, as I meandered among stone markers.The tombstones speak to me. Family names jump out: Meinhart, Costenbader, Zimmerman, Whiteman, Blose. The family stories come back.I recall sounds and excitement of a visit to Grammy and Pappy's homestead on Fireline Road. An old farmhouse with a slate roof.True to Dutch tradition, Grammy and Pappy kept the place very clean. A cookie jar on the kitchen counter supplied the best-tasting iced oatmeals any kid could hope for.The place still stands, but is abandoned. The homestead fell out of family hands through marriage and ultimately was neglected.But I remember it being filled with activity and the buzz of conversation in the native tongue."Wie geht's" asked Dad when we'd enter the back door into the kitchen."Ach, zimmlich gut," replied Uncle Curtis. Aunt Alverta understood Dutch, too, and so did Uncle Maynard, who knew how to do magic long before David Copperfield. He could pull a quarter from behind your ear.My brothers and I didn't understand the language. For us, it was fodder for joking. We laughed when we heard Dad talk that way. It seemed strange.Their language was relaxed and casual. It flowed better than English. I realized Dutchfolk could say more using fewer words. Certain nuances and inflections carried meaning. I came to understand such things much later when I studied German for six years in high school and college.Pennsylvania Dutch language never became commonplace the way Spanish has.I hope Dutch culture isn't lost. There's so much color to it: hex signs, Distelfink, Belsnickel and Dutch Pow-Wow. Rich tradition.These days, the only time I'm reminded of Dutch is when I visit Das Awkscht Fescht (August festival), a big car show in Macungie.I once interviewed Virginia authors and folklorists Carrie and Michael Kline. Both earned doctorates.They insist that ethnic heritage is one of our most valuable assets and must be preserved."I don't understand," I said. "For years, we've been told America is a melting pot. Isn't that so?""No, I wouldn't call it a melting pot," advised Carrie."None of us should melt. Instead, think of it more as a tossed salad. That's what we want to be a tossed salad."In other words, let's savor our traditions. But let's learn how each of us plays a special role in creating a unique mix. We need to remember who we are, but we also need to appreciate the entire salad.I like that thought.True understanding comes when we recognize we're alike.But strength of character emerges when we respect the differences.I walked out of the cemetery crying. I knew that would happen. Tombstones spark too many memories and too much thought. They speak to me in warmth. But I miss the faces and yearn for all that's lost.I really don't like going there.But when I do, I come away better for the visit.