A familiar landscape it was, viewed from a new vista, flavored by a soft southern breeze that helped inflate a solemn affair with a touch of charm. Old friend Dave Scott, ninth-generation farmer on a proud Whately spread — that alone worthy of tribute — was being laid to rest at a place of his choosing: a secluded knoll on acreage he and his family have called home for parts of four centuries. We should all be so fortunate.

The Sunday afternoon air was hot, the pasture a vibrant autumn green, the view beneath infinite blue skies simply breathtaking. At the base of the hill to the left stood two or three ancient oaks, their muscular limbs reaching with clenched fists to the sunny heavens. Behind them, on the eastern horizon, stood the Sugarloafs, north and south, my childhood playmates, backed by the dense Toby range, that too once a mischievous youthful destination. To the right of Mount Sugarloaf and across the hidden Connecticut River stood the top third of the Sunderland steeple, poking like a slim white wedge through rich green tree cover displaying faint hints of fall. As I stood in somber respect, eyes wandering as the minister read Scripture, Scott family seated on hay bales up front, I remember thinking a man couldn’t find a better spot for his final resting place.

Scottie was my old high school teammate and friend. He died suddenly, after lunch Oct. 5, working at the woodpile below. We had spoken often there, sadly will not speak again. They say he expired before hitting the ground. Lucky, yes. Yet, at 59, far too young. I will miss him: a good, honest, humble man of aristocratic Connecticut Valley pedigree and humor.

Years back, I remember speaking to him in passing right at the spot where he expired. I was hunting, stopped to chat and, without hesitation, addressed him by his old high school nickname. “Hey, Scottie,” I said to get his attention. When he looked up with bemused countenance, I took notice, thought maybe he hadn’t heard what I said. Then it dawned on me that maybe no one called him Scottie anymore. I asked if he objected to his old schoolyard name and he responded with that half-grunt, half-chuckle of his through a dense, unruly gray beard, looked me square in the eye with those warm, light-blue eyes, shook his head a bit and quipped, “No, not so much, but I don’t mind it. I can still call you Bags, can’t I?” His eyes always reminded me of my father’s. I call them Whately eyes, pale blue, kind and seductive. I was born with my mother’s browns; OK, I guess.

Since that day probably 20 years ago, we often spoke when our paths crossed, usually during hunting season, be it along North Street or up along the dirt road through the Glen, once Sanderson’s, now Scott’s. I even bought cordwood from him on occasion, never a bad load, a man of integrity you could trust. Friendships from youth, especially those shared by teammates, even on teams you’d rather forget, survive through years of adult separation. Such bonds are branded deep into a special chamber in your soul, where it takes only a soft bellow’s breath through puckered lips to quickly revive the ashen embers to a hot orange glow. Although we didn’t chum around, hunt together or socialize, we had that old indelible bond, Scottie and me. I’m sure he shared the same type of relationship with others. Not soul mates. Just friends.

It was fitting how I learned of my friend’s passing, right up there on that familiar Glen road where we shared ancestral spirits peeking around massive hardwoods like Pan himself, half goat, half man, before whimsically fleeing atop sturdy stonewalls stained with our DNA. A friend and I were returning from a hunt for hen of the woods mushrooms when I spotted Scottie’s longtime friend and hired hand, Tanner, approaching slowly in his truck. Tanner always putts along, searching the landscape. I pulled over to chat as I always do when I bump into Tanner. We talked about hen of the woods and the best place to find them before he told us of Scottie’s death less than 24 hours earlier at the base of the hill. “Oh,” I said. “No wonder Ducky was at his father’s place when I went through earlier.”

I still call Scottie’s younger brother Don “Ducky,” and I know others do as well, those who’ve known him since they were kids. For me, the nicknames stop with the kids, though. I call their father by his given name, Lyndon. Those of his generation know him as “Sonny.” Not me. I call him Lyndon, friend and distant relative of my dad, and that’s what I called him when I stopped to offer my condolences the day I learned of his older son’s passing. I found him sitting on a lawn chair near the driveway, two neighborhood ladies keeping him company on a difficult day I am familiar with. He seemed to be doing well, considering.

By chance, I ran into Ducky the next day at Pekarski’s. I was buying meat when his wife, Judy, walked through the doors. “Sorry to hear about Dave,” I said. “Yeah, it sucks,” she responded. I found Ducky sitting in his SUV outside, a young, happy, yellow Lab poking its head through the back window, ears alert, eyes friendly. Ducky was stoic, like his dad had been the day before, but I knew he had to be hurting inside. He told me the funeral service was scheduled for Sunday, a green burial “out back” in a plain pine box. He expected a crowd. I would be part of it.

When Sunday arrived, I planned my day around the service and arrived at Scott’s farm before 1 p.m., following a sign through the old barnyard and up the hill to a pasture I had often viewed from below but never visited. There were many cars and people, Scottie’s family and friends. The service would be on the first level, the burial a step up. The hearse was a simple hay wagon. Perfect for Scottie. I had to work and couldn’t attend the graveside ceremony at a secluded spot I’m sure is quite beautiful and tranquil. I’ll get up there someday, probably sooner than later. Maybe I’ll stop to say hello to Lyndon and offer him a ride up. I want to see it, maybe stop on a whim to say hello. I’m sure someone will show me the way. Maybe even Tanner if I catch him this fall in my travels. I’ll drive, drop it into 4-wheel if necessary. Scottie’s spirit will undoubtedly brighten the place, make it inviting and friendly in his gentle manner.

I was determined to sign the register before I left the pasture for work . There had to be a book somewhere, but I didn’t know where. I asked a few people but no one had seen it. When the minister invited people to the committal service up the hill, followed by a social gathering at a tent next to the house, I figured the tent was the most likely place to look. So I slid off toward the house and, sure enough, found the book there on a folding card table outside the tent. A woman neighbor was in front of me. We were on the same mission. My name went under hers, second. I printed my name, adding  below it “A Whately brother.” Others may have seen it and been confused, wondered what I meant. It doesn’t matter. Scottie and I were cut from similar Whately homespun. Many people claimed we bore a resemblance in high school. My mother has always said our fathers also look alike. It makes sense. We share many grandparents, all of whom lived in Whately when it was still Hatfield. Upper Pioneer Valley roots don’t grow much deeper than that among the fair-skinned.

While it’s true that I have never lived in Whately and likely never will, I will forever consider it my home. It flows through my bloodstream and also that of the ninth-generation farmer and friend who died young but left his mark. His humble hillside farm was part of him; now his private grave is part of it.

It’s sad we all can’t wind up in similar paradise.