Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog

A Grief Observed

Thu, 19 Feb 2026 01:16:50 GMT

Their marriage began as a civil contract, entered into so she could remain in Great Britain.

If They'd Only Listen

Thu, 12 Feb 2026 03:12:31 GMT

All I wanted to do was let the cable company know the box that held my connection to the outside world was lying on the ground, no longer willing or able to communicate on my behalf.

The Strength to Endure

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 01:49:03 GMT

Over the last week or so, we’ve lost a lot, and I don’t mean to Death, although he was one of the culprits. No, I’m talking about the destruction levied by Mother Nature . . .

Rachel's Gift

Thu, 22 Jan 2026 02:11:29 GMT

Rachel Beckwith was approaching her ninth birthday, complete with party-planning and all the anticipated gifts. But then she heard about Charity: Water . . .

Passing the Torch

Thu, 15 Jan 2026 01:32:14 GMT

When I first married a hundred years ago, it was understood that every Christmas morning we would migrate to my husband’s grandmother’s home for a breakfast feast shared with everyone else in the family.

The Gift of Inspiration

Thu, 08 Jan 2026 01:41:19 GMT

It was the morning of Christmas Eve, and I was frantically trolling the aisles of Walmart (please don’t judge me . . .), looking for the last of the elusive stocking stuffers, ‘cause at our house stockings are always stuffed, most often to overflowing. The toy section is usually my first stop, since we’re all still kids at heart (at least that’s what I kept telling myself) and just as I was about to turn down a particular aisle two young boys came running toward me. Well, not really toward me, but that’s what I thought for a moment. They were actually headed toward the man behind me—someone I assumed was their dad who was instructing one of them to turn around saying, “You need to go back. You missed one. Remember? I told you there were three?”

By now my curiosity was more than a little peaked.

The boy turned and headed back down the aisle, stopping at a cart being pushed by a young woman. Two very confused boys were standing beside her, holding envelopes, with a third in the cart—evidently the one that was missed. The delivery boy ran up to the cart, handed him an envelope, and ran back to his dad, at which point the three of them headed farther into the store, with more envelopes still to be given away.

I moved on into the aisle (since that had been my intention all along), but now I was focused more on the envelopes than my quest for yo-yos and Slinkys (again, please don’t judge me . . .). Each one held a Christmas card . . . and a $10.00 bill.

This man and his two sons were walking through Walmart on Christmas Eve, handing out Christmas cards and Christmas cash to random children, then vanishing before anyone even realized what had happened, much less had the chance to say thank you. I know because, when I understood what they were doing, I began searching the store, up one aisle and down the other—and crossways in case I missed a spot.

I wanted to tell them thank you. I wanted to tell them how much I appreciated their unsolicited act of kindness in a world that is all too often unkind. They might as well have thrown on a cloak on invisibility. Or left not long afterwards. However they managed it, I never found them. But I left that day with a smile in my heart, inspired to follow in their footsteps. I called my daughter and told her what I’d just seen. And that next year, I wanted to do the same thing. And I wanted to bring her son . . . my grandson . . . with me so he could experience the joy of giving while expecting nothing in return. So, he could experience the joy found in blessing those who least expected it and leave behind the kind of wonder I had just seen slowly spread across each of those boys’ faces. And their mother’s.

So, to that dad who took his kids to Walmart on Christmas Eve, not to buy them anything or to pick up last minute gifts, but to teach them the art of giving . . . thank you. Thank you for inspiring me to do the same, and not just at Christmas. Thank you for showing me the goodness that still remains in this world. You gave me a gift far greater than you could ever imagine.

About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

Peace and Grace

Fri, 19 Dec 2025 03:02:23 GMT

In just a week . . . seven days as I write this . . . Christmas will arrive in all its magical splendor, followed closely by the New Year with all its promises and hope.

December 26th

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 23:28:56 GMT

It was December 25, 2009 and I was sitting in the combination living room/den at my in-laws’ house, surrounded by my husband’s family and a mountain of ribbons and shredded wrapping paper.

Magical Stories

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 02:52:56 GMT

It was one of those family-gathering occasions, the kind where the house is filled with laughter and conversations and at least two children running wild.

Unpredictable, That's What You Are . . .

Thu, 20 Nov 2025 00:32:18 GMT

A few weeks ago I was supposed to be in Memphis, spending a considerable amount of time in the great outdoors, specifically in cemeteries (which, if I can’t be in the middle of a forest, is the next best thing). According to the weather on my handy, dandy phone, this was not advisable.

Staying Present in the Present

Thu, 13 Nov 2025 02:39:20 GMT

It’s that time of year. The time when we drag our traditions out of the closets and boxes and begin spreading them about the house. When recipes and recollections join together to create new memories or give life to old ones.

Today and Every Day

Wed, 05 Nov 2025 23:51:10 GMT

Earl Columbus Strawn was 21 when he registered for the draft on June 5, 1917.

You Are Enough

Thu, 30 Oct 2025 01:05:44 GMT

Monday night I just happened to catch the last episode of this season’s “Halloween Baking Championship”—you know, the one where they have the final four bakers and one of them wins $25,000 and a feature in Food Network Magazine while everyone else goes home empty-handed?

Why Suffer In Silence?

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 21:40:17 GMT

Years ago, a well-known celebrity lost a child when she was five months pregnant. She and her husband shared pictures of themselves holding their baby, obviously and understandably grieving their loss—and numerous people found fault with that.

Meet Them Where They Are

Wed, 15 Oct 2025 23:49:57 GMT

In their later years, both of my parents suffered from dementia, my father thanks to Diffuse Lewy Body Disease and my mother compliments of vascular disease which led to portions of her brain slowly dying. Two very different causes, but the same end result.

It Should At Least Slow Down

Wed, 08 Oct 2025 16:42:06 GMT

Every December my daughter and I (and our special guest baker Tommy) gather for three very long days (plus usually one for gathering supplies) and we bake. And we bake and we bake and we bake.

The Things We Leave Behind

Thu, 02 Oct 2025 00:09:41 GMT

We’ve all heard the old saying “You can’t take it with you”, right? And we all know why old sayings get to be old sayings, right? (In case you don’t, it’s because there’s a grain of truth hidden in them . . .)

One Last Glimpse

Wed, 24 Sep 2025 20:45:11 GMT

It’s raining. A rare occurrence of late. And a welcome one. It’s done that off and on for the last few days, and you know what? The grass that once crunched under my feet is now soft and green again. And in need of mowing.

When the Old Ways Are Gone

Wed, 17 Sep 2025 19:33:13 GMT

It’s Fair Week in Hardin County, Tennessee! Just like it is or has been or will be in the near future for many counties around the south. And maybe the north. I’m just not sure how many of our southern traditions they embrace.

He Will Always Be

Thu, 11 Sep 2025 01:25:45 GMT

The name they had chosen was filled with meaning, a combination of his father’s—Jon—and her father’s—Michael. Even before they knew what he was, they knew who he was.

The Mystery of the Hidden Corpse

Wed, 03 Sep 2025 22:41:38 GMT

It was sometime in the 1960s or perhaps even the early 1970s. We could possibly even narrow it down a bit more than that . . . let’s say the mid-60s to early 70s. There had been a murder . . .

Sticks and Stones

Wed, 27 Aug 2025 23:17:34 GMT

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

I Hear You . . . I See You

Wed, 20 Aug 2025 22:03:09 GMT

Carl Jeter had walked out on the deck of his house to survey the flood waters of the Guadalupe River—and to be certain the level was no longer rising.

I Can't Do This . . .

Wed, 13 Aug 2025 23:13:28 GMT

It was bedtime in the Guinn household and six-year-old Malcolm had decided tonight was the night to declare his independence.

An Unbroken Bond

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 22:15:23 GMT

They had been married almost 25 years when Death suddenly took him. Twenty-five years of traveling around the country with his work. Twenty-five years of adventures and building their family and finally settling into a place they believed they could call their forever home.

Hidden Treasures

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 21:08:26 GMT

It was quietly hiding in the chaos that was once a well-organized, barn-shaped workshop/storage building, one now filled with all the things no one needed but with which they couldn’t bring themselves to part.

Recalculating

Wed, 23 Jul 2025 23:43:53 GMT

Do you remember when new vehicles didn’t come with on-board navigation systems and if you wanted one you had to buy something like a Garmin or a Magellan or some other brand that would talk you through your trip?

The Never-Ending Game

Wed, 16 Jul 2025 21:23:40 GMT

Recently I found myself playing a rousing game of “Chutes and Ladders” with my grandson and his mom (my daughter)—a game I soon realized I was destined to lose.

Something Uniquely Beautiful

Thu, 10 Jul 2025 00:39:03 GMT

Facebook is like the double-edged sword of social media. On the one hand, it can be the spreader of good news . . . But it also serves as the bearer of all that is bad.

The Perfect Picture

Wed, 02 Jul 2025 22:22:16 GMT

I don’t actually know how Facebook decides what I like or what topics might be of interest. It’s understood there is some mysterious algorithm quietly running in the background . . .

Moving Through Molasses

Wed, 25 Jun 2025 19:28:02 GMT

With her head bent low and her eyes laser-focused on the sidewalk before her, she slowly made her way around the park. Step by step, one foot in front of the other.

Please Don't Cover Her Hands

Wed, 18 Jun 2025 22:09:29 GMT

It was dark outside when the phone rang; a glance at the clock revealed the day was still in its infancy, which explained why the funeral director’s brain did not want to engage. Years of experience prevailed however, and he answered the call, finding on the other end of the line a hospice nurse requesting their services for a death that had occurred in a home.

Fun Facts for Father's Day

Wed, 11 Jun 2025 23:46:37 GMT

In honor of the upcoming day of celebration for fathers everywhere (or at least in the United States and a few other countries), how ‘bout we look at some fun facts and/or interesting tidbits regarding the holiday and dads in general?

After Fifty-Two Years

Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:09:04 GMT

It was 1972 . . . a Sunday in April when Don Price and his brother Laverne decided to go swimming at Pickwick Lake. Don was finishing up his Junior year at Central High School in Savannah and had been voted Most Athletic and Best All Around by the students there.

The Funeral Parade

Thu, 29 May 2025 00:36:54 GMT

The years and the connections they shared compelled her to attend the service acknowledging the end of his time on this earthly plane. There was just one problem. She had a three-year old . . . and funeral masses are usually not well tolerated by such creatures . . .

Lest We Forget ~ May 26, 2025

Wed, 21 May 2025 22:08:03 GMT

For the past several years I’ve taken the week before Memorial Day to focus on a few members of our military who lived in our area—and who gave their lives in service to our country. It is a difficult task, researching the lives . . . and deaths . . . of those who had their futures snatched away by enemy forces in the heat of battle, or slowly drained as they succumbed to the ravages of illness. Realizing that Memorial Day is the culmination of a long weekend, one usually filled with family and friends, good times and grilling, I want to be sure we never forget the real reason we have the opportunity—and the freedom—to spend that day as we wish. The real reason this day was first observed in 1868. Too many lives have been sacrificed for us to ever take the freedoms they defended for granted.

May we ever remember and honor those brave men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.

When Our Treasures Speak

Thu, 15 May 2025 01:01:12 GMT

My maternal grandmother was a fiercely independent soul, having been born and raised on a farm in the New Hope community of rural Hardin County, Tennessee. She made up for her lack of travel experiences by marrying my grandfather who worked for TVA during their years of dam construction across the southern United States.

A Chair Full of Love

Thu, 08 May 2025 00:55:51 GMT

It was late one Saturday afternoon when the guests gathered beneath the boughs of an ancient oak. They had come to celebrate the beginning of a life together for two young people they all knew and loved, but before the ceremony began with the official seating of the grandparents and parents of the bride and groom, a woman walked down the aisle, carrying sunflowers which she gently laid in a chair at the front.

The No Selfie Zone

Thu, 01 May 2025 01:10:18 GMT

The crowd was tremendous, numbering in the tens of thousands, and all willing to wait the almost eight hours it could take to reach their destination. And the vast majority of them came armed with cell phones and the occasional selfie stick.

A Basket Full of Memories

Wed, 23 Apr 2025 03:32:16 GMT

As a child I always had a love-hate relationship with Easter. I loved the egg hunts we had at school, walking to a nearby classmate’s home and searching for the elusive eggs scattered about the yard. I wasn’t crazy about being required to dress up for the church service—mainly because I wasn’t crazy about being required to dress up for much of anything.

Tell Me Their Story

Thu, 17 Apr 2025 00:38:15 GMT

When a family comes to the funeral home to make arrangements for someone they have loved and lost, they come bearing much more than clothes and a picture for the memorial folder. They just don’t always realize it.

The Scars Will Always Remain

Wed, 09 Apr 2025 23:44:55 GMT

If you were allowed to live a normal, rough-and-tumble childhood, then you probably have the scars to show for your adventures. I know I do.

The Connections Remain

Thu, 03 Apr 2025 01:13:39 GMT

It was one of those nights when his daddy had to work late, and our youngest grandchild Malcolm was upset because he wouldn’t be home for their normal bedtime routine.

If We Listen Closely

Thu, 27 Mar 2025 01:17:37 GMT

Nick and Christina married on July 4th and every year thereafter celebrated with a big cake covered in sparklers. Nick owned a Greek restaurant and the cook there knew that each July 4th, that cake was not only expected but greatly anticipated. So, it concerned Christina when her husband began asking about the cake more than a month away from their anniversary . . .

Precious Memories

Wed, 19 Mar 2025 23:42:10 GMT

As best we can tell, she adopted us in December of 2022. Not that we minded. We were coming off of two very difficult years and this little furball proved to be the bright spot we needed.

The Gift of Life

Wed, 12 Mar 2025 15:38:58 GMT

Some important things to know about James Christopher Harrison: 1. He was known as the Man with the Golden Arm. 2. He saved the lives of over two million infants. 3. He was afraid of needles but . . . 4. He donated blood and/or plasma 1,173 times in his 88 years of life. 5. That life ended on February 17, 2025.

It's Not Always As Safe As It Seems

Thu, 06 Mar 2025 02:09:20 GMT

We’ve all watched those movies or television shows where the wealthy relative dies and everyone gathers in the lawyer’s office or, better yet, the library in the mansion of the recently deceased—the one with the dark wood paneling, filled with books they never read and overstuffed furniture.

A Privilege . . . And An Honor

Thu, 27 Feb 2025 01:49:32 GMT

Clinton J. Hill, age 93, died at his home in Belvedere, California on Friday, February 21, 2025. He leaves his wife, Lisa McCubbin, whom he married in December of 2021, and two sons, Chris and Corey.

The Playlist Of A Lifetime

Thu, 20 Feb 2025 02:25:39 GMT

Although every arrangement conference is different, any that involve planning some type of service share a few things in common, such as deciding who will speak, and when and where the service will be held. And at some point in all this planning, the funeral director will ask “Have you thought about music?”

A Life Well Lived

Thu, 13 Feb 2025 02:02:04 GMT

It was the spring of 1991 when I was first required to walk through the doors of Henderson Office Supply on Main Street in Henderson, Tennessee. The business was owned by the Casey family—the same Casey family who owned Casey Funeral Home—the same Casey family from whom we had just purchased both.

Saved By the Bell?

Thu, 06 Feb 2025 01:52:01 GMT

It was December 14, 1799, and George Washington, first president of the United States, lay on his deathbed, the result of male obstinance, a sudden change in the weather, a desire to be prompt which led to dinner in soggy clothes, and medical practices of the day that were useless in the face of whatever illness was attacking his body. Actually, just useless in general.

Staying Connected

Thu, 30 Jan 2025 02:00:48 GMT

Pia Farrenkopf was a loner, a smart, driven woman of German descent who would be gone for weeks at a time, if not for work, then for the sheer pleasure of exploring the world. Her family grew to expect unanswered phone calls and random postcards from faraway places.

Mamma's Letters and Domino Dragons

Thu, 23 Jan 2025 01:17:38 GMT

Whenever a death occurs there’s always a cleaning out that follows. It may be a house or apartment, a hospital or nursing home room—maybe even just a closet and a drawer—but somewhere the items that represent that person’s life are tucked safely away, waiting for the day when they will pass to the next generation . . . or Goodwill, whichever is deemed appropriate.

53 Days

Wed, 15 Jan 2025 22:30:10 GMT

I find myself sitting in Panera, eating an Apple Chicken Salad and reading “The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle”, a Christmas present from my daughter and her family. Only this Panera is located in Vanderbilt Medical Center. Soon I will return to the darkness of Room 7 in the ICU and wait.

Memories Baked With Love

Thu, 09 Jan 2025 00:19:28 GMT

We were just wrapping up a celebratory family meal (please don’t ask which one; I haven’t the foggiest notion, given the time of year and the prevalence of celebratory meals), when my 15-year-old grandson Wilson stretched his lanky frame in the manner that indicates a satisfaction with the food and a fullness from overindulging, and asked “Mona, (that’s what all the grandchildren call me . . . because my first name is Lisa . . . so, Mona Lisa . . .) “when do I get a copy of the Thomas Cookbook?”

The Voices of Christmas

Fri, 27 Dec 2024 02:38:34 GMT

As I sit writing this, it is Christmas night—that time when the world grows still and quiet as the celebrations of the day fade into memories.

Engage Survival Mode

Wed, 18 Dec 2024 22:47:24 GMT

‘Tis the season to be jolly . . . unless it isn’t. Unless it isn’t because Grief has recently come to call and seems quite content to stay, at least for the foreseeable future.

The Things That Matter Most

Thu, 12 Dec 2024 00:21:25 GMT

I made a pretty big mistake this year. Actually, truth be known, I made a lot of mistakes this year. But this particular one was a doozie.

One of a Kind

Wed, 04 Dec 2024 05:42:32 GMT

Everybody knew his daddy as “Cowboy” and his mama as “Grannie” which might help explain why Tommy Lewis was blessed with at least two nicknames, if not more.

Thanks for the Memories

Thu, 28 Nov 2024 04:31:50 GMT

For a good many people, the next few days will be filled with food and family. For a good many people, that’s already begun. We’ll stuff ourselves into oblivion, then look for the nearest nappable surface or television to watch whatever the big game of the day is.

A Promise Kept

Wed, 20 Nov 2024 20:58:59 GMT

There were many people who thought Jonathan Reed was on the verge of full-blown insanity, a presumption which seemed quite reasonable, given that he spent every day sitting in a mausoleum in Brooklyn’s Evergreens Cemetery.

Message on a Mug

Wed, 13 Nov 2024 22:53:57 GMT

This weekend my brain decided I wanted a cup of tea—hot tea with cream and sugar (or, in my case, International Delight Sweet Cream coffee creamer which easily takes the place of both). For me, the first step is putting the kettle on the stove (Mickey Mouse themed that sounds like a train whistle when the water’s boiling) and then going to the mug cabinet to select the one that best reflects my mood for the day.

A Monument to Bravery

Thu, 07 Nov 2024 02:19:04 GMT

Out of curiosity, I consulted Merriam-Webster (via my good friend Google) regarding the definition of the word “monument”. Of course, when I hear the word, I think of something that marks the final resting place of an individual or a couple or, in some instances, entire families.

The Hauntings of Read House

Thu, 31 Oct 2024 01:03:35 GMT

When you walk through the doors of The Read House in Chattanooga, Tennessee, you may feel as though you’ve stepped back in time, the simple, quiet elegance speaking of days long since passed. And if you spend enough time there . . . and you listen carefully . . . you may also hear the echoing whispers of the spirits that many believe dwell within.

It's Just Hard

Thu, 24 Oct 2024 01:16:15 GMT

There are times in this life when words simply fail to adequately describe a situation. Losing someone you love is without a doubt one of those times.

Did You Know My Son?

Wed, 16 Oct 2024 23:01:00 GMT

I was walking down the stairs as he was coming up . . . the big, wide stairs off the funeral home foyer that tempt unattended small children and confuse the adults who still don’t know we’ve moved the lounge downstairs.

It's Football Time . . . Once More

Wed, 09 Oct 2024 23:19:51 GMT

It was November 27, 1982 . . . a football Saturday in Tennessee, only not in Knoxville. The opponent was Vanderbilt University, and the game was being played in Nashville, Vandy’s home turf.

The Wrath of the Storm

Wed, 02 Oct 2024 22:02:37 GMT

I had watched as reporters and meteorologists detailed what was to come and emergency management services begged people to evacuate.

Toward the Light

Wed, 25 Sep 2024 21:31:52 GMT

Over the last decade or so (probably longer . . . time doesn’t mean much anymore), I’ve begun to notice a trend. The hurry up and wait trend.

Lessons From a Mouse

Wed, 18 Sep 2024 21:21:07 GMT

There is a mouse in my van. Yes. You read that correctly. There is a mouse in my van.

Where Were You

Wed, 11 Sep 2024 22:30:47 GMT

“I was in high school. It was my senior year. I was . . . breaking into my history teacher's desk to steal a test that I hadn't studied for . . .

An Amazing Day

Thu, 05 Sep 2024 00:47:51 GMT

I know I say it every year—and I’ll probably continue to say it every year—but Decoration Day at the Memorial Gardens in Collinwood, Tennessee always amazes me.

Everyone Has A Story

Wed, 28 Aug 2024 22:53:54 GMT

If you’re a regular follower of the funeral homes’ Facebook page then you know that every once in a while, we’ll focus on someone who has died.

Headfirst Into History

Wed, 21 Aug 2024 21:46:58 GMT

The first time I ever jumped off a diving board into the Sun-n-Fun pool, I thought I was gonna die. Although my father, with his funeral director’s tan (same as a farmer’s tan, but not from farming), was treading water below me, patiently waiting for me to summon the courage and take what appeared to be a giant leap, I was still terrified.

A Mountain of Grief

Wed, 14 Aug 2024 21:55:18 GMT

I was standing in an aisle at Wal-Mart, scouring the shelves for an elusive bottle of something I was on the verge of being without at home. As I stood contemplating the empty space where said elusive bottle should have been, I became aware of someone else in the aisle.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Wed, 07 Aug 2024 22:28:06 GMT

The funeral staff (of which I was one) and the grave crew stood patiently waiting as the mourners slowly drifted from the cemetery. It had been a well-attended service, in part because of the circumstances surrounding the deaths, and some time passed before most everyone had moved to their cars . . .

Last Words

Wed, 31 Jul 2024 22:15:30 GMT

Recently my daughter and her family went on vacation—a vacation that required boarding an airplane and spending several hours flying to their destination.

A Legacy of Laughter

Wed, 24 Jul 2024 21:58:01 GMT

Can I tell you how much I love Bob Newhart? He was on my list of celebrities who are never allowed to die, a rule he broke on July the 18th.

Playmates and Friends

Thu, 18 Jul 2024 00:58:26 GMT

Everything was in place and the family’s private time was drawing to a close . . . meaning the doors to the sanctuary would soon open and the crowd of friends already gathered in the foyer would begin making their way down the aisle . . .

Close To You

Wed, 10 Jul 2024 21:17:28 GMT

I do, on occasion, listen to the radio when I’m driving (as opposed to silence which often leads to overthinking which rarely ends well . . .). On this particular day I was headed toward I-don’t-remember-where, enjoying some of my favorite 70s songs when the DJ began talking—

Happy Birthday!

Thu, 27 Jun 2024 00:52:39 GMT

As I am writing this, it is a day of celebration . . . the anniversary of my daughter’s arrival on this planet. I will not divulge her age since 1) it isn’t pertinent to the story, and 2) if you saw her, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. As is customary, at 7:30 this morning (the time may vary from year to year), I tapped her number in my Favorites list and waited . . .

The Cardinal's Message

Thu, 20 Jun 2024 00:49:49 GMT

Cardinals. One of the most brightly colored birds of the bird world—at least if they’re male. Like so many of their counterparts, the females get to pick and choose among their suitors, so the males have to really show up and show out.

Daddys and Fathers

Thu, 13 Jun 2024 00:08:00 GMT

When God made “Daddys” and “Fathers”

He made them quite different, you see,

For one had to deal with the child in his life,

The other would set the child free.

Daddys are funny and playful,

They carry you up the stairs,

Trip over the toys and weather the fits

And listen when you say your prayers.

Fathers are older and grayer,

Showing the wear of years

Spent preparing his young for leaving the nest,

Freeing them with unseen tears.

When God made “Daddys” and “Fathers”

I was richly blessed, you see,

For through the years and joys and tears,

You’ve been both to me.

If we’re lucky, we do get to have both. If we live long enough . . . if they live long enough . . . our fathers—the playmates of our youth who guide us into adulthood—become our friends. And oh, how we will miss that when they're gone.

The Speech That Never Was

Wed, 05 Jun 2024 21:34:34 GMT

Eighty years ago today, under the less than protective cover of darkness, the Allies began their invasion of Normandy.

The Unpredictable Mary Rob

Wed, 29 May 2024 18:30:51 GMT

As my children were growing up, Thanksgiving and Christmas meals with the Thomas clan found the family divided into two groups—the grown-ups and the kids. The grown-ups were allowed to sit around the formal dining room table while the kids were relegated to the folding tables that were always set up in the middle of the living room.

Lest We Forget, May 27, 2024

Wed, 22 May 2024 18:13:06 GMT

For the last several years, I have taken the week before Memorial Day to hopefully redirect our attention, at least briefly, from days off and cookouts and time spent at the lake to the original intent of the holiday. These are difficult stories to tell, not only because of the circumstances but also because each one included here represents dozens of others I have researched and, quite honestly, been haunted by, often due to details I have chosen not to share. Today I want to introduce you to four young men from our counties who gave their lives in service to our country. Some of you may have known them or heard of their sacrifice. Some of you may know their families and the grief they still experience today. If you don’t want to think about their lives and deaths or the grim realities of war, then please go on about your day without reading any further. But at the very least, when this coming Monday dawns, I hope you will realize that wishing people a “Happy Memorial Day” is contrary to what this day truly represents.

The Price of Progress

Wed, 15 May 2024 20:57:37 GMT

In the sacred ground of Macedonia Cemetery, just across County Road 158 from the Macedonia Church of Christ in Lauderdale County, Alabama, rests the mortal remains of Robert Lee Cooper, the three year old son of Joseph and Mary Ellen “Mollie” Cooper.

A Mother's Vow

Thu, 09 May 2024 16:30:43 GMT

Have you ever listened as a couple exchanged traditional wedding vows? I mean really listened to the words . . . to understand how solemn those promises are when they are made in earnest? Surely, we all know them by heart (or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof) . . .

More Than Just A Day

Wed, 01 May 2024 17:33:28 GMT

I was coming back from Florence when I decided to take a detour onto County Road 5. After traveling a mile or so, I came to County Road 158; a right turn and a quarter mile more took me to the Macedonia Church of Christ on the left and Macedonia Cemetery on the right. Since the cemetery was my intended destination, I veered right.

It Doesn't Pay To Argue

Wed, 24 Apr 2024 04:07:33 GMT

It was 3:00 in the morning when my cell phone rang. Which is rarely ever a good thing. Maybe that’s why I bolted upright in the bed while simultaneously grabbing for the offending piece of technology.

Things Aren't Always What They Seem

Wed, 17 Apr 2024 04:13:38 GMT

I have a confession to make. There are days when I’ll set the air conditioning on 65 and get the house cold enough to hang meat . . . and then light the fireplace.

Guardian Angels

Wed, 10 Apr 2024 03:48:11 GMT

If you’re a semi-regular reader, then you know I’ve been enduring that right of passage known as “The Packing of Parental Possessions”. For the last several months, the focus has been on cleaning out the apartment they occupied for 30 years . . .

Please Leave a Message . . .

Thu, 04 Apr 2024 00:59:05 GMT

When John Jacobs died of pancreatic cancer on October 29, 2005, his family was devastated. The New York defense attorney believed in staying connected to those he cherished the most, something he managed to accomplish by calling them three or four times a day on his beloved Motorola T720 cell phone . . .

A Season of Renewal

Thu, 28 Mar 2024 00:50:22 GMT

There’s a place I’m privileged to visit on occasion—a civilized wilderness of sorts—where very few people intrude and my desire for hermitism (not to be confused with hermetism which is a philosophical or religious system based on the teaching of Hermes Trismegistus . . . mine just means I like being left alone) is fulfilled.

Missed Opportunities

Wed, 20 Mar 2024 21:10:56 GMT

I am a lover of words and occasionally manage to put them together in a half-way decent manner. Ask me to speak to you spontaneously . . . off the cuff . . . with no preparation . . . and my brain freezes.

"The Fall of Freddie the Leaf"

Thu, 14 Mar 2024 00:43:25 GMT

In a bookcase in the office in Savannah, you’ll find all kinds of books, mostly on grief (which makes perfect sense given that it’s an office in a funeral home).

The Moments They'll Remember

Thu, 07 Mar 2024 02:05:13 GMT

When my daughter was in second grade the music program at her school disappeared. I don’t remember if it was a lack of personnel or a lack of funding or a lack of personnel caused by a lack of funding . . .

Tethers to the Past

Thu, 29 Feb 2024 01:59:33 GMT

On November 21st of 2021, I wrote the blog “The Ultimate Reminder” about a gentleman I’d literally known all my life . . . about his acknowledgment that his circle of older family members and friends was rapidly dwindling . . . about how hard it was to watch them leave.

No Whims Allowed

Thu, 22 Feb 2024 01:53:59 GMT

Recently local and national news outlets picked up the story of Pauline Pusser’s exhumation, turning it into front page news and lead stories.

Half Here

Wed, 14 Feb 2024 23:19:47 GMT

We didn’t meet under the best of circumstances—I was the funeral director and he was the husband grieving the imminent death of his wife.

The Final Farewell

Thu, 08 Feb 2024 02:18:44 GMT

They stand beside the casket, gazing at its contents, lingering as long as possible . . . unwilling to leave because they know, once they do, they will never again see that person on this earth.

Lost (and Found) Soles

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:43:50 GMT

Last Tuesday I saw something I’ve never seen before, and that’s sayin’ a lot, given how many years I’ve been around to see things.

Thank You, Herman

Thu, 25 Jan 2024 02:12:05 GMT

I was sitting in the library Tuesday night (yes, we have a library because I have a million books, all of which my children will someday be required to sort through and pack up since I cannot bring myself to do anything but add to the collection . . . unless they follow my suggestion to take what they want from the house and set fire to the rest . . . please do not judge me . . .).

Alexa, Turn Off My Digital World

Thu, 18 Jan 2024 00:37:15 GMT

It was almost 5:00 when she walked into the office at the funeral home, exasperated, flustered, and apologizing for not having arrived sooner. She’d been to her brother’s house, searching for paperwork she needed to bring to us, and she couldn’t get the lamp to go off.

Road Maps

Thu, 11 Jan 2024 00:07:39 GMT

There are a lot of things in this world that are double-edged swords; good on one side . . . worse than awful on the other. Take television, for instance. There are some really good shows that can be either entertaining or educational or both . . . and then there’s all the trash that I’m not gonna call by name because one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and I don’t wanna get yelled at.

New Year, New To-Dos

Thu, 04 Jan 2024 02:03:23 GMT

In case you missed it (which begs the question . . . how in the world?!), we’ve landed smack at the beginning of a brand new year. And if you live in the United States, you may be one of the 33.33% of the population that makes one or more New Year’s resolutions. Believe it or not, there’s a study for that.

Dream Dockets

Thu, 28 Dec 2023 01:30:00 GMT

It was Christmas Eve, and I was doing what I do every Christmas Eve—sitting in the middle of the den floor, surrounded by rolls and rolls of wrapping paper, yards and yards of ribbon, and every naked gift that had yet to be clothed in brightly colored attire. And tape. Lots and lots of tape.

O Christmas Tree

Wed, 20 Dec 2023 22:13:45 GMT

When I was a mere child, about a hundred years ago, we always had a real tree at Christmas. Granted, it was purchased from a grocery store parking lot (I think . . . I know we didn’t trapse out into the woods and chop one down) and then my dad would flock the mess out of it . . .

The Mighty Oak

Wed, 13 Dec 2023 20:10:16 GMT

She said it sounded like a bomb going off in the house next door and evidently she wasn’t exaggerating since someone in the neighborhood called the police, prompting a visit from the local constabulary . . . a very short visit once they realized there was nothing they could actually do to be of assistance. Because it wasn’t a bomb.

Courage and Fear

Thu, 07 Dec 2023 01:40:15 GMT

Despite historical weather reports indicating partly cloudy skies, those present at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 remembered it much differently. According to them, it was a beautifully blue, clear-skied morning, warmed by the sun and serene in its dawning—a Sunday morning not unlike most they had experienced in the island paradise of Hawaii.

One Man's Treasure . . .

Thu, 30 Nov 2023 02:09:03 GMT

It was Thanksgiving night and my son and I stood in the bedroom, staring into the abyss that was my great-grandfather’s trunk. Well, technically I suppose it was my great-grandmother’s trunk since he died first and left everything to her.

With Gratitude

Wed, 22 Nov 2023 16:10:48 GMT

Every year about this time, I try to focus on the season and its message of thanksgiving, but there are times it seems Fate conspires against me.

And So It Begins

Thu, 16 Nov 2023 01:47:24 GMT

“Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. “Please to put a penny in an old man’s hat . . .” Whenever I hear those words, it’s in the voice of “Miss” Piggy from the Muppets . . .

Ordinary People

Wed, 08 Nov 2023 23:40:57 GMT

Wilbur Gordon Ross, or Gordon as we all knew him, was employed as a funeral director and embalmer with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Bolivar when World War II began. At the ripe old age of 22, he registered for the draft on October 16, 1940; less than a year later he was called to active duty.

No U-Turns Allowed

Wed, 01 Nov 2023 21:13:48 GMT

We were returning from a craft fair in Nashville. Joe was driving . . . it was late and dark and the intersection of 128 snuck up on him. And he missed it. So, a few yards down the road he swung wide, circled back onto the highway, and proceeded to complete the offendingly sneaky turn. Cue the following conversation:

One Last Act of Love

Wed, 25 Oct 2023 22:59:34 GMT

My grandmother on the Shackelford side, the woman I knew as Mom during the brief five years our lives overlapped, died suddenly and very unexpectedly. She had suffered from crippling rheumatoid arthritis for years—a condition that had, on occasion, required hospitalization.

Skeletons In the Closet

Tue, 17 Oct 2023 22:58:49 GMT

Recently I was introduced to the play "She Kills Monsters", a tale about a young woman who on the eve of her high school graduation makes a simple wish . . . that her life was less boring.

But What About the Books, Part II

Thu, 12 Oct 2023 00:44:14 GMT

In August of 2015 I wrote a blog entitled “But What About the Books?” bemoaning the fact that someday the books that lived in my parents’ former apartment would have to be “dispersed”. The books that took up an entire end wall of the sitting room . . . and filled the shelves of the bookcases at the other end . . . and the cabinets below those shelves.

The Rest Of the Story

Wed, 04 Oct 2023 20:50:39 GMT

During World War II newsman Paul Harvey began dedicating a portion of his Monday-Friday broadcasts to something he called “The Rest of the Story”. It became so popular that ABC Radio Networks gave the segment its own series in 1976—a series that always ended with the line “And now you know . . . the rest of the story.”

To Remember

Wed, 27 Sep 2023 21:26:56 GMT

This past Monday evening I had the opportunity to attend a Service of Remembrance of sorts. Some might refer to it as a memorial service, but I chose to think of it more as a time to reflect than a time to memorialize.

Will You . . .

Wed, 20 Sep 2023 20:31:55 GMT

As I wander through Life there are certain things that just automatically catch my attention. It’s like they see me coming so they jump up and start waving.

The Final Task

Wed, 13 Sep 2023 20:15:54 GMT

The time has finally come. Try as I may, I can’t put it off any longer. I have to sort through the remains of the apartment where my parents spent the last 30 years of their lives.

Rest In Peace, Bobby

Wed, 06 Sep 2023 20:35:06 GMT

It was Tuesday evening and most of us were trying to escape a workday that had mimicked a Monday in everything but name. Five o’clock had finally arrived and just before the phones were transferred to the staff member who would be answering them for the next 15 hours, they defiantly rang one more time.

The Missing Piece

Wed, 30 Aug 2023 21:17:19 GMT

Except for my mother, my Grandmother Rogers and I had very little in common. (As the first grandchild, it was my duty to choose her grandmotherly name, and I chose “Wa-Wa”—because that’s what you get when a toddler tries to say “Grandmother Rogers”)

If It Looks Too Good To Be True . . .

Wed, 23 Aug 2023 23:15:41 GMT

You may (or may not) have seen the Daily Dot article addressing claims by TikTok user and influencer realkipforce alleging that burial of someone in your backyard (or front yard or anywhere else on your property) would automatically exempt you from property taxes . . .

We Have The Power

Wed, 16 Aug 2023 21:47:17 GMT

Over 100 people responded to the loss, expressing their sympathy on Facebook—and that meant a great deal in the days leading up to the funeral. There were long-time friends of the deceased and the survivors . . . new acquaintances and business associates and customers . . . a whole range of people, all taking a moment from their day to say how sorry they were for the loss.

Bits and Pieces

Wed, 09 Aug 2023 23:48:11 GMT

This past Friday my husband and I traveled west (wait . . . was it really west? . . . maybe east? . . . we went toward Memphis . . . so west . . . definitely west . . . maybe . . .). Can you tell I’m directionally challenged?

An Act of Remembrance

Wed, 02 Aug 2023 16:09:23 GMT

It’s a narrow dirt road that you can easily miss if you don’t know where to look . . . a path that winds its way through the woods stretching to either side . . . endless woods that filter the sunlight as it weaves its way through the leafy canopy overhead.

What Happens When . . .

Wed, 26 Jul 2023 23:07:30 GMT

In 2019, Keanu Reeves appeared as a guest on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (for the unfamiliar, Stephen’s last name is pronounced Co-bear . . . this is an important piece of information, one you should try to remember, at least for now).

Benjamin Matthew Mauck

Wed, 19 Jul 2023 23:07:59 GMT

As with every teenager who grows up in a small town, he belonged to all of us. His family, like a lot of other families back then, moved in with the paper mill at Counce so even though he wasn’t a Savannah, Tennessee original, he lived here long enough that we claimed him, and he claimed us.

The City of Saltillo

Wed, 12 Jul 2023 23:58:37 GMT

It had been a lovely visit with her family in St. Louis. Ethel Bronson Patterson’s parents, Edward and Ida Emeline Bronson, had spent time with their grandchildren, two-year-old Archie and his nine-month-old sister Dorothy, while Ethel had enjoyed seeing her brother again.

The Invisible Man

Wed, 05 Jul 2023 20:55:33 GMT

So, did you hear the one about the guy who thought he was invisible? Seems he decided to fake his own death then show up at his funeral in a helicopter.

Well-Worn Paths

Wed, 28 Jun 2023 20:59:52 GMT

If you follow the sidewalk to the front of our house and look to your right just before you start up the porch steps, you’ll see a narrow, well-worn path. And if you follow that path across the yard and around the corner, you’ll see it leads to the opening for the crawl space that allows access to all the things that normally live under a house.

So Very Unpredictable

Wed, 21 Jun 2023 23:06:33 GMT

It all started with a trip to the emergency room one sunny Sunday morning. A wayward kidney stone was the culprit which required a CT scan to determine the location and size. It didn’t take long before the ER doc walked back in the room to share the results and his plan for treatment, which was basically pain medication and time.

Teacher, Mentor, Father, Friend

Wed, 14 Jun 2023 19:55:22 GMT

As I sit contemplating this upcoming Father’s Day, I have an abundance of fuzzy thoughts bouncing around inside my noggin’—

Backyard Burials

Wed, 07 Jun 2023 22:54:02 GMT

In 1911, attorneys Floyd Estill and G.H. Newman stood before the Tennessee Supreme Court, defending their client, Walter Hines, who had been found guilty of a misdemeanor in the Circuit Court of Lincoln County, Tennessee.

Know. Your. Source.

Wed, 31 May 2023 04:00:40 GMT

If you’re on Facebook (and, believe it or not, there are a few intelligent humans who have refrained), then you’ve probably seen the “lost dog”, “found dog”, “missing person” posts that have been going around lately.

Lest We Forget . . . Memorial Day ~ 2023

Wed, 24 May 2023 16:18:35 GMT

For the past several years, I’ve taken the week before Memorial Day to focus on the true reason for this day of remembrance, choosing to do this by briefly telling the stories of several military personnel who gave their lives in service to our country. After all, that’s the real reason we have this upcoming long weekend . . . not to celebrate, but to remember and to honor.

It’s hard, looking for those whose stories I plan to tell. Reading of their deaths and the circumstances under which they died is difficult, but there is something I find even more disturbing . . . how many there are who made the ultimate sacrifice and about whom I can find very little. No pictures online. No history of their service. Often, not even a cause of their death. It’s as though they are already forgotten by everyone except those who loved them the most. And someday, they too will be gone.

There is a monument in Bethel Cemetery that bears the inscription “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” I believe it is our responsibility to honor all those who gave their lives, and to do what we can to preserve their memories and to tell their stories.

Three Stooges Syndrome

Wed, 17 May 2023 22:46:31 GMT

Okay. Show of hands. How many of you have heard of Three Stooges Syndrome?

Some Things Never Change

Wed, 10 May 2023 22:39:19 GMT

In case you’ve been living under a rock or haven’t wandered the greeting card aisle of any store in the United States, Mothers’ Day is rapidly approaching. As in it’s this coming Sunday.

It Was A Jay Day

Wed, 03 May 2023 23:03:08 GMT

There’s a price to be paid when you live life on your own terms. And so many rewards to reap. Jay Barker managed to do both. Of course, there were people who didn’t understand or appreciate his approach to life—but those who knew him well loved him all the more for who he truly was and the knowledge they could always count on him to be that person.

From Dreams To Reality

Wed, 26 Apr 2023 19:56:39 GMT

At least it was until the night I snuggled beneath the covers and drifted off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by one of the dolls tickling me. At this point in my life, I am fully aware that I was dreaming. Probably. But it’s too late now.

To Plan Or Not To Plan (That Is One Of The Questions)

Wed, 19 Apr 2023 19:33:09 GMT

The last time I mentioned several desired items my son (who also happens to be the General Manager of Advance Planning for our businesses) glared at me and very sternly (and I seem to remember with a slightly raised voice) said, “WRITE. IT. DOWN.”

Wondering While Wandering

Wed, 12 Apr 2023 22:36:51 GMT

Many of the graves stretch back to the 1800s, marked by weathered stones with barely legible carving . . . And sometimes they are marked with nothing more than carefully poured concrete posts, small in size, with no information other than the acknowledgement that someone rests beneath the sod.

The Helpers

Wed, 05 Apr 2023 23:31:10 GMT

Sandwiched between the posts praising the miracles of survival and mourning those who were lost, were offers of help.

It Depends . . .

Wed, 29 Mar 2023 21:38:46 GMT

Now she was using two words far too regularly when answering questions about her future plans. Would she be going to this place? Would she be doing that thing? It depends . . .

Lester Listener

Wed, 22 Mar 2023 21:12:04 GMT

There was Nellie Not-Nice and Timmy Tattletale and Caroline Color Hog, but there was also Sammy Sharing and Sally Singer . . . and Lester Listener. Lester had really big ears—and his mouth was closed. I always pointed it out to the class, telling them there was a reason for that. Your ears don’t work if your mouth is open.

The Not-So-Complete Guide to Life Insurance

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 21:39:34 GMT

Today’s topic—life insurance. I realize this probably isn’t a page turner, but you may still want to forge ahead since there might actually be some thoughts included here which you’ve not thought. And why would I want to tackle such a mundane subject? Because oftentimes families depend heavily upon its presence, and oftentimes they are not only surprised but disappointed by the outcome of that dependence.

Relief and Grief

Wed, 08 Mar 2023 20:52:27 GMT

He looked at me in despair and asked how he could feel relief when he had just buried his child. What kind of monster did that make him? All I could do was assure him he wasn’t a monster at all. He was human. And as humans we all have our limits.

Invisible Scars

Wed, 01 Mar 2023 15:51:37 GMT

My mother heard the commotion and came running, only to find me crying from under the tree, covered in flocking and clutching my last aluminum foil candy cane. Fortunately, none of the ornaments were broken . . . since I basically cushioned the tree’s landing with my body.

The Story of Anna Marie Yost

Wed, 22 Feb 2023 23:00:39 GMT

I pulled it out to find the picture you see here and a text that read “We are still in the med room getting treatment and I’m looking at old pictures! Is that your dad behind the casket???” I squinted at the picture on my phone and, lo and behold, it was! As I told her, I’d recognize that egg-shaped head anywhere.

You Can't Always Be Prepared

Wed, 15 Feb 2023 22:21:04 GMT

It was December of 2019 and Trans-Siberian Orchestra was playing in Memphis, Tennessee. Which just happens to be where my Trans-Siberian Orchestra loving grandson resides (well, Shelby County, at least). And his parents, who aren’t exactly fans, suggested that perhaps I (one who does happen to enjoy their music) might consider taking said grandson to said concert.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this group, think classical music with a heavy metal twist. And lasers. Lots and lots of lasers. My daughter had introduced me to them years before, so given the occasion . . . and the fact that I wasn’t crazy about driving home alone late at night . . . I included her in the invitation. Wilson was beyond excited, Kathryne was looking forward to the evening, and I hate crowds and noise. You may draw your own conclusions.

The concert was being held at the FedEx Forum, so we all ate downtown then walked to the arena. As we were saying goodbye to my son and the rest of his family, I suddenly realized I had a problem. In my purse was a box cutter and a small hammer that would convert to a screwdriver. I couldn’t be certain, but I had a feeling security might not be happy when they searched my belongings. So I removed the offending items, handed them to my son for safekeeping (his eyes got really big when I did), and off we went.

Now I should probably explain that my purse/suitcase is the closest thing to the carpet bag carried by Mary Poppins as you can get in the real world. Granted, I’ve never pulled a floor lamp or a hat stand out of it, but if you need a flashlight, I’ve got you covered. Or an iPhone charging cable or air freshener (just in case you have a room that, ah . . . might need . . . freshening . . .), or Advil or Tylenol (I carry both), or maybe a band aid (hope you like Ninja Turtles, or Jake and the Neverland Pirates, or maybe Winnie the Pooh, if it’s a good day. I think I’ve got some Star Wars, too). There are nail clippers and a fingernail file, a small bag with toothpaste and a toothbrush, and a full set of eating utensils, compliments of my daughter who knew I carried a spoon (do you know how many restaurants only provide a knife and fork? And how many times the grandkids needed a spoon?) and thought I could use an entire set. She was right. They’re the kind you would take camping, complete with their own little rubbery holder thingy. There’s a pouch full of pens, highlighters, and pencils, and another that holds the box cutter, a cloth tape measure, After Bite (have I ever mentioned how much mosquitos love me?), a large black marker, and mascara (that I don’t use anymore . . . I got tired of wiping little flecks of it from under my eyes). Oh, and I do actually carry my billfold and checkbook in there, too. And nose spray.

In other words, I’m prepared for all kinds of requests/emergencies. And my purse weighs a ton.

But believe it or not, there are items for which I have been asked that do not reside in my magical purse. I honestly can’t think of any right now, but I know it’s happened in the past and we’ve simply had to make do with something else. Because there’s no way to prepare for everything Life will throw at you.

That’s a hard lesson to learn, especially if you’re a person who believes in preparation. But there’s one thing in which you can rest assured. You are not the only one who has ever been afflicted in whatever manner you’re being afflicted. You are not the first and you will not be the last, and as cold as that may sound, it’s actually an amazing comfort. Because it means you’re not alone.

Whether it’s losing a spouse or a child or a parent, whether it’s going through a divorce or a house fire or a natural disaster—whatever the challenge may be—someone has already walked the path before you. No matter the obstacles you may encounter, someone has already met them head on and overcome. No matter how defeated and lost you may feel, someone has been equally beaten, and they have emerged victorious. And many of those people are ready and more than willing to help you do the same. You just have to find them and then be willing to learn and grow from their experiences.

No one can prepare for everything . . . no matter how much stuff they carry in their metaphorical purse. So when Life hands you a heart-breaking, earth-shattering surprise, and you find yourself struggling just to breathe, remember—you can draw strength from the people around you . . . and the knowledge that you are not alone.

About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

Not Guilty

Wed, 08 Feb 2023 21:19:39 GMT

His parents had gone out for the evening, leaving him happily playing with his toy cars and trucks, crashing them into each other as young boys are prone to doing. His grandparents were babysitting when the call came . . . the call that told of an accident involving an out of control 18-wheeler. It struck his parents’ car head-on, killing both of them instantly. When his grandparents came to tell him, he was still happily crashing his cars and trucks into each other. And for years afterwards, he believed he was responsible for the deaths of his parents.

So went the story relayed by Det. Travis Burke in “Mystery 101: Deadly History”. He and Amy Winslow were searching for Amy’s missing uncle and, while discussing family, Travis revealed why he rarely spoke of his. It was too painful and, even though he now knew he wasn’t responsible, he still felt that weight.

Although the story may be fictional, that scene is grounded in a reality too many people experience. They did something at some point . . . made a decision . . . engaged in an innocent, everyday act . . . wished ill on someone in a fit of anger . . . whatever it might have been, Death entered the picture not long thereafter, bringing with him his traveling companion Guilt.

I listened one evening as a young man shared the weight he had carried for years, a weight born of a decision he made not to be the driver on a trip out of town. His mother needed to go, he couldn’t take her, so she found someone who could—and they both died in an accident as they were coming home. From that day on his mind kept asking the questions no one will ever be able to answer. If he had gone, would she have arrived home safely? If he had gone, would they both have died? How would their histories have been altered if he had rearranged his schedule so he could take her? He knows he’ll never know, and as the years have passed, he has grown to accept that fact, but there are still those days when some little something resurrects the event, and the questions echo again.

My grandfather had back trouble for years, as did my father, and there was one particular time when he was bedridden and in a tremendous amount of pain. I prayed every night for relief from that suffering, asking that he’d never have to endure that kind of pain again. He did recover, but not long afterward he died. I remember lying in bed in my dorm room after the funeral, staring into the darkness and contemplating his absence, when the realization literally took my breath. I asked for his relief. I asked for an end to his suffering. And that’s exactly what I got. Now I know that isn’t how God works and intellectually I knew his death wasn’t my fault. But subconsciously I blamed myself for years. Even today, if I ask anyone for anything, I choose my words carefully, afraid of unintended consequences.

Every person’s death can bring with it a certain amount of guilt, usually over things left undone or unsaid. But there are those occasions when we get this deeply unsettling feeling that we are in some way responsible for their departure. Are there times when someone truly contributed to the death of another individual, whether accidentally or intentionally? Unfortunately, yes. But for all those other times when the weight of that guilt should not exist, you need to give yourself some grace and lighten that load. And if necessary, find a good therapist who can help you work through those feelings.

Never let the love you shared with another person be overwhelmed by a guilt that isn’t yours to carry.

Till Death Do You Part

Thu, 02 Feb 2023 00:53:00 GMT

“I’m his fifth wife . . .”

That’s how the conversation started.

“I’m his fifth wife and I’ve got the marriage license to prove it . . .”

The innocent secretary who’d answered the phone that morning had no clue what she was in for, or she might have reconsidered. The gentleman in question (the one with at least four previous wives) had been buried several days before, so she could see an issue approaching on the horizon. If this woman truly was his wife, she had the right to make his funeral arrangements . . . which had not only been made by someone else but also carried out. That’s why I was handed the call. Settling into a chair in the front office, I made sure my pen and paper and coffee cup were handy, and picked up the receiver. After introducing myself and briefly stating what I understood to be the reason for her call, she said it again, “I’m his fifth wife and I’ve got the marriage license to prove it. “

“All right . . . but can you prove you were never divorced? “

*crickets*

All a marriage license proves is that you were married; it doesn’t prove you still are . During the arrangement conference his family told us he was divorced (although given the circumstances, we were no longer sure from which wife since they didn’t seem to be aware of this one). So that’s what went on the record. And that’s what went to Social Security. And that’s what went on the death certificate.

In other words, could she prove something never happened? Because that’s what she’d have to do when she stood before a judge seeking to have his marital status changed. A court order is the only way to alter something that important.

And that, my friends, leads us to our subject of the day . . . marital status at death in the State of Tennessee and what that means under some often murky circumstances.

The woman in our story believed she could just call up the funeral home and we’d change the information the family gave us. After that I’m not sure where she was headed. She may have been interested in widow’s benefits through Social Security, which is what we usually see (and yes, I said usually, meaning this wasn’t our first such call, although I believe her place in the line of succession may have been unique). But it also isn’t the only misconception regarding marital status and how important accuracy and understanding are when it crosses paths with Death.

For example, not having seen your estranged spouse in 37 years means nothing when you draw your last breath. Unless you’ve put some legal documents in place, that person has the right to make your funeral arrangements. And if we can’t find them so they can sign a document waiving those rights, everyone gets to wait seven days before anyone else can take charge. We all know expecting someone to make an estranged spouse’s funeral arrangements after going no contact for 37 years is beyond ridiculous 99% of the time (yes, there’s that 1% who actually do show up and follow through), but the law is still the law. And where Death and disposition are concerned, the law in Tennessee says a spouse is still a spouse until they’re legally not, so they still retain their rights in that matter.

Been living together for half a century but never saw the need to get married? That’s fine—until one of you dies and the other wants to make the funeral arrangements. Common law marriage doesn’t exist in Tennessee, so again, unless you have proper legal paperwork in place, things may not proceed as either of you planned.

It’s so easy to take care of most of these matters, as long as you start before you die instead of thinking someone else can after you’re gone. A Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare will allow you to appoint someone to take care of your final arrangements—so if you don’t want that spouse you haven’t seen in 37 years deciding what happens to your earthly remains, or you do want to be certain your partner of 50 years does, you can legally make it so.

A Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare is very different from the Powers of Attorney we discussed last week (kindly see “Nothing Lasts Forever” if you’re clueless), so don’t let the names confuse you. Each is useful in the right circumstances, but the only one that will allow someone to care for you after death is the one for Healthcare . . . which may seem a bit strange, but we didn’t name it. We’re just advocating for its use.

The post Till Death Do You Part appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog .

Nothing Lasts Forever

Thu, 26 Jan 2023 00:06:00 GMT

WARNING . . . Educational post ahead . . . (at least if you live in Tennessee).

Hopefully, you’re still here, because this post addresses an issue we’ve encountered a lot over the years, despite our best efforts to inform the world of the problem. Unfortunately, not knowing the following information can be frustrating, embarrassing, and extremely inconvenient . . . and there comes a point where it can’t be fixed. So—heads up.

A Power of Attorney, or even a Durable Power of Attorney, does not allow you continued access to the checking account or other assets of someone after they have died. That’s pretty important, so if you would, please read that sentence again so I don’t have to retype it.

The only way you can have the continued ability to spend someone else’s money after they die is if you are a joint owner of the account in which said money resides, or you’re named as the Personal Representative of their estate, and you’ve taken the legal steps to actually open the estate. The Power of Attorney that’s been your passport into those accounts is worthless once the person who granted it is gone. If the bank is aware of their death, they’ll freeze the account. If they aren’t aware, a few checks may slip through, but eventually they’ll have the information, and the cash flow will quickly end. The only exception is ignorance. If the power of attorney is truly unaware the person for whom they are acting has died, then any actions they take in that capacity are legal. But how likely is it that someone’s power of attorney would not be informed of their death in a timely manner?

Why is this so important? Because people often believe a power of attorney will allow them to cover legitimate, after death expenses such as funeral costs, continued utility bills, mortgage payments, and such with the same ease they could before the grantor’s death. And it’s always a shock when they find out they can’t. If you’re preparing to settle the funeral account and hand us a check in the name of the deceased—and we’re on our toes—we’re going to ask if you’re a co-owner of the account. If you are, meaning you have equal ownership of that account and are listed as such on the bank’s records, there’s no problem. You can continue to use the account just as you did before the person died. However, if you only have the right to sign checks—which is very different from ownership—that right ends when the actual owner draws their last breath. And we’ll have to hand you back that check.

I’m making this public service announcement because there are many among us who don’t understand how a Power of Attorney or a Durable Power of Attorney works after someone dies, and the answer is really quite simple. They don’t. So, if you and the person for whom you are acting are relying on one of these documents to assist in taking care of financial matters once Death comes to call, please rethink your plan. By the time you figure out that was a mistake, it may be too late. Instead, visit the bank, or better yet, a local attorney, and ask for guidance on how best to handle financial affairs once the person dies and your paperwork doesn’t work anymore. It may be aggravating . . . and there may be fees involved . . . but believe me, it will be worth it when the time comes.

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The Golden Bag

Thu, 19 Jan 2023 02:43:00 GMT

It wasn’t anything remarkable. Just a simple gold bag, almost square in shape except not quite, the little bit that it was off making it technically a rectangle. (And yes, I know all squares are rectangles but not every rectangle is a square . . .) It was the kind of bag you might receive when buying makeup in a department store like Macy’s instead of off the shelf at Wal-Mart. Like so many of us do, she had set the bag aside “just in case” she could recycle it later, maybe not for holding makeup but for some other something.

Her first stroke came when she was 68. The doctors didn’t give her family a great deal of hope for her recovery and a semi-normal life to follow. But they didn’t know her very well. Actually, it seems they didn’t know her at all. She was eventually able to return home and, for the most part, to the life she had known before her illness. That’s when she pulled the bag out of storage.

It was just the right size for what she needed, and as her strength returned she began packing that bag. I don’t know how long it took or how many times she changed the contents. But she was finally satisfied with her work and set it aside until the day when its purpose would be fulfilled.

That day arrived recently; eight years after her first stroke, her family came for their arrangement conference . . . and with them came the bag. The gold bag that had been pulled from storage and carefully, lovingly packed with everything they would need.

She had always taken care of everyone, staying in the background, never calling attention to herself while making the path easier for her family and friends—and anyone else who needed her help. It was simply who she was, and Death hadn’t changed that. At the appropriate time, her daughter unzipped the bag and began going through its contents. There was the jewelry her mother had selected. And the makeup she wanted used. The pictures for the DVD were in a small zip lock bag. There were notes about what she wanted for her service . . . and a letter for each of her children, to be read after her death.

Her thoughtfulness made that moment so much easier for her family. There were no doubts about how to honor her life. No questions about what she wanted. One last time, in a final act of love, she had taken care of her family in a way no one else could. Just like so many times before.

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Cheating Death

Thu, 12 Jan 2023 02:26:00 GMT

You’ve probably heard the phrase “cheating Death”; it usually refers to someone who has narrowly managed to avoid the Grim Reaper’s clutches while being involved in some dangerous activity, or perhaps just plain old ordinary Life that got a bit hairy. When I hear those words, a mental picture immediately forms of a card game where Death is a participant, and another player is attempting to cheat in order to win. Or maybe a game of chess. That was the chosen activity in Ingmar Bergman’s film “The Seventh Seal”, where Death is challenged by a knight intent on besting him. I have no idea why, having never seen the movie, and at the moment I’m not inclined to ask my good friend Google.

There was one person in the annals of crime who was absolutely determined to beat Death at his own game—so much so that he developed a plan to survive the hangman’s noose . . . and even tried it out to be certain it would work.

His name was Salvatore Cardinella (or Cardinelli, depending on your source), a crime boss who ruled, through fear and violence, the area of Chicago known as Little Italy. His gang was well versed in the arts intimidation, theft, and murder, and by 1920 everyone there knew the name of Il Diavolo, or The Devil as Cardinella was called. Bombings were his go-to method of enforcement, and if that didn’t work, murder was next on the list. Cardinella recruited his henchmen from the teenagers of the area. Innocent young men who walked into the 22 ^nd Street pool room he ran came out as aspiring criminals. One such teen was Nicholas Vianna, a literal choir boy with a beautiful voice who eventually used that voice to rat out Cardinella. He had hoped to save his own life in the process and even though his information was gladly received, nothing was given in exchange.

Despite Vianna turning on his boss, Cardinella arranged for an ambulance to be present the day of Vianna’s hanging. After the deadly punishment had been administered, Vianna’s body was placed in a mortuary basket and loaded into a waiting ambulance. Rushing to a local funeral home . . . or a rented room a few blocks away, again depending on your source . . . Cardinella’s personal doctors worked over Vianna, pumping air into his lungs, drugs into his body, and keeping him warm with a multitude of hot water bottles. The result? Vianna sat bolt upright in absolute confusion (or opened his eyes and groaned, again depending on the source . . .). Either way, his resuscitation had served two intended purposes. One, Cardinella had proven a hanged man could be brought back to life if his neck wasn’t broken and two, Cardinella had the opportunity to avenge himself of Vianna’s betrayal—meaning Vianna’s return to the land of the living didn’t last long.

The elaborate plan was meant to determine if Cardinella could indeed survive hanging, a fate he was most assuredly going to face given the information Vianna had provided. While in prison Cardinella refused to eat and constantly paced about his cell, eventually losing 40 pounds. As he was being brought to the gallows he collapsed and could not be made to walk. So, the guards strapped him to a chair and carried him, chair and all, on to the platform. All of which he did to help ensure he would survive his own death.

It might have worked too, except for some observant guards who wondered why so many people, several of whom appeared to be medical professionals, were there to receive Cardinella’s body after the hanging. The deputy warden eventually ordered the ambulance held at the prison for an hour and then had it followed directly to the funeral home where the director pronounced Cardinella definitely—and permanently—deceased.

There’s no way to actually confirm the particulars of the story, hence the variations that have made their way into Chicago history. Several days after the alleged events local newspapers ran the story . . . supposedly. And the county physician, who was also an eyewitness, recounted the events in great detail . . . supposedly. Cardinella’s life even served as Edward G. Robinson’s inspiration in the film “Little Caesar”, the 1931 movie adaption of William Burnett’s 1929 novel. So, Cardinella may not have been the most recognizable gangster of his day while he lived, but his plan to cheat Death at the gallows assured he would go down in Chicago’s history.

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On Hillside Facing River

Thu, 05 Jan 2023 02:36:00 GMT

There was a time when I was keeping up with the accounts receivable at the funeral home . . . making account cards . . . posting payments . . . putting it in the computer . . . being certain I hadn’t made such a mess that nothing balanced at the end of the month . . . Part of that task (which had absolutely no bearing on the actual process) included going through the funeral records, removing blank pages from the folders so they could be placed in other folders, ready for the next family who might need them. We may go through a forest of paper in order to keep up with everything, but we do try to conserve where we can.

I’m one of those people who could never look up anything in the dictionary or encyclopedia because I always got sidetracked by an interesting picture or a word that caught my eye. Hours later I wouldn’t be any closer to my intended destination, but I’d know all about Martin Van Buren, mainly because his picture looked a lot like Ebenezer Scrooge, which intrigued me. My purging of the funeral folders was equally distracting. The personal information sheets always provided a wealth of insight because those were the families’ opportunities to share with the world the things they loved most about the person who had brought them all together. But on this particular evening those weren’t the papers that stopped my rummaging and reading. It was the sheet completed by a member of the cemetery committee with whom the family had met to approve the selected spot for her burial. It had the usual information . . . her name, the date the family met with a member of the committee, and the member’s signature signifying his approval of their selection. All of which was normal and expected and not at all remarkable. Nothing requiring or even worthy of extended thought. But his description of the spot . . . the landmark he used to guide our grave crew to the right section of the cemetery so they could prepare her final resting place . . . made me pause.

“On hillside facing river . . .”

I looked at those words for a very long time before I put my pen down and stared vacantly out the window, letting my mind wander to a cemetery perched atop a hill, the Tennessee River within sight as it wound its way northward toward the Ohio. Being on a hill there had to be a breeze, so my imagination supplied one—as well as the sound of the water gently lapping against the banks. And trees . . . surely there were trees that offered shelter from the sun. I decided they should be massive and they should be cedars. Ancient cedars like the ones in the National Cemetery at Shiloh. How peaceful would it be to sit in that solitude, to be surrounded by the beauty provided by Nature? Even if there was no breeze . . . even if there weren’t massive, ancient cedars to offer shelter . . . how comforting it would be to sit beside your mother’s grave, remembering the moments of joy while mourning her loss . . . on a hillside . . . facing the river . . .

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Winter’s Promise

Wed, 28 Dec 2022 05:58:00 GMT

The recent, unexpected (at least on my part) arrival of our belated white Christmas set me to thinking . . . I mean, what else did I have to do as we approach the end of the year and all things accounting that go with such? The question at hand was “Do I have a favorite season?”. I thought I knew the answer, but I decided there should still be a comprehensive review of the pros and cons of each before making a final judgement . . . because over-thinking things is what I do. If you don’t believe me, just ask my children.

I started with spring (since that’s the order in which we learn the seasons as littles—even if it isn’t an order that coincides with the beginning of the year). It’s a beautiful time as the whole world explodes with color and Mother Nature awakens from her slumber. The trees put on their leafy canopies . . . the grass recovers the brown earth with a luscious green carpet . . . and the flowers that slept through the cold rise from the earth, filling it with every color imaginable. And my nose runs. And I sneeze a lot. And my eyes water and turn fire engine red from the pollen. Spring is truly a double-edged sword for me—the blessing and the curse to which Adrian Monk, renown fictional detective, so often referred. I love the new life it brings, but I can’t keep enough Kleenex (actually, I use Puffs) on hand.

Almost right after its arrival (or so it seems), spring jumps full force into summer and cranks up the sun. The earth is fully clothed in all her glory and the pollen has been sufficiently tamed so I can enjoy this rebirth without a wad of tissues in my hand. But then it gets hot. Oftentimes unbearably hot. Most of the people I speak with during these oven-like temperatures will tell me they prefer the heat to the cold, but I disagree. I can always add another layer, but there’s only so much I’m willing to remove in an effort to cool down. So yes, summer is lovely . . . if you don’t melt.

If we’re lucky in Tennessee, the heat wave isn’t banished by sub-zero temperatures. Instead, we’ll get to experience fall where again, Mother Nature outdoes herself, changing the all-encompassing green of the landscape to a world on fire, but without the heat that usually accompanies flames. I think sugar maples may be my favorite tree in the fall, bursting with all the reds and golds and oranges—a beautiful blending of colors that can take your breath away if you’re prone to such. And my nose runs. And I sneeze a lot. And my eyes water, turning as red as the leaves on the dogwoods. Because now the beauty of the earth is going back to sleep, preparing for the season to come with its shorter days and bitter cold, sending everything living back into hibernation. Except for the people of course, and we’d probably hibernate too if we were allowed.

And at that point, I think I decided winter might be my favorite season of all the seasons. There’s always the possibility, however fleeting it might be, of snow and all the wonderfulness that goes with it, like snowmen and snow cream and snow angels and snowball fights. As long as being out in it is voluntary instead of mandatory. I’m ok with mandatory too, because I love the cold and the snow and all the hallmarks of a good, solid winter. And yes, I realize not everyone appreciates a good, solid winter. Unfortunately, in Tennessee, it may be ten below today and sixty tomorrow. My nose doesn’t care for that either.

Given all that, many people will think I’ve lost my mind, but I’m declaring winter the winner—at least in my considered opinion—and I would prefer there be no derogatory comments regarding my intelligence . . . or lack thereof. Do you want to know what tipped the scales in winter’s favor? It wasn’t the cold or the snow. It wasn’t the fact that people don’t stir quite as much—something that appeals to the aspiring hermit within me. Nope. None of those things pushed winter to the top of the list.

It’s hope.

With all its desolation and inconvenience, with all its shorter days and often miserably cold nights, complete with frozen pipes and icy roads, winter brings hope. The promise of something new . . . of the rebirth that continues the cycle of life.

Winter brings with it a finality to all that was—and the promise of spring . . . just as the end of one year brings the hope of a better one to come.

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The Ghosts of Christmases Past

Wed, 21 Dec 2022 23:45:00 GMT

See that ornament? It’s made from plastic canvas, intricately cut and stitched until a snowflake magically appears. I’m not sure how old it is . . . how many years I’ve gently pulled it from the boxes where the ornaments for this tree are stored and then searched for just the right spot to place it, but I know the woman who made it—my husband’s grandmother—died in 1992 and it had already graced our tree for a decade or so before that. The year she made these, she gifted each of her grandchildren with at least half a dozen. Before that she had made little white mailboxes trimmed in red which she filled with money and hung on the tabletop tree that sat at the end of her den. That year everyone was allowed to pick their present from the tree, although at the time I’m not sure any of us realized the greater gift wasn’t the cash she shared but the container in which it was given. That money is long since gone but every year those mailboxes are also placed on the tree, surrounded by Christmas lights and memories.

On Christmas morning we’d always migrate to her house (it was just down the street and around the corner) for breakfast, much to the dismay of our children since just moments before they had received an abundance of stuff they were now required to leave. We’d gather around the table in her not quite tiny, but almost, kitchen and come away smelling of country ham and red eye gravy, and full of biscuits with butter and whatever kind of jam or jelly you wanted. And molasses. There had to be molasses. And mountains of scrambled eggs. Only when the size of the family outgrew the size of the table did we move next door to his parents’ house for the same feast.

When my children married and started their own Christmas traditions, I invited them to the house and told them to take the ornaments that meant the most to them. And each one chose some of the snowflakes and the mailboxes that were theirs. Because those were wrapped in her love and spoke of someone long since gone yet still dearly missed.

In the morning I’ll start pondering the schedule for the coming days . . . when I’ll do the mac-n-cheese for Christmas Eve at my daughter’s . . . because her son loves the story “The Snowy Day” where the grandmother always brings her mac-n-cheese that tastes like love on a winter’s day (mine’s ok, but I’m not sure it rates that high) and she knows how excited he’ll be when his Mona walks in with a panful of the stuff. I’ll start planning for Christmas breakfast at their house and what my contribution will be . . . and how I’ll get ready for Christmas supper and when I’ll make all the desserts for all the meals. And is it really possible to get the chaos of Christmas morning cleaned up before our meal with my brother and his family the next day? None of which I mind. All of which I love. And all of which takes planning and preparation . . . and groceries. But tonight?

Tonight, the house is a mess with ribbon and paper scattered everywhere and unwrapped presents still in hiding—just in case a recipient happens to come by unannounced. Tonight, the cookbooks are still out so I can search for the recipes my family has grown to love over the years. And the grocery list . . . I’ve got to make the grocery list, or I’ll leave behind half of what I need. But instead of tending to all of that, tonight I’m sitting in the silence, watching as my feelings become words and scatter themselves across the screen of my laptop. I’ll gaze at the tree with its brightly glowing lights and all the memories it holds of years past and people who are no longer here. And I’ll invite them in so I can relive our time together.

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Keeping Tradition Alive

Wed, 14 Dec 2022 06:08:00 GMT

Several Christmases ago I decided each of my children needed an ice cream freezer. But not just any ice cream freezer. I was looking for the same freezer I had—one with a banded wooden bucket and a motor powerful enough to keep churning when others wimp out. And you know what? Such ice cream freezers are in short supply in the winter. As in non-existent.

Imagine that.

I honestly don’t understand why. It’s like you can’t have homemade ice cream if it’s cold outside? In my world any birthday, no matter the month, calls for whatever flavor ice cream the birthday human desires, hand mixed with the best ingredients and freshly frozen. So far there’s been the traditional chocolate and vanilla plus banana, strawberry, peach, chocolate-chocolate covered cherry, and salted caramel. Those last two were fun . . .

I learned my lesson, and the following summer I ordered two of the freezers and then stored them for six or seven months. And when Christmas rolled around, they simultaneously unwrapped their packages and squealed—well, at least a few of them did. The others just grinned.

Fast forward a bit and it’s time for a birthday celebration in my son’s bunch. So he calls to get my vanilla ice cream recipe. Then he asks me if I’m ok with him making the ice cream ‘cause he knows that’s kinda my thing and he doesn’t want to step in and do it if I’m not all right with it.

He didn’t understand; that’s exactly why I gave it to him.

The day will come, probably sooner rather than later, when I won’t be able or even around to fill the role of mixer and maker of the ice cream. And that’s a tradition that doesn’t need to die with me. Besides, if he makes it, I don’t have to clean out the bucket.

The same holds true with baking. That’s why decades ago I started including my daughter in my cookie creations. I had earned a certain . . . shall we say “reputation”. . . among my kids’ classmates, thanks to the cookies I would take to school, especially with my son’s room when they were working their way through the alphabet, studying a different letter each week. Every Friday, at the teacher’s request, I would arrive with cookies that represented that week’s designated letter. I’d come walking down the hall, treats in hand, to the joyous shouts of “It’s the Cookie Lady!”

Now, after years of “cookiethons” where she and I spend three or four days doing nothing but baking cookies to give away, the pupil has become the teacher. Just this week she showed me a trick to warming butter in the microwave without making a mess or turning it into a puddle. And did you know cookies will actually talk to you? If you listen very carefully, you can hear the moisture in them still sizzling if they aren’t quite done. Believe me, that bit of knowledge kept us from pulling several pans before they were ready. Where I’ll take a recipe and maybe tweak it just a bit, she can start from scratch and create masterpieces.

Every family has their traditions, their recipes and ways, the tricks and tips they’ve learned over the years, and sometimes we make the mistake of believing those aren’t important or we can share that knowledge later, when there’s more time, or they’re older, or . . .

So, what secrets will disappear the day you do? What recipes are family favorites that will always be talked about but never tasted again when you can no longer make them? What traditions come with the holidays that your family may not even think about until you aren’t there to ensure they’re followed?

It’s the time of year when families gather to share and to celebrate. So why don’t you? Share the stories behind the ornaments on the tree, hand out the dressing recipe that came from your mother who got it from hers, who got it from hers. Tell the tales of days gone by . . . and take the time to honor the past and those who dwell there now. It may not seem that important, but one of these days, when you’re no longer around to make the ice cream or bake the cookies—or whatever else it is your family takes for granted you’ll always do, especially around the holidays—someone else can carry on.

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Mom and Pop

Thu, 08 Dec 2022 00:15:00 GMT

Kathryne Hall Shackelford, my paternal grandmother, died quite young (at least in my mind) and very unexpectedly on August 20, 1961. At the end of that month, I would turn five. And at the end of that year, Christmas would arrive with all its festivities . . . but without one very important person.

She was Mom to us, and my grandfather was Pop. He loved her deeply and I’m sure his grief was just as deep as that love. And even though his daily mission was to help others navigate loss, that didn’t mean he could remain unaffected when it became a part of his own life. As much as I’m sure he struggled privately, he was the one who sent the Christmas cards/thank you notes that year. He had ordered them just for that occasion—a combination of good wishes for the season and gratitude for all who had supported him at her death. He was the one who continued his daily trips to the funeral home where he served as a funeral director and embalmer and manager. And he was the one who would now be responsible for all the Christmas shopping.

I don’t know if I had asked for one or if my mother had asked on my behalf, but Thumbelina dolls were the in-demand toy that year, and it had fallen his lot, by choice or direction, to find one for me. And he did. But this was supposed to be a baby doll, and he wasn’t at all satisfied with the blue knit shorts and shirt that came as the standard clothing. So, he found a woman in Bolivar who was an excellent seamstress and asked her to make a gown for him. A beautiful white gown that looked like something an infant might wear to their christening. And she did. And when the time of gift-giving arrived, my Thumbelina doll was the best dressed one on the planet.

Of course, I didn’t know—or care—about any of this at the age of five. My mother shared the particulars of his gift years later. All I knew was I had a new doll that looked so real pretending almost wasn’t necessary. And that Mom wasn’t there. And she would never be there again.

It’s hard to see the holidays through the eyes of a child when Death has snatched away someone they love and they’re trying to understand without really understanding. But it’s harder still when you’ve spent a lifetime with someone you love only to be forced to spend another lifetime without them. Especially when the world around you is glowing with celebrations of the season that you wish you could simply fast-forward through. My grandfather was a unique individual who may have seen his efforts that Christmas as a way to honor his wife and all she meant to our family. And due to his chosen profession, he may have realized early on that although grief is incredibly painful and difficult to endure, especially during the holidays, it’s a part of Life and Loss and something you can’t avoid if you choose to love. I’m also certain he knew Life doesn’t stop because your world feels like it has. Whatever his motivations, I was blessed with a tangible reminder of his strength during Life’s uncertainties . . . and of his love for me.

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No Fear Allowed

Thu, 01 Dec 2022 02:30:00 GMT

The office had closed for the evening, but the building was still occupied (compliments of an ongoing visitation) when I slipped into the lounge through the secret passageway (aka the door from the service hall) to make myself a cup of tea. My entrance caught the attention of the most adorable little human who immediately came running over. Dressed in a plaid shirt that I later realized matched his slightly older brother’s, he was bouncing from pillar to post with a pacifier in his mouth and a fixation on the refrigerator. I told him I was pretty sure it was empty, but he was undeterred. Grabbing the handles on both sides of the appliance, he began tugging with all the might his little body could muster. After a minute or so he would stop, look at me, point to the fridge, and start the process all over again. Much to my surprise, he finally managed to pry open the freezer door, a feat celebrated with a toddler-sized happy dance and accompanied by a lot of pointing indicating I really needed to come look inside. So I did.

In the bottom of the freezer, in the wire basket intended to hold frozen food, was a stuffed possum. I found out later his name is Eddie.

Realizing this could be a problem when the time to depart arrived, I stepped into the other room of the lounge to let his mother know (at least I assumed she was his mother), if they were missing someone come closing time, they might want to check the fridge.

As the evening wore on, one of these young men took a fancy to our sitter. He hung out at the reception desk in the foyer. He sat in her chair or sprawled out on the rug beneath the desk . . . anything he could do to be close—because she paid attention to him and answered his questions and generally treated him like a little adult. So when the time came to vacate the premises, he informed his family he would be staying. The sitter asked where he was going to sleep and he pointed to one of the loveseats saying, “Over there. I’m gonna need a blanket.”

These two little ones were so well-behaved throughout the evening while making themselves at home in our building, exploring all permissible nooks and crannies (and attempting a few that weren’t). And I loved every minute of it. Do you know why?

Because they weren’t afraid. Instead, they were bubbly little fountains of childish joy.

No one taught them to fear the dead or those places they occasionally inhabit. No one constantly shushed them or attempted to tie them to a chair for the entire night, all of which can only lead to open rebellion and eventually a belief that Death is somehow an unnatural part of Life. On that night they were allowed to be children . . . while learning about the very grown-up concepts of loss and grief.

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#LivingRocks

Tue, 22 Nov 2022 23:54:00 GMT

Abby: “Gibbs, I want to celebrate the fact that you are a builder and . . . a catcher of bad guys, and a man of gleaming silver hair.”

Gibbs: “Abby, what are you doing?”

Abby: “People said such nice things about Tom Morrow this morning, and it just made me realize that we shouldn’t wait until people are gone to celebrate them, so I’m starting a movement: #LivingRocks. Although I’m a little bit afraid that people might think I’m talking about an actual rock that’s alive, although that would be really exciting, too.”

McGee: “Abby, I think the fact that you’re celebrating people is awesome.”

Abby: “McGee, I want to celebrate that you can light up a room as fast as you can ping a phone.”

McGee: “Well, thanks . . .”

So goes the conversation in the lab of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service—or NCIS, as the television drama is known. Their former director, Tom Morrow, had died in the line of duty, and his funeral had taken place that morning . . . a service where people obviously did what you do at funerals—share memories and observations that speak highly of the individual. And Abby Sciuto, quintessential science geek and quirky genius, has come to a monumental conclusion. Everyone waits until you’re gone to say nice things about you. Perhaps instead, they should strive to say nice things to you. And so begins her #LivingRocks campaign.

I know we all have people in our lives who are our living rocks . . . the anchors that hold us in place through the storms . . . the roots that have nourished and supported us through the years. Have you told them how much you appreciate them? Have you taken the time to simply say thank you . . . and I love you? Or to possibly even return the favor? It’s so easy to believe there’ll always be another opportunity. Another chance to tell someone how much they mean to you. But we all know, even if we’re unwilling to acknowledge it, that the day will come when there are no more opportunities.

In this season of thanksgiving, midst the chaos of life and the holidays and all that goes with each, take the time. Find the people who mean the most to you and tell them. Tell them. Don’t wait until tomorrow or the “right moment” or the next time you see them. Make the time. Make the opportunity. Make the effort so you can say it to them . . . not about them. Let’s start our own movement in real life and keep it going all year long.

#LivingRocks.

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With Dignity And Grace And Faith And Love

Wed, 16 Nov 2022 04:57:00 GMT

My first encounter with Don Thomas was at a basketball game in what passed for the gym of North Elementary. The building housed grades one through eight back then, and only the upper-level students were allowed to attend things like basketball games, mainly because there wasn’t enough room for everyone and still have the floor clear for the game. Don was two or three years older than I was and on this particular day was seated behind me in the terribly uncomfortable wooden folding chairs that were bolted in rows to the floor. And he decided it would be really funny if he started kicking the back of my seat. Constantly. I don’t remember if one of the teachers spotted him or if I’d finally had enough and turned around to yell at him. Probably the latter. But whatever happened, one of the teachers knew and the episode went from her lips to his grandmother’s ears in record time, mainly because she was one of the seventh and eighth grade teachers at the school.

I got a phone call that evening with an apology I pretended not to understand, so he had to specifically, in great detail, recount what he had done. Who knew that a decade or so later this aggravating elementary school kid would be my brother-in-law?

Don was the super smart one of the three boys. My husband was the gifted sports human, and their younger brother Tim was the one who could take the vacuum cleaner apart and reassemble it—or anything else, for that matter. I don’t know if he ever did, but he could have if he’d wanted to. And it would have still worked. Probably better than it did before. We used to joke that Don was going to be a career student, having graduated from Bethel then enrolling in the Memphis Theological Seminary and then on to Boston College for his doctorate. Or was it Boston University?

See, that was the problem. We knew the Don we always saw at Christmas and Thanksgiving, the Don that found his soulmate later in life and enjoyed 22 years of married bliss. The one that loved to read and travel and enjoyed cooking (his marinated green beans always made the trip home for the holidays). The one who managed to find the humor in every situation. We didn’t know the Don who went to college and went to work and the wheres and whens and whats of his life. And that makes it a bit more challenging when you’re called upon to write the traditional “he did this on this date, and he did that on that date” obituary. Which I was unfortunately asked to do after his very unexpected death on November 11 ^th .

But you know what that does mean? His obituary is more about Don the person than what Don the person did in his lifetime. I managed to find some of the dates and associated things on the cover of the book he wrote about the history of the Olive Hill Cumberland Presbyterian Church. And I scoured his Facebook page for tidbits I could include. But the more I read and the more I scrolled the more I thought about his wonderfully cheesy sense of humor and the brilliance of his mind and his love for his God and his family, especially for his wife Nancy who had made an equally sudden departure in December of 2019.

This year we’ll spend Don’s birthday chauffeuring him to Germantown so his Shelby County friends will have an opportunity to say goodbye. His brother—my husband—will drive the hearse while my daughter and I follow along behind. And on Thursday we’ll all gather in Savannah to bid farewell to a most unique individual who, with dignity and grace and faith and love, weathered the storms Life sent his way. We’ll share our memories and laugh at the stories and honor his legacy with gratitude for the years we had . . . and grief over those we won’t. All in all, it will be a good day, albeit a sad one given the circumstances. But Don will be reunited with his Nancy (although I’m fairly certain they were never truly parted), without the pain and the struggles that had become his life in recent years. And how can we not celebrate that?

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In Grateful Recognition

Thu, 10 Nov 2022 02:08:00 GMT

ARMISTICE SIGNED, END OF THE WAR!

So read the headlines on the front page of The New York Times on November 11, 1918. The agreement between the Allies of World War I and Germany, their last remaining opponent, declared the battles that had raged on the land and sea, and in the air, would officially cease at 11:00 that morning . . . the 11 ^th hour of the 11 ^th day of the 11 ^th month of 1918.

Of course, the fighting did not cease at the appointed hour; shelling actually continued throughout the day, only ending as the sun retreated from the sky. The original agreement was intended to last 36 days and was continually renewed until the Treaty of Versailles was signed the following year. The state of war between the Allies and Germany officially ended on that date, June 28, 1919—five years to the day when Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination set off the chain of events that led to a war which literally encompassed the world.

The following year, on November 11, 1919, Great Britain observed the first Armistice Day, pausing the activities for two minutes of silence in recognition of those who died in the conflict and those who had been left behind. As the years passed, more and more countries began acknowledging the horrors of the war by honoring those who lost their lives during the conflict . . . until the world was again engulfed in strife.

The end of World War II found many nations following the lead of Canada and changing the name of this somber day from Armistice Day to Remembrance Day in honor of all who fought in battle, no matter where or when. Rather than choosing to observe Remembrance Day, the United States changed the name to All Veterans Day . . . which was eventually shortened to the Veterans Day we now celebrate.

So why the history lesson? Because Friday, November 11, 2022 will mark 104 years since the world sought peace at the end of a truly global conflict. And over the intervening years, the honor and recognition of our Veterans Day has grown to include all those who are or have been members of our armed forces. On that day we acknowledge with gratitude their service, whether in combat or not, knowing it required a sacrifice on their parts and the parts of their families. Their lives may not have been demanded of them, but they did not know that when they responded to their country’s call. And they still answered.

Now as this day approaches, with all its parades and proclamations, take a moment and think about the veterans you know. Think back to the original meaning of the day . . . to those who fought and never made it home and those who were blessed enough to survive . . . what they must have seen and heard . . . and how they carried it with them for the rest of their lives. For those who were fortunate enough never to see combat, be grateful for their willingness to go. And above all, take a moment to truly honor all of them for their commitment and dedication to serving our country. The words of Winston Churchill, spoken to Parliament on August 20, 1940, rang true during World War II and still hold true today. “Never . . . was so much owed by so many to so few.”

About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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Happy Birthday!

Thu, 03 Nov 2022 01:19:00 GMT

I’m pretty sure it’s happened to all of us . . . at least I hope it has. I’d hate to think I’m the only person in the world who’s wished a long-deceased human a joyous birthday because Facebook told me I should. Maybe I even got creative and added a giraffe wearing a party hat or included an exploding birthday cake gif, only to realize later the honoree had long since left this earth. But no one told Facebook, so Facebook didn’t know any better. And I followed directions from an unreliable source.

Not long ago I was in the process of catching up on my social media birthday greetings (because, being the procrastinator that I am, I tend to miss a few along the way), when I scanned ahead on the birthday list. I do that whenever I’m catching up so I’ll know how many I’m probably going to miss in the future—and how many I’m pretty sure will no longer care about my celebratory remarks due to circumstances beyond their control. The last time I did that was this Monday . . . while wishing someone a happy so-many-days-after-their-birthday. I looked at November 1 ^st . . . followed by November 2 ^nd . . . and then I stopped on November 3 ^rd . That is the day Nancy Curtis Thomas entered the world, a world she then exited on December 9, 2019 at the very young age of 60.

Nancy was my sister-in-law, the wife of my husband’s older brother. I’m fairly certain not a sweeter person has ever walked this earth, especially not one who could combine that compassionate, loving spirit with the tenacity of a tiger. Although she had battled health issues for a while, her death caught us all by surprise and left a void that will never be filled.

Since I was already on Facebook it only seemed logical that I should go to her page. I’m not sure why, or what I expected to find, but go I did, and for the next few minutes I wandered through her life. It began at the end with a host of friends and family members wishing her the traditional happy birthday in heaven preceded by posts of condolences at her death and those closest to her sharing their grief and their memories. But before that . . . before that was the joy of family—pictures of her children and grands and the holidays they’d celebrated . . . the just because visits that didn’t require a special occasion to be together. There were pictures of Disney World and the Carter Presidential Library and being kissed by a sea lion in New Orleans . . . and opera. Lots and lots of references to opera. She had used her page to update her friends on her physical battles, to give praise when the reports were positive—and to ask for prayers when they were not. And through it all her sweet spirit shone just as brightly as it ever had.

It was only a few minutes. But a few minutes is all it took to trigger a flood of memories—and probably a tear or two. And now, on the morning of Thursday, November 3 ^rd , Facebook will remind me one of my “friends” is having a birthday and that I really should take a moment to send her best wishes in recognition of the occasion. And that’s not such a bad thing if I stop and think about it. I might end up feeling a bit foolish if I forget they’re no longer here to celebrate, but then again, I might be reminded of someone who blessed my life in ways I’ll never be able to express.

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The Hauntings of Hurricane Mills

Wed, 26 Oct 2022 22:42:00 GMT

She didn’t understand why the woman was on her second floor balcony. Granted, she’d been away from home for a while, but no one had mentioned any unexpected guests, and this woman was obviously distraught, pacing back and forth, wringing her hands and silently sobbing. She hurried inside to find the sitter, asking her about the stranger upstairs . . . at which point the sitter assured her there was no one upstairs. Rushing to the second floor, she opened the door to the balcony—only to find it empty. Her mysterious stranger clothed completely in white had seemingly made her way down the stairs without being seen and was now wandering about the cemetery that was on the property.

It was not the last time Loretta Lynn would see The Lady in White.

Delving into the house’s past, she found the name of Beula Anderson, wife of John Anderson, the son of James Anderson, the builder of the home. Beula had given birth to a stillborn son in 1918—a child named for his father and buried in Anderson Cemetery—the same cemetery frequented by the sorrowful spirit. Beula grieved herself to death, following her son twelve days after his birth, and was laid to rest beside him. Loretta believed this was her visitor, still searching for her child, still trapped in her grief as she mourned her loss from so many years before. Later, when she and her family moved from their antebellum home into a newer one on the property, one of her sons joked “the house wasn’t big enough for two women”, and it seemed as though The Lady in White wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Beula was not the only spirit to walk the grounds of the Lynn abode at Hurricane Mills, nor was Loretta the only person to witness the comings and goings of the ghostly apparitions. Her family often had encounters of the other-worldly kind as did those who worked in the home over the years. Take, for instance, the tale told by her son Jack Benny who once fell asleep still wearing his boots; the feeling of someone tugging on them drug him from his slumbers—and the sight of the Civil War soldier who seemed intent upon removing them sent Jack running from the room. Perhaps the soldier wanted the boots for himself. Perhaps he simply wanted to be sure Jack was comfortable. Whatever the reason, Jack didn’t stay to find out.

Anthony Brutto, Loretta’s grandson, had his own introduction to the spirit world one night when the power went out, plunging the house into total darkness. Total that is, but for one chandelier that continued to glow. Despite the fact that everything in the room was on the same breaker, and nothing else seemed inclined to work, the chandelier still burned.

Loretta often spoke of her own psychic abilities, powers she inherited from her mother who foresaw a family tragedy involving the river that flowed through the property years before Loretta’s son Jack lost his life there. In an effort to contact someone from the home’s past, Loretta invited several close friends to assist her in holding a séance. Their communication with the spirit world was successful, if you could call it that, given that the entity identifying himself as “Anderson” seemed quite angry at being disturbed. His response was to violently shake the table around which they had gathered, finally slamming it against the floor and breaking it into pieces.

No matter how you may feel about the ghostly goings on that seem to frequently happen at the Lynn home, you will never convince those who have been unwilling participants that they are anything other than truth. That’s why the tour guides will never take you to the second floor. No visitor is allowed to enter the “Brown Room”, the most haunted place in the house. That was the room where Jack encountered the soldier who so desperately wanted his boots . . . the room where he and his brother Ernest refused to stay after Ernest awoke one night to find two Civil War soldiers watching him as he slept. It is always the coldest room in the house and those who are brave enough to enter may find themselves confronted with unexplained noises . . . rappings that seem to come from the closet . . . a closet filled with Christmas decorations . . . and supposedly nothing more.

It has been over 30 years since Loretta and her family vacated the house, opting for a newer one with fewer previous inhabitants. But that didn’t stop the stories from growing since the spirits continued to make their presence known. Despite their pranks, no one has ever been physically harmed, although one tour guide was pushed off the bottom steps when they accidently brushed against the album covers that lined the stairway wall. Loretta always believed the ghosts tolerated the presence of the living because, when she first learned the house was haunted, she had announced to all of them she would take care of it and “fix it up real nice.” And so she did. Perhaps that’s why she believed ol’ man Anderson was watching over her as she made good on her promise to care for his home. And who knows, with Loretta now buried close by, perhaps she and Mr. Anderson will keep watch over it together.

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The Magical Power of Music

Wed, 19 Oct 2022 23:24:00 GMT

It may not look like much from the outside—and it sure isn’t in the “touristy” part of town, but The Bluebird Café in Nashville, Tennessee is the place legends are born. However, that wasn’t the original plan (like you could actually plan giving birth to legends). Founder Amy Kurland was aiming for an upscale restaurant in the Green Hills area of the city, miles away from Music Row and everything that made the city’s reputation. She chose a spot in a strip mall—a space that had been everything from a game room to a sewing machine store, with a seller of oriental rugs thrown in for good measure. A stage was added at the last minute to accommodate any musicians who might occasionally perform . . . because, I mean, it is Nashville. But you know what they say about the best laid plans . . .

Instead of the upscale restaurant Kurland had envisioned, her dream slowly morphed into a smoke-filled, noisy nightclub where the occasional live music became nightly performances. Two or three years in, someone scheduled an evening in the round where songwriters would entertain as opposed to full-fledged bands, and with that event The Bluebird Café found its true purpose. Some of the most recognizable names in country music would launch their careers there—and find the music that would help make them famous.

It was almost three years later that songwriter Tony Arata was rehearsing for the evening’s show. He had a new song he’d just completed and as he began to play, a struggling young singer rehearsing with him listened intently to the lyrics Arata had so beautifully crafted. As the music faded, he told Arata he wanted that song. When he got his record deal (not if , but when ), he wanted that song on his first album.

Not long after that encounter, that same struggling singer performed as a last-minute fill in for another songwriter. As Fate would have it, a representative from Capitol Records saw the show and the next day, that struggling singer had a record deal with the label. It would be three years before his debut album was released. Three years during which Arata tried to sell the song without finding anyone who was interested. It wasn’t upbeat. The tune wasn’t catchy . . . not one you walked around humming all day. And the words . . . the words were so deeply thought-provoking. And nobody seemed to want their thoughts provoked. So when Garth Brooks called Tony Arata to see if the song he’d claimed three years earlier was still available, it was. And that’s how The Dance became the tenth track for his debut album and a song that’s considered to be one of his signature hits.

When you think about a song as popular as The Dance , don’t you wonder why it was still up for grabs three years after it was written? Could it have been that no one realized the impact a song like that could have on those who are struggling to express the emotions conveyed in its lyrics?

And now I’m glad I didn’t know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d have had to miss the dance

If you pay close attention to Tony Arata’s words, you’ll realize the person speaking has come to the end of something important. Perhaps it’s a relationship, perhaps it’s some monumental life event . . . perhaps Life itself. Whatever the circumstance, that ending has been a painful and permanent one. But had they chosen a different path, one that would allow them to avoid the pain, they would also have missed the beauty and joy that came before.

And that, my friends, is the magical power of music and the stories woven by its melodies and lyrics. On your happiest of days, there are songs that allow you to celebrate. And in the darkest of times, there are those that give a voice to your pain, and freedom to your tears.

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Never Goodbye

Wed, 12 Oct 2022 23:13:00 GMT

It was Tuesday afternoon, and I was in the middle of a Teams meeting. For the uninitiated, that’s a digital gathering during which you may or may not be seen, depending on how you joined the meeting. I always join with audio only, simply because I prefer to be a faceless voice from the great beyond. The others in attendance had begun a discussion ‘mongst themselves that really didn’t involve me, so I logged into my computer to check the news. After all, it had been a busy day. The world could be blowing up and I wouldn’t have a clue. I opened MSN and there, smiling back at me from the monitor, was Angela Lansbury.

It’s never a good sign when a vintage celebrity is smiling back at you from the interweb. I came real close to telling the other folks on the call that I had to go.

Sure ‘nuff, she had died at the grand old age of 96—just five days shy of her 97 th birthday. For most of you that probably isn’t a big deal, but you need to understand, every night, when I get home after a very long day (meaning it’s usually around 10:00 or later), I turn on the TV, set the channel to 95 (Hallmark Movies and Mysteries), and proceed to watch an hour or so of Murder, She Wrote starring the aforementioned, newly deceased actress. That is unless it’s Christmas in July . . . or Christmas in October . . . or some other Hallmark something that replaces the mysteries half of their scheduling. At which point I am annoyed.

Anyone who wants to know anything about her career can consult my good friend Google and read about every stage, screen, and television role she’s ever had. You can find out her first real acting gig was in Gaslight at the age of 17, playing a cockney maid to Ingrid Bergman’s lead. That first film role earned her an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress—and a social worker who had to follow her around on the set because she was so young. You can read about her extraordinary dedication to her family and their move to Ireland to help her children recover from their drug addictions. You might find out that with 111 film credits already, she had just this year finished her 112th role. And of course, any parent would recognize the voice of Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast. And any fan of television mysteries from 1984 – 2003 would remember the ever-observant Jessica Fletcher, retired English teacher, author, and amateur detective from Cabot Cove, Maine who traveled the world solving crimes . . . because you can only have so many murders in one small town.

What you may not find is that she loved simply staying at home, spending evenings with family and friends—and housekeeping. This woman loved cleaning her house. Reading, riding, and cooking . . . playing tennis and the piano . . . and gardening . . . all of those activities held a special place in her life. F. Scott Fitzgerald was her favorite author—and she claimed Roseanne and Seinfield as her preferred TV shows. She understood the responsibility that came with her position of influence, conducted her personal life in privacy, and her professional life with dignity, grace, and consideration of those with whom she worked. People magazine gave her a perfect score on their “lovability index”, while the New York Times referred to her as “The First Lady of Musical Theatre” and her biographer termed her an American icon with a “practically saintly” public image. As Variety put it in their October, 2020 article about her life and work, “Though powerful women were sometimes maligned . . . Lansbury has created a 77-year career and nobody has a bad word to say about her.” Make that 80 years now.

So this past Tuesday night, I walked into the kitchen a bit after 11:00, switched on the TV, and changed the channel to 95. It was a re-run of “Death Takes a Curtain Call” and Jessica had just informed Major Anatol Karzof, a Russian police officer played by William Conrad, that she was about to board a bus back to Cabot Cove. He spread his arms wide and said, “Then it is farewell only. Never goodbye.” And given the events of the day, I found that to be very fitting.

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A Beautiful Night

Wed, 05 Oct 2022 22:37:00 GMT

It was a beautiful night. There was a gentle breeze drifting through the trees—a breeze that cooled the night air, creating a welcome change from the heat of the previous days. The velvet black of the sky formed the perfect backdrop for the stars that were sprinkled across it—a million pinpoints of light shining down on a quiet world.

I found myself walking under this magnificent sky along a path laid out years before . . . walking in the silence that so often envelopes the final resting place of the dead. Normally you won’t find me traversing a cemetery at night, but that night was different. That night I had been invited to stand watch over the grave of one who had given his life in the line of duty, on exactly the date he had heroically rushed toward the danger, at precisely the moment his life had ended.

It wasn’t his official time of death. That would come later, when the medical professionals had done their best to save him and then acknowledged the futility of their efforts. But his friends knew. Those who were with him when tragedy struck knew the moment Life surrounded to Death.

We gathered in the darkness, quietly waiting, conversations held in whispers as the candles we held warmed our hands. Some had placed them on the grave. Others continued to hold them until the warmth became uncomfortable. As we waited, a car pulled into the drive, followed by another, and another, and another—a line of over 30 law enforcement, first responders, and medical personnel, lights flashing, silently approaching his place of rest, driving past in a show of respect and honor for one of their own. As they slowly moved to the grassy field beside the drive, parking side by side with lights still flashing, his mother spoke in a voice filled with emotion and awe, “It’s just like that night . . .” That night when they brought him home. That night when his body lay in state while countless people came to say goodbye. That night . . .

A few fitting words were spoken . . . a scripture read . . . a prayer said. In the silence that followed, his mother observed, “All we need now is a Taylor Swift song.” Anyone who knew him knew he loved Taylor Swift and to grant her wish, her husband pulled out his phone and found “Back to December”. From atop his monument—his monument covered with flowers and flags, candles and bottles of Mello Yello—the music filled the air.

It was a beautiful night. A beautiful night for remembering a beautiful soul.

Matthew Stephen Locke

March 6, 1991 ~ September 25, 2021

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Tell Me Your Story

Wed, 28 Sep 2022 23:30:00 GMT

About this time every year (unless there happens to be a pandemic raging), my daughter and I attend STORY. Held in the beautiful (and maze-like) home of the Nashville Symphony, The Schermerhorn (which neither of us can pronounce), the gathering is two days of inspiration overload. It has been attended by delegations from Amazon, Google, and Disney, just to name a few—and folks who are basically semi-normal human beings . . . like my child and me.

This year, the creator, organizer, and host of STORY, Harris III (enunciated as Harris the third) shared with us the origins of STORY—how an awkward moment in time and reluctant compliance with a spur of the moment request, led to a conference that has literally impacted thousands of lives. Actually, more like tens of thousands . . . maybe even hundreds of thousands over the last seven years.

Harris began his career as a magician compliments of a magic kit given to him one Christmas by his grandparents—a magic kit that was disappointingly not a baseball glove. That unwanted gift quickly opened the door to the truly unlimited possibilities that magic magically holds. And although life was kind enough to grant him success in his chosen profession, it had also carried some hard lessons, costly lessons that put him back on the road performing in schools and small venues in order to support his family. One such spot was a town in Michigan where he was scheduled to entertain the students of a local high school, mostly in hopes his trailer of a performance would convince them to drag their families to the full-blown show later in the day. Normally that involved a bit of magic carried out with no personal commentary regarding the magician and his life thus far. But on this day . . . on this day the principal of the school asked him to not only perform his illusions but to tell the kids how they were being tricked into making the unwise decisions for which youth is so often known. That was not at all what Harris had in mind.

The show began, the students responded appropriately, and as his final trick, Harris freed himself from a straitjacket, holding it high above his head to the accompanying applause. Thinking he had also escaped the need for any personal revelations, he scanned the crowd . . . only to have his eyes land on the principal, leaning against the wall with a huge grin and two thumbs up. The realization smacked him in the pit of his stomach. He was going to be required to say something very unmagical, and he had no idea what that something would be.

So, standing there on the stage, still holding the straitjacket aloft, Harris told the kids about the straitjackets he had faced, wrapping up his discourse with the observation that everyone has a straitjacket in their life, and it’s something from which they could escape. There was a smattering of applause as the students filed out of the room . . . except for one. One child who came toward him rather than walking away. She had something she wanted to give him and when he held out his hands, she pulled a razor blade from her pocket and dropped it into them. For so many reasons, she no longer felt she was worthy. She had chosen to begin harming herself as a way to regain control of something in her world . . . and she had just handed Harris her weapon of choice. When he asked why, she told him he was the first person to ever make her believe her life mattered.

Harris left that day with her words and actions weighing on his heart. His story, which he reluctantly shared at the insistence of a stranger, was precisely the story she needed to hear. And it changed her life. The power of that story was undeniable . . . and if his story could change one life, how many other lives could be changed if everyone was willing to do the same? The results were not immediate, but eventually that encounter led to the birth of STORY.

I asked Harris if I could share his experience with you because I too, know the impact of the right story, told at the right time, to the right person. In my world it’s most evident in the presence of Death. Those who are grieving need something to hang onto . . . hope that the pain will eventually subside, and they’ll be able to see something besides the darkness of loss. And the only people who can truly give them that hope are those who have made the journey before them; they are the only ones who can speak from experience. For those of you who have traveled that road, your stories hold great power. They offer a glimpse of a brighter future . . . they grant permission to the suffering to give voice to their pain . . . to be heard in their grief and to find light in the long, dark tunnel ahead.

To those of you who have walked this path—even though your journey continues—I encourage you . . . I beg you . . . to share your story with others, to become a companion and guide for those who are being forced to follow in your footsteps by circumstances over which they have no control. Your words are powerful. Your story can lead to hope and adjustment and healing.

But only when it is shared.

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Uniquely You

Wed, 21 Sep 2022 13:15:00 GMT

This past Monday, at precisely 11:00 AM British local time (which is 5:00 AM in Hardin County, Tennessee, where I was peacefully sleeping), the state funeral for Queen Elizabeth II began in Westminister Abbey. Her service, and the events before and after, had been carefully planned, scripted over the years by tradition and the desires of the Queen.

Slightly less than an hour later the service drew to a close at which time the entire country fell silent for the next two minutes, somberly waiting as the seconds quietly ticked away. The playing of reveille declared the official end of the service at noon, followed by the United Kingdom national anthem and a lament by the royal piper to the Queen—the same gentleman who played for her each morning—a 15 minute serenade from beneath her window. The Queen’s body was carried from the Abbey, destined for Saint George’s Chapel and a private committal service, but not before processing through the streets of London while the bells of Big Ben tolled in celebration and mourning.

Acknowledging her own mortality, the Queen had been planning her funeral for years, even going so far as to work with Jaguar on the design of the Land Rover hearse that would eventually carry her coffin. And during that time, she had one overriding concern . . . her funeral was not, under any circumstances, to be boring.

Granted, it’s hard to imagine a boring funeral service for someone as unique as the Queen of England and beyond. This was a woman who rubbed elbows with 13 of the last 14 U. S. presidents, who met with leaders from all over the world during her 70 year reign—a tenure which, I might add, was only bested by King Louis XIV of France who ruled for over 72 years . . . but he started at age four. If ever anyone’s life would lend itself to a really spectacular going away party, Queen Elizabeth II would most certainly be that person.

But you know what? Almost everyone has a life worth remembering and memorializing. And since no two people are the same, every service has the opportunity to be as unique as the person being honored, as long as those in charge of the planning understand they are not bound by the constraints of tradition or the expectations of others. Consider the person you’re honoring, their life and their passions, and find ways to tell their story so the world can know them as you do. Are they hardcore University of Tennessee fans? Then we need to end the service with a rousing version of “Rocky Top”. Oh, wait . . . it’s Alabama you say? Then everyone in attendance needs to be wearing something crimson, even if it’s a ribbon or armband provided at the door. Were they Abbott and Costello fans who could recite, word for word, “Who’s On First?” and never miss a beat? Then play the clip at the service. Perhaps they were fantastic bakers, known throughout the county for their melt in your mouth Tea Cakes that took first place at the fair. Every.Single.Year. Then pass out the recipe to everyone who comes—and if you’re feeling really industrious, include a cookie, too.

Very few folks in this world will ever be as famous or as wealthy or as long-lived as the Queen, but we all have a story to tell, and just because we’ve moved from this world to the next doesn’t mean it still shouldn’t be told. It’s up to those of us left behind to plan a farewell party that’s as fascinating as they were.

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Trinkets and Legacies

Thu, 15 Sep 2022 02:23:00 GMT

There is a street in town that I drive down every day. Twice in fact . . . once going to work and once going home. And even though it isn’t a very long street, it’s long enough to have seen a great deal of activity lately, unfortunately most of it not so great.

On this particular day I was following my usual route . . . turn off Wayne Road at the light, turn left at the next intersection, through the first stop sign and then the second, right again and right once more. Only this time, approximately half way to my destination, I caught sight of a box truck . . . a U-Haul backed under the carport of a woman I knew. A teacher I had known for years. One who had recently left this world for better plains.

Stacked around the carport and behind the ramp of the truck were boxes, all shapes and sizes, packed with what I knew were her personal belongings, those material possessions whose presence she had lived in over the last years of her life. And now here they were, things that meant something to her, destined for new homes, hopefully to live with other members of the family or at least with people who would appreciate and care for them as she had. The physical and historical connections might not be there, but perhaps they could continue to provide joy to someone else.

That evening, as I made my way home, I looked again at the carport . . . the now barren carport that showed no signs of the day’s activity. The curtains no longer graced the windows and a broom leaned against the wall of the house, proof it had been cleaned and swept in preparation for its new occupants, whoever they might be, whenever they might arrive. And the whole scene reminded me of an episode of Murder, She Wrote entitled “Death Takes a Curtain Call”. William Conrad is filling the role of Major Anatole Karzof of the KGB. He and Jessica Fletcher stand side by side in a poorly lit room as an officer empties the contents of a manila envelope onto a desk—the personal belongings of Russian security officer Serge Berensky who was killed as the two Russian ballet dancers he was guarding defected. As they look upon these possessions taken from his body and bagged as evidence, Karzof observes, “Isn’t it sad how a man’s whole life can be reduced to a pile of trinkets.”

Although that line sounds terribly philosophical, I’m not at all certain it’s terribly accurate. Can anyone’s life really be reduced to their material possessions, no matter how great or how small their value might be? We should be defined by far more than our wealth—or lack thereof—but unfortunately that isn’t always the case.

Although the very nice person I referenced in the opening of this post owned a houseful of stuff, that’s not what her family will remember. It isn’t what her friends will picture when her name is mentioned. And it most certainly isn’t what will come to mind when her former students recall their classroom days. What they will remember is the person she was and how she impacted their lives . . . and it simply is not possible to pack that kind of legacy into a box.

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Remembering You

Wed, 07 Sep 2022 23:07:00 GMT

It was a beautiful day last Sunday . . . at least that morning. But the afternoon? Not so much, given the rainy, windy weather that set it and seemed content to stay for a while.

I was driving to Collinwood, a lovely journey through the country where enjoyment is mandatory because speed can be dangerous if not deadly. It was my annual trip to record for posterity (and Facebook) what is known as Decoration Day at the Memorial Gardens there, but which I simply refer to as amazing. As I drove I passed several cemeteries and side roads that led to others . . . Sunny Hill, Lutts, Cromwell Crossroads, and Bear Creek Copeland where the narrow path leads deep into the woods—woods which open to reveal a place of peace, dotted with nameless handmade crosses meant to mark someone’s final resting place when money was scarce but the desire strong.

For those who aren’t familiar with the area, the Memorial Gardens in Collinwood sit adjacent to the funeral home in Collinwood, a convenient happenstance when one wishes to hold a funeral and a burial without too much travel in between. Across Fire Tower Road that runs beside the cemetery sits McGlamery Church, which also has a burial ground of the same name adjacent to it—and which just happens to celebrate Decoration Day on the same first Sunday in September.

I want you to understand, the people of this community believe in a good, old-fashioned Decoration. When I arrived at the funeral home, there was barely a place to park, and I really thought I was early enough to avoid the crowds. Families were scattered about the property, canopies set up to shelter them from the sun or lawn chairs nestled into the shade of the trees that grace the property. Some literally sat at the feet of Jesus—the feature in one of the gardens—while others wandered about, visiting with friends and admiring the efforts of so many. Folks would arrive, carrying mums or other flowers meant to be added to those that already covered the grave. But those decorations weren’t limited to just flowers. If you could think of it and find a way to use it, then there was probably at least one to be found, from a child’s barn complete with farm animals and their caretaker to an enormous wooden cross that towered above the grave it marked.

All of this effort resulted in an amazing landscape—an instance where the total was truly greater than the sum of the parts. And I know how much effort it took to accomplish that. In the past I’ve been privileged to watch as parents and grandparents brought their young ones to these sacred grounds days before the event, allowing them to help as they decorated the graves, showing them the beauty of their work and the work of others while sharing with them their heritage and how special it can be when it’s honored in that fashion. On that Sunday morning there was an abundance of children present, but there was also respect for the occasion and those whose memories they had come to honor.

As I reached the farthest boundary of the cemetery I could hear the strains of “I Saw the Light” floating across the air from McGlamery. They had gathered there as well, with services being held in the shade of the massive trees surrounding the church and dinner on the ground planned for later. But the breeze had begun to pick up and the clouds to roll in. I was 45 minutes from home and driving the curves of Highway 203 in a downpour was not my idea of a good time. Honestly though, I wanted to linger . . . to sit in the shade at McGlamery or wander the gardens beside the funeral home. It was a morning that made me long for the spirit of community and the sharing of memories . . . and the peace that comes in the company of the dead and the living who honor their lives.

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It’s OK

Wed, 31 Aug 2022 23:08:00 GMT

She walked to the center of the stage with confidence—confidence that was tempered by the slightest case of nerves. Her lean frame looked more like skin stretched across bone and her closely cropped hair provided a clue as to why. During the pre-audition questions the judges learned it had been several years since she’d worked compliments of a cancer diagnosis which redirected her focus. It was then she revealed the disease was still in her lungs . . . her spine . . . her liver. After an awkward moment the observation came. “So . . . you’re not ok.” And her response? “Well, not in every way.”

The stage was that of America’s Got Talent . Her name was Jane Marczewski, but she went by Nightbirde when she performed—something she’d been unable to do for a while. Later videos revealed she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer in 2017. At the news, her husband of five years divorced her, triggering a mental breakdown brought on by the stress of her illness and his abandonment. In 2019 her doctors told her she had three months to live. Six at the most. Yet here it was—2021—and there she stood, fulfilling a dream, performing an original song called “It’s OK” . . . a song she had written to document the last year of her life.

As the final note faded away she stepped back from the microphone and waited, wrapped in a silence that must have seemed eternal . . . until the judges and the audience rose to their feet, acknowledging the literal performance of a lifetime. As the applause subsided Howie Mandel noted the authenticity of her effort while Sofia Vergara called it powerful and heart-felt, leading Heidi Klum to observe that Jane’s uniquely beautiful voice had given her chills. With a smile that lit up the entire stage, Jane made one statement that could easily have summed up her entire life . . .

“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy.”

This woman, 30 years old, who was literally fighting for her life, who had thus far proven every doctor wrong, had determined she was going to be happy. Whatever came her way, she had chosen to be happy.

During the after-performance interview Jane revealed she only had a two percent chance of survival. But she reveled in that two percent. After all, “Two percent is not zero percent! Two percent is something! And I wish people knew how amazing it is.”

Simon Cowell had waited until last to render his judgement. Despite his positive critique of her voice and her performance . . . his agreement that she had a truly authentic style in which she casually shared her story with them . . . he also noted there had been some great singers who had auditioned throughout the year. And with that observation he looked at her and said, “I’m not going to give you a yes. I’m gonna give you something else.” And then he reached for the buzzer that sends some lucky someone straight to the finals, and covered the stage in gold.

Months later Jane removed herself from the competition. The disease she wouldn’t allow to keep her from dreaming had tightened its grip on her life. She was going to focus on her treatments and her health and in a moving video conversation with the judges of America’s Got Talent , told the world “I think we’re witnessing such a beautiful picture of the human spirit and the triumph of the human spirit. I think it’s restored my faith in humanity a whole lot. To see people come together just over the fact that we all hurt . . . we all suffer and we all have the potential to overcome.”

Within 24 hours of the audition, her original song, “It’s Ok” topped the charts. Today it has been streamed over ten million times on Spotify and viewed over forty-five million times on YouTube. And in the midst of so much success and such a positive impact on the world, Jane Marczewski died on February 19, 2022. But not before reminding the world . . .

“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy.”

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Emotionally Perfect

Wed, 24 Aug 2022 22:42:00 GMT

I have no idea what happened, but I started Saturday night thinking it was Sunday. I had spent the entire Saturday day doing my normal Saturday stuff, but at some point that evening I sprang forward 24 hours and landed in a completely new day. So I did one of the things I usually do on Sunday nights . . . I posted a meme to the funeral home’s Facebook page. It was a post meant to reflect how Mondays (or any day really) can go in the world of work and, thanks to the magic of Facebook scheduling, it would magically appear at precisely 8:30 PM to be seen that Sunday night and all the next day. Then I went about my business until about 9:30 when I was suddenly smacked in the head by the obvious. It wasn’t Sunday night.

So I went to our Facebook page and, sure ‘nuff, there was Monday’s intended post. Since very few people had seen it I decided to delete it and schedule it correctly. But right before I hit the button that can erase the world, I noticed a comment . . . from a commenter who was none too pleased with the meme I had chosen . . . because our business is what it is and, in their considered opinion, this was inappropriate and distasteful for a funeral home. And it looked like this:

As I pondered that comment I came to realize there are several professions in this world where the public expects you to always be in control. Anger is not allowed. Despair is forbidden. Frustration shouldn’t even consider showing its face. Ministers come to mind. And doctors and nurses. Definitely emergency personnel in all forms and fashions. And funeral directors. But the truth of the matter is, none of that is true.

We’re all human. All those people who are so often held to a higher standard where emotional expression in the line of duty is concerned, are human. I can’t speak for the ministers or the medical professionals or emergency personnel—or any others who might be cursed by such expectations—but I can tell you there are days when funeral directors feel exactly like that second picture. When the night has been short and the day will be long, the frustration comes more easily. When Death has tragically claimed one who should have had decades more to live, the despair and depression can be overwhelming. And honestly, when a family cannot, for whatever reason, put aside their differences and come together long enough to honor someone worthy of their love and respect, there is anger . . . and a great deal of head-shaking.

Do we like our jobs? That depends on which part we’re discussing. Do we enjoy seeing families whose hearts are broken, whose souls are crushed by the weight of loss and the grief it brings? Do we enjoy having their anger and their pain directed toward us because the one person truly responsible for all of it is the one person at whom they cannot yell? No. No to all of it.

But do we feel a sense of purpose and find satisfaction in being able to help those who call on us? Are we grateful for the privilege of being able to serve and for any kind words we may receive for our efforts? Oh yes. A thousand times, yes.

So when the monster begins to rear its ugly head, we take a deep breath and we push it back to the depths from which it came and we walk with those who are traveling through the darkness of grief. And hopefully they never see the negative emotions we’re struggling to contain.

That meme wasn’t deleted because someone didn’t necessarily approve. I deleted it because it posted on the wrong day. And I didn’t choose not to reschedule it because it was met with disfavor. I realized it could serve a greater purpose by reminding all of us there are simply days that tear at us and wear us down and drive us to the brink of literal madness. And on those days I hope we can all have a little compassion and a little understanding when someone’s humanity slips out from behind their otherwise emotionally perfect mask.

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An Honest, Cultured, Kind-Hearted Man

Wed, 17 Aug 2022 22:48:00 GMT

“Wednesday noon Mr. Daniel C. Turrentine, who had been in declining health for some weeks, died at the Fariss Hotel here. The deceased had lived here for more than a quarter of a century and had been employed in the life insurance business. For several years, however, he had not been as active in a business way as formerly . . .”

So began an obituary published in the December 6, 1929 edition of The Savannah Courier. The subject of said obituary, as mentioned in the opening sentence, was Mr. Daniel Clark Turrentine, the son of General Daniel Clower and Caroline Lucy Turrentine, one of fourteen children—seven of whom were boys and seven of whom were girls. At the time of his death, D. C., as he seemed to be known about town, was the last remaining sibling. Having never married, his only surviving family members were two nephews.

Born in 1852 (or 1856, or possibly even 1859, depending on your source) in Gadsden, Alabama, (a town which his father helped co-found along with Gabriel and Joseph Hughes), D. C. spent his childhood learning to be a devout Christian and contributing member of society from the example set by his parents—parents who lived their beliefs, starting the first Sunday school in the area and organizing the First Methodist Church there in 1845.

In his early twenties D. C. affiliated with the Mutual Benefit Association, selling life insurance for the next 50 years. Fifteen of those years were spent in Kentucky. The next 35 found him living and working in Savannah, Tennessee.

As his death notice in the local paper continued, it became evident that D. C. was well thought of in the community. “The deceased numbered his friends by the hundreds throughout this section . . . When asked on any occasion as to his work and purpose in life, the invariable answer was, ‘I am helping to provide for the widows and orphans of the land.’”

On December 4, 1929, D. C. Turrentine died of a heart attack at the age of 73 (or possibly 75 or even 77, again depending on your source). Given the lack of family, H. T. Polk of Nashville made the arrangements for his service which was held on a Thursday afternoon at the Methodist Church in Savannah. Rev. W. A. Stroud officiated with R. E. Shackelford in charge. He was buried in Savannah Cemetery and sometime later a monument was erected to mark his eternal resting place. And the inscription?

“Thirty five years ago, he came here a stranger and made this his home until his death. He was an honest, cultured, kind hearted man, thoughtful of all and his love for children was great. In appreciation of his life among us, which was an inspiration and a benediction to both old and young, his many friends count it a privilege to erect this monument to his memory.”

What better testimony could there be to a life well lived?

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The Next Chapter

Wed, 10 Aug 2022 22:53:00 GMT

In 1926 Robert Ernest and Loura Paisley Shackelford moved to Savannah, Tennessee from Giles County. They borrowed $500.00 from a local bank and on October 11th of that year purchased the undertaking business of E. P. Churchwell & Son. Not long after, R. E. placed his first advertisement in the Savannah Courier in which he stated “In offering you my services as an embalmer and funeral director I do so with a full sense of the responsibility that rests upon the mortician when called upon to render services.” The date was October 16, 1926; with that notification, R. E. and Loura opened what would eventually become five full service funeral homes, four satellite chapels, and three cemeteries, all located in West and Middle Tennessee. The first family they served, as recorded in the ledger books which still live in storage in Savannah, was that of Mr. David Newton Arnold on October 23, 1926. Since that time, five generations of the Shackelford family have dedicated themselves to their communities and to their profession.

Over the last several years we as a family came to realize the future of the Shackelford firms depended upon our finding a partner who could help ensure the continuation of these businesses. We had been approached by different companies but honestly, none seemed to be what we were looking for—a company whose business philosophy would allow us to continue serving our communities as we have . . . a company that would care for our employees the way we care for them . . . a company that wouldn’t force us into a mold where we did not fit. But things were different when we sat down with the representatives of Park Lawn, a company that has been in operation since 1892, and the more we spoke with them, and the more we learned about them, the more it felt as though things were finally right. These were the people who would allow us to continue focusing on the families we serve and the employees who make that possible, with very little to no disruption. These were the people for whom we had been searching.

It was an almost year-long process that began on September 1, 2021. It was a time filled with research and discussions, a lot of prayer and anxiety, and some very hard decisions, but today we believe we have chosen a partner that reflects our philosophy of personal service and dedication, a company we firmly believe will continue to care for those suffering from loss and those serving them in their time of grief while protecting the history of a business that has been family owned and operated for 96 years.

So, what does this transition mean for the families we have served and will continue to serve? Let me begin by saying the family members presently working in the businesses will continue to work in the businesses. The employees who have assisted you during times of loss and grief will continue to be there for you. For those of you who have wisely decided to prearrange your services, your funds are safe and will continue to be available at the time of need. Preneed funds invested in insurance will remain so, continuing to increase in value. Those funds invested in trusts will continue to be governed by the laws of the State of Tennessee and audited on an annual basis, just as they are now. In other words, very little will change. We will still be Shackelford Funeral Directors.

This partnership will allow us to continue the Shackelford tradition of service for generations to come. It will allow the family members and managers to focus more on those who call upon us and less on the administrative duties required in operating a business. It will allow us to continue being who we are long after those of us currently serving as the caretakers and decision makers for the businesses are gone.

We want you to know this is not the end of an era or even a new beginning. This is simply the next chapter . . . the next chapter in a story that’s been 96 years in the making . . . one we hope we’ll still be writing 96 years from today.

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Cue The Fireworks

Wed, 03 Aug 2022 23:03:00 GMT

When I was in elementary school, and then high school, and then college, I was never able to use the dictionary or the encyclopedia as reference books. I would always get sidetracked by a picture or an article that looked interesting . . . and three hours later I’d still be working my way toward my intended destination with absolutely no ETA.

Technology has only made this worse. Especially when I find an intriguing article and then, at the bottom of that article, are links to what appear to be other intriguing articles. This is particularly true with those sites that are offering advice (or condemnation) by the mentors or the masses. If it isn’t Dear Prudie or Dear Abby, it’s Slate or Am I the *******, all of which occasionally offer up some of the most absurd situations you could possibly imagine. For example . . .

A gentleman wrote in seeking validation for a decision he had made—a decision that built an insurmountable wall between him and his daughter. It seems his first wife—the mother of the aforementioned daughter—had died, leaving him a sizeable inheritance that included a lovely beach house which had belonged to her family and what seemed to be a ton of cash. A few years later he found a young lady in her twenties (he is in his forties) and they eventually married, as his family looked on suspiciously.

Fast forward a year. One whole year. And he decided to leave everything to his new wife. Everything . The beach house . . . the cash . . . everything will be hers at his death, leaving nothing for the daughter or the grandson he and his deceased wife shared. And, he didn’t see a reason to give this information to his now disinherited child—until she mentioned the beach house and how many wonderful childhood memories were made there and how much she looked forward to her grandchildren doing the same someday . . . at which point she asked him outright if the beach house would still be hers at his death.

You can’t tell me somebody didn’t put a bug in her ear.

To his credit, her father replied honestly. Everything is going to wife number two with whom he will probably also have children given her age. He didn’t see a problem with that, either because he didn’t want to or because he was completely oblivious to the devastating consequences of his actions.

Cue the fireworks.

Granted, they didn’t explode immediately, mainly because his child was too shocked to react or respond. But it didn’t take long for her to make her feelings known. Although she was polite—in the beginning—she certainly didn’t mince words and by the time the conversation ended he knew exactly how she felt, which was angry and betrayed. And he still didn’t reconsider his decision. He did, however, post his predicament on one of those websites that asks a total stranger for advice . . . except in his case he was seeking approval for the course of action he had chosen.

He didn’t get it.

The columnist started by assuring this gentleman he was well within his rights to leave his worldly possessions to whomever he chose. And then he let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was a terrible person for taking what his wife—the mother of his daughter—had left to him, trusting that their child would eventually receive that inheritance, and leave it to a woman he’d been married to for a year. It was fine, even expected, that he should provide for her in some manner, but to leave her everything that his first wife had brought into their marriage was a travesty and extremely disrespectful of the relationship they’d had.

Believe it or not, this situation arises more often than you might think among families who are dealing with loss. I’ve always said Death and alcohol bring out the best or the worst in people, depending upon who they really are, and I should probably add money to that list. And who gets to hear the stories? The funeral director in the arrangement conference. And the secretaries in the office. And anyone else who will make eye contact and halfway listen. If someone didn’t go ransack the house before Death arrived, then they went right before the arrangement conference (or even during, when they’re fairly certain everyone else is otherwise occupied), or they change the locks so they have complete control over who else enters the property. And it isn’t much better when they learn they’ve been left out of the will in favor of a spouse that isn’t also their parent. Families that might otherwise have enjoyed each other’s company at Christmas are now mortal enemies because somebody died and somebody else got greedy.

If anyone is expecting this to wrap up with some handy dandy tips on how to navigate financial mess at death, I highly recommend not holding your breath. All I can say is please consider the children left behind when a newly acquired spouse enters the picture, and please don’t shove your family aside over money and material possessions. In the overall scheme of things, what you may gain is never worth the cost.

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Love In Action

Wed, 27 Jul 2022 15:00:00 GMT

My crew recently took a family vacation. Well, actually if you read this before Friday, we’ll still be taking a family vacation. One that, quite honestly, may be the death of me and will most certainly require a week of recovery. Maybe two.

While on said vacation we decided to spend a day at an amusement park. It was kind of a nod to the grandkids (and the abundance of roller coasters appealed to half the adults . . .) so off in the sweltering sun we went, slathered in sunscreen and prepared to come back as puddles.

Now before I proceed I would like to say that this particular post has absolutely nothing to do with for real death. It doesn’t have any words of wisdom or cynical bits of what might pass for humor. But while at this amusement park I saw something that absolutely warmed my heart. And given the current state of our world, I thought a little heart-warming might benefit all of us.

We have a three year old Malcolm who is too little for massive roller coasters, and a seven year old Cora who doesn’t care for them one bit. Meaning we spent several hours in the section of the park that catered to both their situations. One particular ride involved cars shaped like frogs. You could seat as many as four tiny people in one frog, but most of them only held one or two . . . perhaps a parent and a child or two children. When it was Malcolm’s turn to ride, his mommy rode with him and he absolutely loved it. The breeze blew his hair back as the frog moved up and down, just like any self-respecting hopping frog would do. And he would get so excited when he’d pass his daddy, Mona, and Poppa Joe (those last two would be his Thomas grandparents) and realize we were watching him ride. Oh, to be three again . . . But in the carrier behind them, things were not so well. An adorable young man, who might have been five but certainly no more than six, was seated in the front while his blonde-haired, younger sister sat behind him. She looked to be three, and I’m sure her mother thought all would be well when she put them on the ride and then took her place behind the fence, prepared to watch and smile and wave and record.

It wasn’t.

The ride had barely started when the little girl let out an ear-piercing scream that morphed into a terrified wail that only stopped when she needed to gasp for air . . . and even I with my bifocals could see the tears streaming down her sweet face that was growing redder by the minute. Her brother, who didn’t seem to have any issues when the ride first started, began frantically waving at his mother, and quietly yelling—if there is such a thing—“I don’t like it! I don’t like it!” All the while trying to comfort his sister that he couldn’t even reach because they were both so small and far apart.

After what I’m sure they thought was forever, the ride began to slow. The frogs ceased their hopping and everything gradually came to a stop. But while they were still moving, ever so slightly, that young man unbuckled his safety belt, jumped down from the carrier, and climbed in beside his sister. Then he dropped to his knees in front of her, wrestling with her safety belt as he tried desperately to free her from what had become an implement of torture, all the while telling her it was all right. Everything would be all right.

There was so much love in that moment. There may be times when they’re ready to kill each other at home, but at that moment, stopping her pain was the only thing he cared about. And he did everything in his power to do just that.

Their mother rushed over when the ride came to a complete stop, unbuckled the harness and lifted her from the seat. Then she looked at her son and smiled, took his hand, and they left.

I hope he always loves his little sister that way. I hope he always wants to protect her and care for her and save her from the world . . . including any hopping frogs that may cross her path. And I hope she always realizes how blessed she is to have that kind of big brother.

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The Mysterious Journey of Mr. Merriweather

Wed, 20 Jul 2022 22:36:00 GMT

We’ve all had the misfortune of sending or expecting to receive a package or letter, only to be disappointed because it seemingly vanishes into thin air. I, for one, firmly believe there’s a Bermuda Triangle-ish area somewhere in a remote warehouse that manages to swallow up all the things that mysteriously go missing . . . but what do I know?

That recently happened with some signs I ordered for the building in Savannah. I had a tracking number. The seller had paid for insurance. Everything should have aligned so our package would arrive safely. Except it didn’t. Last time I checked the delivery company’s website, it indicated our package was “in the US”. It left the distribution center on May the 9th. And it’s still floating around. Somewhere. In the US. The seller filed a claim, received payment, and re-shipped the signs.

As frustrating as it is to deal with the unreliable nature of routine mailing, imagine, if you can, the agonizing situation in which the parents and children of Jeffrey Merriweather now find themselves. For those who are unfamiliar with the story, Mr. Merriweather’s body was discovered in an abandoned house in Fulton County, Georgia ten days after he was reported missing,. Protocol dictated his remains be sent to the medical examiner’s office for that county. And they were. But the medical examiner had questions he couldn’t answer, specifically why Mr. Merriweather’s body had decomposed so drastically after only ten days. When he was found, all that was left was approximately 34 pounds of mostly skeletal remains.

The next stop for Mr. Merriweather’s body should have been a facility in St. Louis where additional, more advanced testing was to be performed. But instead of sending his body by air, as is customary with the deceased who are required to travel, or through the United States Postal Service, as is customary—and legal—for an individual’s ashes following cremation, the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office used FedEx, a carrier that is not legally allowed to transport human remains in any way, shape, form, or fashion. That was in 2019.

Three years later, Mr. Merriweather still has not arrived in St. Louis.

This all came to light after the Atlanta Journal-Constitution began to investigate. Their report caught the attention of FedEx who, for some unknown reason, decided it was a good idea to address the matter on Twitter with what was probably an auto-response. “I am truly sorry you went through this experience. Please send a direct message so I can continue assisting you.” It was signed by “Gaby”. This is where a face palm would be in order. To their credit, they eventually recognized the error of their ways and deleted the tweet . . . and several others that were equally inappropriate.

When contacted, a representative for the company stated such a shipment should never have been accepted. But it’s entirely possible FedEx didn’t know what they had. I’m not sure how you tactfully bring that up in conversation while you’re filling out the required paperwork, but if no one asked . . . and no one told . . . then no one at FedEx with the authority to decline the package knew to do just that. None of the available information indicates the size of the box used for shipping, so it’s difficult to understand what went wrong . . .

. . . except that they lost Mr. Merriweather and have been unable to locate his remains for three years.

That’s three years his possible murder has not been addressed.

That’s three years his family has been waiting for answers.

That’s three years his parents and children have waited to say goodbye.

Of course they’re distressed. His parents want to bury their child. His children want to say goodbye to their father. And they don’t understand how something so terrible could happen and no one be held accountable for three years. Three. Long. Years.

Hopefully, the investigative efforts of the Journal-Constitution will bring about a resolution. Hopefully, someone will begin searching and Mr. Merriweather’s remains will be found . . . and answers will be provided . . . and he will be returned to his family. But if not, his parents and his children will be forced to spend their lives waiting. And wondering.

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Gus, Grant, and Grief

Wed, 13 Jul 2022 23:11:00 GMT

I had two geese . . . two demon possessed, attack trained geese. Please note the use of the verb “had”. I started out with Gus, Grady, and Ducky (who was, coincidentally, a duck—a beautiful mallard with an emerald green head). All of them came with the property which wasn’t so bad. At least in the beginning. They were always together, an unlikely threesome swimming around the pond-lake or wandering about the shoreline—until one day they weren’t . . . Ducky was the first to simply disappear, possibly the victim of fowl play (yes, I know . . . but I couldn’t resist). Next was Grady, who rather than just vanishing into thin air or becoming a late night snack, died in plain sight. So there could be a burial. That left Gus, a now very lonely goose who would stand by the pond-lake and look across the water. Waiting. Just waiting.

A friend of mine decided Gus needed company. So did he bring one more goose? Maybe a girl goose? Nope. Two pair (for the mathematically challenged, that’s four geese) appeared on the property. I named them Grant and Gertie, and Graham and Gwendolyn. And one by one they all disappeared . . . all except Grant. It was then that Grant and Gus became best buds. If you saw one you saw the other. Swimming together. Waddling around the property together. Attacking anyone who pulled up at the cabin together. They were my ever-present, annoyingly vocal, driveway alerts and grounds maintenance crew. And so it went for over a year.

Then one Saturday, when I arrived for a blissful day of solitude and intermittent honking, there was only Gus. He slowly meandered around the cabin and down to the pond-lake where he would stand and loudly, plaintively honk. And then wait. And then honk. And then wait.

As the sky grew dusky and the sun began to drop below the trees, I went out onto the porch to feed Gus. Imagine my surprise (and, believe it or not, delight) when my call of “Geeseels!” was met by not one honking, hungry goose, but two. Grant had returned from whatever adventure he’d experienced, a bit worse for the wear, but waddling right beside Gus as they wandered about the yard and attacked my husband and my daughter and her family when they arrived later that evening.

Two days after his return, Grant was gone again. And Gus just stood quietly beside a huge oak tree that shaded the entire front yard. He didn’t honk. He didn’t move. He just stood. Two more days passed and at the next trip to the property I understood why Gus had been so vigilant. The smell of death around the oak was overwhelming; further investigation revealed Grant, seemingly unharmed by the wild creatures that inhabit the woods—probably thanks to Gus standing guard—but very, very dead.

Gus moved aside as we prepared to bury Grant, watching from a safe distance, never offering to harm anyone. When we were through he slowly waddled to the back of the cabin, nestling into the pine needles that covered the ground at the water’s edge.

Two days later, Gus was gone.

I don’t know if he let his guard down and something took advantage of the moment, or if he was so lonely he just left in search of a new, goose-filled home . . . or if his heart was so broken at the loss of his friend that he simply disappeared into the woods and died.

It isn’t the first time I’ve watched animals grieve. We’ve had (and still have) a multitude of cats, two of which were the best of friends, constantly engaging in playful kitty fights and chasing each other around the yard. But one day Sam didn’t show up for supper—and I never saw him again. Little Tip would come in when it was time to eat but would just stand at the doors or the windows, looking out across the yard, waiting for her buddy to come back.

When my daughter and her husband finally made the difficult decision to euthanize Josie, one of their two dogs, the other one refused to eat unless there was also food in Josie’s bowl. If her bowl was empty, Beau wasn’t going to touch his. And it was a very long time before that changed.

Animals know when Life is irreversibly altered. They know when Death claims one of their own—or the human who has loved them and cared for them. And they grieve that loss just as we would. Whether it’s an animal in the wild or a household pet . . . or a gray and white goose guarding the body of his friend . . . they understand far more about Grief than we will ever know.

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Through His Eyes

Thu, 07 Jul 2022 00:32:00 GMT

When Kim Ray walked into the office of the funeral home in Waynesboro and took her place behind the counter for the first time, she wasn’t a Ray. She was a Vencion, the 22 year old daughter of James Edward and Clara Nell Vencion. And a total novice when it came to working in a funeral home. It was a condition that didn’t last long.

Six years later she was a Ray, the wife of another Waynesboro employee, Jerry Ray. And eventually the mother of Anna. And eventually the doting grandmother of Vencion. All while still working as the secretary in Waynesboro, still serving the people of Wayne County, still being a pillar of her church and a good, decent human being.

Sadly, all of the above, and so much more, came to an abrupt end on Friday, June 24 ^th .

Kim’s sudden death left her family with so many unanswered questions and so much pain. And a four year old who had to be told Mama Kim wouldn’t be coming home again. To their credit, they didn’t try to shield him from the truth of her illness and they didn’t try to hide their own grief. But while time moved far too quickly from her diagnosis to her death . . . to her burial and beyond . . . it also afforded them the privilege of seeing their loss through Vencion’s eyes . . .

As is the custom, once Kim’s service ended the procession inched its way to the cemetery. Upon arriving the pallbearers placed her casket over the grave, stepping back to allow the minister a moment to say a few words and have one last prayer before her casket and vault were slowly lowered into the earth. It was then Roger Balentine, the manager in Waynesboro and Kim’s friend and co-worker for literally decades, motioned to Vencion and Jerry. He stood holding a shovel and asked if Vencion would like to put some dirt into the grave before the equipment did the rest. With his grandad’s help, Vencion grasped the shovel handle, dug into the soil, and gently sprinkled a small amount across the lid of the vault. After repeating the process a few more times, they moved away to let the cemetery crew finish the job . . . but not before he found an appropriate stick to place in the grave. After all, there was a whole collection of sticks at Kim and Jerry’s, all compliments of Vencion. What better final gift for his Mama Kim?

In the days that have followed, Vencion has frequently asked Jerry if they could visit Mama Kim in the “flower garden”. That’s how his young eyes see the cemetery. It isn’t a place of death. It’s a place of beauty. And a place that has generated an abundance of questions regarding the other inhabitants and the monuments marking their final resting places. His grandad took him to see where Mama Kim’s family members are buried—something he found amazing . . . because his name was on the monument. V-E-N-C-I-O-N. His name!

Just a few days after the funeral he walked in to find his mother in tears and, being the tender-hearted child that he is, asked her why she was crying. Again, Anna didn’t try to hide her grief or assure him that everything was all right. It wasn’t, and she shared with her child that she was sad—sad because she missed Mama Kim. That was when Vencion emphatically reminded her that she shouldn’t be sad—Mama Kim was with Jesus now. He knew his Mama Kim well enough to know if she couldn’t stay with them, that was where she would want to be. And he found comfort in that.

You can tell me all day long this innocent child just doesn’t understand . . . he’s too young to grasp Death and its finality—and I will tell you all day long he most assuredly does. His family has acknowledged Death as a normal part of Life—and by their example they are teaching him one of the most difficult lessons he will ever be forced to learn—that Life and Death are joined together—and you cannot have one without the other. In the years to come he can add that to the lessons his Mama Kim taught him through her examples of kindness and generosity . . . of joy and love. Their time together may have been brief, but she made sure it counted.

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Moments Meant For Sharing

Wed, 29 Jun 2022 23:13:00 GMT

Of late my husband and I have been traveling west more frequently than usual, a necessity brought about by our oldest grandson’s love of, and participation in, theater. His last full-scale production was Disney’s The Descendants, Jr .—the kid version of The Descendants (which I guess should have gone without saying . . . but I said it anyway . . . just in case), complete with all the singing and dancing, and generally following the original plot, but without the dragon at the end, since that would be incredibly hard to do without some masterful special effects.

Wilson, the aforementioned oldest grandson, was cast in the role of Ben, the soon to be king of Auradon, and the sole person there willing to give the banished inhabitants of the Isle of the Lost a second chance. As he sings and dances his way through the story, the descendants of the Disney villains realize they’d rather be good than evil, the magic wand which had been stolen is returned to the Fairy Godmother, and Maleficent is turned into a lizard (except not in the kid version because, again, special effects . . .).

As I sat and watched this 13 year old teenager who is now taller than I am with a voice I don’t recognize, perform with the confidence and professionalism of a seasoned veteran, my father sat down beside me. Not physically. Since he died in 2009 and was incapacitated long before that, physically would have been a tad on the impossible side. But he was there, nonetheless. During his lifetime he loved music and he loved performing and I knew if he had been able he would have been there; when the last scene ended and the kids had taken their bows, he would have told Wilson what a great job he did. I knew he would have smiled every time Wilson had the opportunity to sing and chuckled every time he did his cheesy dance moves. So when the performance ended, I found Wilson and told him what a wonderful job he’d done . . . and that his Dee Bob would be so proud of him. Wilson’s eyes met mine and he asked “Really?” because even though he doesn’t remember his Shackelford grandfather, he’s heard enough about him to know that was a true compliment. I had a hard time saying it and holding back the tears, and I’m pretty sure my daughter-in-law who was close by and heard the exchange struggled a bit, too. Because we all miss him. And it’s milestones like this that make us realize just how much.

When we lose someone we love, Grief becomes an unwelcome houseguest, making himself at home and rarely ever departing. But we don’t just grieve what we miss with them . . . we also grieve what they miss with us. The moments in life we know they would have enjoyed . . . the moments we would have shared . . . the moments that would have become new memories to be cherished in the years to come. Whether it’s a birthday or a graduation or a wedding, a new job or a new house or a new baby—whatever the event, it just feels incomplete when someone is missing from the celebration. And our grief is multiplied because we know how much it would have meant to them to be there.

I know the future holds a great many more of these moments . . . Wilson moments and Anderson moments and Cora moments and Malcolm moments . . . moments I will desperately wish my parents could personally experience. Of course, despite their absence they’ll always be with us in spirit. And who knows? Maybe they’re closer than I realize—smiling at the memories I think we’re making without them.

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Finding Osmund Bartle Wordsworth

Thu, 23 Jun 2022 00:03:00 GMT

Osmund Bartle Wordsworth, the great-great nephew of the English poet William Wordsworth, died on April 2, 1917, a casualty of World War I.

His life up until that moment had seemed almost charmed. At the age of 27, he and his sister Ruth survived the sinking of the Lusitania, a civilian steamer registered to the UK. The ship was torpedoed by a German U-boat on May 7, 1915; of the 1,962 passengers and crew aboard, 1,198 perished. Even though Wordsworth gave his lifebelt to someone else as the ship was going down, he still managed to survive.

Before that miraculous escape, Wordsworth had received his Bachelor of Arts degree from Trinity College at the University of Cambridge. He then enrolled in their masters’ program, receiving that degree in 1913. A move to Toronto, Ontario, Canada the following year allowed him to serve on the staff of Trinity College there . . . and to publish his first and only novel, A Happy Exchange . However, World War I broke out and Wordsworth, feeling a need to return to his home country and enlist, boarded the Lusitania along with his sister.

He received his commission in the 9 ^th Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry in June of 1915 but was transferred to the 21 ^st Machine Gun Company before being shipped to France. September of 1916 found him at the Arras front preparing to engage the Germans. The actual conflict began on April 9 ^th , but while setting up his guns on April 2 ^nd , Wordsworth realized the men at another position were having difficulty with theirs. Rather than asking anyone under his command to risk their lives, he chose to carry his instructions personally; before he could reach them he fell, shot through the heart.

From that point on, there are no records regarding how his body came to occupy the grave of an unknown soldier in Faubourg-d’Amiens Cemetery in northern France. There were witnesses to his death. At that time the British had introduced dog tags for all those involved in combat so he should have been wearing one. But somehow, in the chaos of war, Osmund Bartle Wordsworth’s body was not identified. His family was informed of his death. But they didn’t really know he had died . . . because there was no body to bury. No grave to visit. He simply never came home . . . and without proof there will always be that nagging doubt. Maybe. Just maybe they were wrong …

Fast forward 105 years. One hundred and five long years filled with grief and sorrow . . . filled with uncertainty followed by desperation, and finally—resignation. And the deaths of anyone who had ever known Osmund Bartle Wordsworth.

The advances of science eventually provided an answer to a question that was literally a century old. Whose body lay in this particular grave of an unknown? DNA testing gave Osmund Bartle Wordsworth back his name. It gave him his final resting place. And it gave his family the closure that only knowledge can provide. Even though it was decades in coming.

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Ordinary Men

Wed, 15 Jun 2022 21:36:00 GMT

Today, as in Wednesday, I was scrolling through my “Daddy’s Day” Pinterest board, looking for inspiration. Not that Father’s Day doesn’t inspire me, but that inspiration runs in so many different directions. Like trying to travel a path that divides again and again, when you decide to write about something, you kinda need to pick a path and then commit to it. None of this wandering aimlessly off into the wild. You can get lost that way. And so can the point you’re trying to make. Which is probably what I just did.

So as I scrolled through Father’s Day quotes and observations, through all the pictures and memes I’ve saved for possible future use, I came across the one you see here. And my nose turned red . . . and my face flushed . . . and my eyes got just the slightest bit teary. Why? Because it’s true, but often we don’t appreciate or remember “that” dad. When we’re young and innocent and the world is a giant playground that dad is our hero—the dad who can do anything, fix anything, make anything, be anything . . . and no one else’s dad can do or fix or make or be anything any better than ours. They serve as our guides through childhood adventures and any mazes Life manufacturers . . . and they most assuredly can tell the best stories and sing the best songs, no matter how off-key the latter might be.

But if we aren’t very careful, we can lose that dad as we age, not because he leaves us but because we allow ourselves to outgrow him. Instead of heroes perhaps we view them as anchors that keep us tethered too close to the shore when there’s a whole ocean to explore. We don’t really want adventures, at least not with them. And the stories and songs of our childhood become just that, relics of a time long-since passed that we mistakenly believe we’ve outgrown.

But if we’re lucky—and wise—we’re allowed to return to those days, but only when we’ve aged enough to understand how very blessed we were to have someone in our lives who loved us enough to stick around until we came to our senses . . . which is what usually happens when we have kids of our own.

All of which reminds me of a beautiful commercial filmed in Lithuania in 2018 for Bouygues Telecom. It opens at Christmas with a very young father popping a cassette tape into a player and then dancing to the befuddlement of his toddler who watches him with the most confused expression—that gradually becomes the sweetest smile. As “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone plays in the background, that son ages—as does his father—from a young child to a teenager to a 20 something. And all the while, his father dances . . . to his son’s delight . . . to his son’s tolerance . . . to his son’s embarrassment. The commercial ends with the father and mother sitting at home, snow blanketing the ground, a Christmas tree in the corner. As they read in the silence a package under the tree begins to buzz. The buzz of a cell phone demanding attention. The dad rises from his chair, retrieves the package, and with a puzzled look opens it. It’s his son on a video call. Perhaps across the city. Perhaps a world away. It really doesn’t matter because then the old familiar music begins to play. And his son begins to dance, holding his own child in his arms . . . and as the commercial fades, three generations are continuing a tradition that will bind them together—parent to child—until the end of time.

Ordinary men who magically become heroes and adventurers. Story-tellers and singers of song. How beautiful and wonderful is the heart of a loving father, and how blessed we are when we have one.

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Of Cedars and Owls and Howling Dogs

Thu, 09 Jun 2022 01:30:00 GMT

Years ago I found a baby cedar tree that I really wanted to transplant. At that time cedars weren’t held in very high regard. I had even tried to buy one at a nursery and they just looked at me like I’d lost my mind. But I love cedar trees, especially the very old ones. Given the opportunity and enough time and space, they will tower majestically over you, their massive trunks fringed with bark and their needles naturally feathered into the perfect shape . . . but I digress. As I so often do.

As I was saying, I really wanted to transplant this fledgling I had found, but when I asked someone to assist, they looked at me like I’d lost my mind (evidently this was a common occurrence). When I inquired as to the problem I was told that I obviously wanted them dead. Given the confused look on my face they continued. If you ever dig up a cedar tree and plant it somewhere else, you’ll die when it’s tall enough that the shadow will cover your grave.

I didn’t know that . . .

Now, years later, when you can actually buy cedar trees at nurseries, I’ve found another one I’d love to move . . . which reminded me of the conversation from years before . . . which got me to thinking (something my daughter says I do far too much) . . . how many other superstitions and old wives’ tales are there regarding Death and his minions? So I did some research. And now I shall share a few of my findings with you.

How many of us did this when we were kids? And I seem to remember we had to pick our feet up as well (or was that when you drove across a bridge . . .). Supposedly this kept the spirits of the dead from being able to enter your body. That’s the same reason you’re supposed to cover your mouth when you yawn in the presence of Death. Plus, that’s just the polite thing to do.

If you’ve ever noticed (and even if you haven’t), most cemeteries are arranged so the graves run east and west—and there’s a reason for that. According to Christian traditions, the second coming will originate in the east so, if your head is pointing west, when you rise to meet the Lord you’ll be facing him. I don’t know what happens in those cemeteries that are laid out with the graves running north and south. Probably a quarter turn will be required. It even worked for pagan religions since they worshipped the sun . . . which rises in the east . . .

You’ve probably heard it said the eyes are the windows to the soul. This long-held belief mandates that the deceased leave home feet-first so they can’t look back and entice someone to follow them into death.

I love listening to owls at night, their calls echoing in the trees. But I know some folks who easily grow tired of their conversations. Depending upon the culture from which you come, owls can be a blessing . . . or a curse. Some believe they are actually the souls of the living, and to kill an owl condemns that person whose soul they carry to death. However, for some just dreaming of an owl is a certain sign that Death will not be long in coming. And, should you whistle to one in the darkness and are met with crickets, then you’re not long for this world. On the flip side of that, if they do answer you’re probably good for a while longer.

If you want to free the soul of your loved one, then open the windows immediately after death so they can soar into the heavens. But if you want to keep them close by (as in trapped in the house forever), be sure the windows stay closed.

Supposedly, collecting epitaphs from tombstones is a really bad idea since it can cause you to lose your memory. I don’t know the origin of this particular wives’ tale, but it may explain a lot where I’m concerned.

And finally . . .

Does your dog howl at night? Well, if someone in the house is sick, that’s a really bad sign, but you can reverse the evil omen by reaching under the bed and flipping a shoe upside down. I don’t know what you do if your shoes are in the closet. To help you remember this particular warning, someone ages ago wrote a little two-line poem “Dogs howling in the dark of night, howl for death before daylight.”

So there you have it, just a few of the long list of superstitions and old wives’ tales that deal with Death. There are dozens more, maybe even hundreds if you span the centuries and the world. But for right now, perhaps these can serve as the beginning of a definitive collection. One that won’t cause memory loss.

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Uvalde

Thu, 02 Jun 2022 01:29:00 GMT

In case the title did not tell you, the following post is, in part, about the tragic events that took place in Uvalde, Texas on Tuesday, May 24 ^th . If this subject is triggering to you in any way, I encourage you to turn your attention elsewhere, at least for today.

Once again, if I had thrown a crumpled piece of paper into my relatively large waste basket every time I pressed the backspace key or simply highlighted everything and hit delete, I would already have been forced to empty it at least twice—and that’s after mashing everything down repeatedly. The anger over the events of May 24 ^th in Uvalde, Texas is still present, perhaps having grown even stronger with the passage of time. It hasn’t helped that I’ve read everything coming across my computer screen or phone or iPad in an effort to understand and to gather enough facts to present an accurate, concise portrayal of whatever it is I’m trying to convey. Which is rather difficult since I don’t even know what that is . . . because sorrow doesn’t allow for clarity and anger doesn’t easily give way to rational thought.

For the vast majority of us, that day will eventually fade from our thoughts—at least until the next time. We’ll hug our children a little tighter and be a little more patient—for now. In the days that followed we’ve been angry and heartbroken and devastated over what has taken place—but not in the months . . . or the years . . . that will come after. But in Uvalde nothing will ever be the same. Not in a few months. Not in a few years. Not in a few lifetimes will they forget. Even if the school is demolished and the students and faculty moved to another facility, the people of Uvalde will still pass by that ground . . . ground that will be sacred to so many of them . . . and point to it saying, “That’s where Robb Elementary was. That’s where ___________ died . . .”. And the graves of those children and teachers will serve as lasting reminders of lives horrifically taken in an act of unspeakable violence. Twenty-one monuments will be engraved with different names and dates of birth. Twenty-one monuments will all bear the same date of death.

But it isn’t just Robb Elementary or Sandy Hook or Marjory Stoneman Douglas. It isn’t just the Pulse Nightclub or the theater in Aurora, Colorado or an outdoor concert in Las Vegas. It isn’t just worship services in Charleston, South Carolina or Sutherland Springs, Texas or stores in Buffalo, New York or El Paso, Texas. People die on a daily basis, all across our country, as a direct result of violence in some form. Death is already difficult enough to deal with, but death intentionally dealt by the hands of another . . .

All the thoughts and prayers in the world will not bring back the children of Uvalde. They will not heal the broken hearts of their parents or allow them to once again hold what has been taken from them. And mark my words, every single parent whose child died that Tuesday morning has wondered if there was anything they could have done to save them. Many of them had attended an awards ceremony at the school earlier that day. Now many of them are questioning why they didn’t just bring their child home when it was over. Why did they let them stay? They would still be alive . . . they wouldn’t have died so horribly, so violently . . . Did they suffer? Why did it have to be that school . . . why did it have to be their child? A million questions. A thousand whys. Zero answers.

It has been said that everything happens for a reason, but I don’t believe anyone can ever give a reason that will explain the tragedy of Uvalde, certainly not one that will justify the loss of life to those who are left to grieve. That’s why I contend everything doesn’t happen for a reason, but there is a reason everything happens—and that’s very different.

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Memorial Day ~ 2022

Wed, 25 May 2022 23:31:00 GMT

This coming Monday, May 30 ^th , is Memorial Day, a day set aside to remember and honor those who gave their lives in service to our country. For the past few years I’ve focused on three such individuals and told you a little about their service . . . and their deaths. It was my way of reminding anyone who took the time to read my words that this day—Memorial Day—is so much more than the last of a three day weekend.

But today I’m torn . . . torn between what has become traditional and what has sadly become all too commonplace. And for those of you who have not yet mastered reading my mind, I’m referring to the horrific event that took place at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas on Tuesday. I’ve tried to write about it . . . I need to write about it. But at this moment it is too fresh. I am beyond angry and that anger does not translate well into the written word.

So today I will lean toward the traditional, knowing that the time will come when I can address the all too commonplace. The anger will still be there. It will always be there. But hopefully the words will be there, too.

James Bethel Malone was one week away from his 23 ^rd birthday when he registered for the draft on June 5, 1917. He was a farmer by trade, single with no one dependent upon him for support . . . of medium build with blue eyes and dark brown hair. On November 21 ^st of that same year he left his home in Right, Tennessee for the city of Nashville where he entered the United States Navy, eventually achieving the rank of Fireman, Third Class. But in December his father, John Harrison Malone, received word that his son had succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, dying at the Naval Hospital in Norfolk, Virginia. His death came on December 23 ^rd . . . slightly over a month since his enlistment. Even though he did not die in combat, his death was no less devastating. His body was returned to his family who buried him in Adamsville Cemetery, marking his grave with a monument bearing an anchor carved into the stone and the words:

James Bethel Malone, U.S.N.

Born June 12, 1894

Died at U.S. Naval Hospital

Norfolk, VA Dec. 23, 1917

“Blessed is he that gives his life in defence. I trust I shall shortly see thee and we shall speak face to face, peace be to thee, our friends salute thee. Greet the friends by name. ~ 3 John 14 verse”

Robert Shearer Brown had just finished his junior year at the University of Tennessee when he was mustered into the United States Army in July of 1917, his education allowing him to enter as a Sergeant. After training at Camp Sevier in South Carolina and then in Leon Springs, Texas, he was shipped to Europe in May of 1918. Promotions followed quickly and by September he was a 1 ^st Lieutenant. But on October 4, 1918, while fighting with the 109 ^th Infantry, he lost his life defending the village of Apremont in the Argonne Forest of France. His cause of death, as shown on his Tennessee Roll of Honor, Gold Star Record, is simply “Killed in action”.

This Monday, as you head to the lake or fire up the grill, please take a moment to remember. Remember the men and women who died in service to our country. Whatever the circumstances surrounding their deaths, they still died—and their deaths still left behind grieving families and friends.

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The (Almost) Forgotten History of Bain Cemetery

Wed, 18 May 2022 23:10:00 GMT

It was February 9, 1981 and Judge Dewey Whitenton, Chancellor for the Chancery Court of Hardin County, Tennessee, was preparing to issue his ruling on a case brought by Vulcan Materials Company against

“INTERESTED PERSONS AS DEFINED BY TCA 46-4-102 CONCERNING THE BAIN GRAVEYARD CEMETERY LOCATED IN THE 2 ^ND CIVIL DISTRICT OF HARDIN COUNTY, TENNESSEE”.

He had already postponed his ruling from January 27 ^th so the unnamed interested parties could seek legal counsel in the matter. And what was the aforementioned matter?

The relocation of an entire cemetery containing 200 graves . . . more or less . . .

The old Bain Cemetery sat perched upon a ridge created by the excavating of limestone and crushed rock by Vulcan Materials. Approximately 12 miles outside Savannah, Tennessee, as you headed east, the cemetery was begun on or close to land settled by William and Mary Bain in the 1820s. William died on March 26, 1844 at the age of 76; Mary outlived him by six years, dying in 1850. Both were buried on or near their property in what would eventually become known as Bain Cemetery. Family members and an old family Bible confirmed they had eight daughters and five sons, seven of whom never married and eleven of whom were buried in the cemetery. Jim Bain, a descendant of William and Mary, served as the cemetery’s caretaker until his death in 1939.

From that point on the cemetery was mostly forgotten, its upkeep neglected as Nature began to slowly reclaim the land. The last known burial had taken place in 1892 with members of the family migrating to nearby Mount Hermon Cemetery beginning in 1894. We say “last known” because most of the graves were unmarked as to their occupants. Many had simple slate stones nestled at the head of someone’s final resting place, very few of which had names legibly scrawled across or scratched into the surface. This lack of identification compounded the difficulty of the move. Most of the family believed they knew exactly who was buried in the cemetery. They just didn’t know where.

The judge’s decree on February 9 ^th gave Vulcan permission to move the entire cemetery a mile or so west as the crow flies to Mount Hermon, but there were conditions that had to be met. A to-scale drawing of the proposed location had to be submitted for approval. An inked (emphasis by the court) drawing of the old graveyard showing the existing location of the graves had to be prepared so, once the transfer began, each grave could be positioned as it had been originally. Small granite markers were to be provided for any graves that were not marked at the time of the move. And Vulcan was to contribute $3,500.00 to the cemetery association as a permanent endowment for future upkeep of that section.

Vulcan’s plan was to use their own equipment to uncover the existing graves, beginning with removing the top few inches of soil. The exposed ground would hopefully provide clues as to the exact location of each grave, even though there would be very little left other that rich, black dirt. State law required that a licensed funeral director oversee the operation; Vulcan contacted Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah and Bob Shackelford agreed to serve in that capacity.

Although some of the Bain family disapproved of the move, the court ruled that “said cemetery is unsuitable for continued use as a cemetery and as a resting place for the dead whose remains are buried therein and that further use thereof is inconsistent with due and proper reverence and respect for the memory of such persons”. Other family members agreed with Judge Whitenton’s assessment of the situation. There was no good access road to the cemetery and, with Vulcan’s on-going excavation, they worried erosion would eventually destroy the graves of their ancestors. When the work finally began, several of the family were present, carefully watching, hoping to spot some personal items that had survived the years of exposure to the elements . . . items that might help them identify whose grave had been uncovered.

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The Age Of Loss

Wed, 11 May 2022 23:08:00 GMT

We all know Death doesn’t play favorites (thank goodness . . .). We also know a young age doesn’t guarantee safety from his clutches just as old age doesn’t mean he’s waiting around every corner, preparing to pounce.

That being said, it’s always distressing when the young come into our care. By all that is good and just in this world, we should not be serving their families. But on the other end of the spectrum, when those who have lived a long, full life come to us, no one is really surprised. It’s to be expected at some point . . . of course the later the point, the better.

Some weeks ago we were assisting just such a family. The lovely lady whose death brought them all together had lived that long, full life I just referenced—99 years packed with memories and stories that will remain with them for generations. The family was wandering about, visiting with each other and the friends who had come to pay their respects, when one of them mentioned her age. Close by stood a very young man . . . a child, actually. Upon hearing that number, he took a moment to process the information then, looking up at the speaker remarked, “She’s 99? I don’t feel so sad now.”

Ah . . . out of the mouths of babes . . . Even in his youth he understood not all death is an occasion for sorrow. Sadness perhaps. Maybe dislike for such a permanent change in our lives. Possibly even a desire for just one more visit or hug or moment to share. But there’s so much there to celebrate, and more often than not, in those instances it’s the celebration that becomes the focus. Not the mourning.

Years ago I was visiting with a family who found themselves in the same situation—a loved one was approaching the unfathomable age of 100 but left them just shy of that milestone. As we walked across the foyer and I was expressing my condolences, her daughter looked at me and said, “You know, it’s sad. But it’s not a tragedy.” Those words have stayed with me all these years. So many times Death’s appearance is a tragedy. But when someone leaves us who made a positive impact in the world around them, who has lived that long, full life to which we all aspire, of course it’s sad—but hopefully we don’t forget there is so much there to celebrate, too.

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Always A Mother

Thu, 05 May 2022 01:33:00 GMT

This coming Sunday there will be mothers who may be pampered, perhaps with breakfast in bed prepared by little hands and gleefully presented as an offering of gratitude. There may be cards or gifts given or even a prearranged day of solitude . . . the one day out of the year when everyone goes away and leaves her to her own amusements. But there will also be mothers who drag themselves out of bed and away from their families, heading to work in an attempt to make ends meet, or at least pull them a little closer.

If the weather permits there may be strolls about the neighborhoods or perhaps family hikes through the woods or countryside, looking for new adventures to make new memories. But there may also be long, lonely walks down hospital hallways . . . or across cemetery grounds to one particular grave or, heaven forbid, several of them.

Perhaps a lovely meal has been planned where mom doesn’t have to lift a finger; she only has to enjoy her family as they gather, laughing and reminiscing—simply appreciating each other and the moment. Or perhaps she will sit in a quiet house, waiting for the phone to ring with a call from someone who never comes to visit, never gives her a hug or a kiss . . . or a thank you.

At the end of the day there will be mothers who read the mandatory book or sing the favorite song then gently rock their little ones to sleep before tucking them safely in bed. There will be mothers who are allowed to treasure the moments they spend cradling their children in their arms . . . and those who are forced to hold them only in their hearts.

Mothers come in all shapes and sizes . . . all ages, and colors, and stages in life. And the ways in which their day is recognized are just as diverse. There are mothers who will be pampered, and those who will not. Mothers who will be celebrated, and those who will not. Mothers who will be surrounded by family, and those who will not. Mothers who are blessed to have their children with them . . . and those who are not. Whatever the circumstances of their lives . . . whatever the manner in which Mother’s Day is—or is not—celebrated for them, does not change one undeniable fact about the vast majority. They are still mothers—strong women who have sacrificed and struggled, who have tried and are trying to create the best possible life for their families, who gave birth to the future and then did everything in their power to nurture and protect it. Whether their children are living or have left them behind, they are still mothers. And they always will be.

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Just An Ordinary Day

Wed, 27 Apr 2022 23:32:00 GMT

The news of the day was scattered about the pages of the weekly paper—tidbits of information about life in a small town as of July 4, 1952. The spacious, newly constructed courthouse was open and ready for business. The annual horse show had drawn a large crowd and the Catfish Derby was in full swing (professional fisherman Lewis Welch had landed a 56 pound cat while his amateur counterpart, Leroy Reed of Corinth, turned in one that tipped the scales at 25—according to the next edition, neither would win).

The A. M. Patterson home place and its 33 acres of oak trees was up for sale. Rex Turman was doing post-graduate work at Peabody Summer School while Mr. and Mrs. D. G. White were at U.T. Knoxville doing the same. Stephens Supermarket was selling a one and one half pound box of Borden’s Cheese for $.49. Eureka and East End Methodist Churches were holding competing revivals. In a horrifying violation of the HIPPA laws (which didn’t exist in 1952) Hardin County General listed all the births and patient admissions and releases for the prior seven days. And the Savannah Theater had a busy week planned starting with showings of “The Las Vegas Story” starring Jane Russell and Victor Mature and ending with Abbott and Costello’s “Jack and the Beanstalk”.

All the mundane doings of Savannah, Tennessee, recorded for posterity in the pages of the Savannah Courier. Except for one event which made the front page, the title of which spanned three columns . . .

Six Dead As Speeding Car Crashes Head-on Into Another Here Tuesday . . .

At that point this particular article draws to a close with the observation that “Funeral arrangements for the victims are incomplete.” From our records I can tell you the Wilkerson family members were taken to Mr. Wilkerson’s home while little Elizabeth Ann was carried to the home of her grandparents. Services were conducted with burials following in Savannah Cemetery.

Today, if you walk through those hallowed grounds, paying close attention to the stories the stones have to tell, you’ll see four monuments, each measuring one foot by two feet, each bearing the same date of death—July 1, 1952. Little Bettie rests between her parents while Belle was laid to rest on the other side of her brother Frank. A few rows farther into the cemetery is Elizabeth; her mother was eventually buried beside her in 1995.

It was a week just like any other. The movies were still playing. The stores were hoping to increase business with tantalizing and informative ads. There were celebrations and competitions and people going about their ordinary, everyday lives. Even after such a horrific event, the world kept right on turning . . .

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And Whose Things Shall These Be?

Wed, 20 Apr 2022 22:05:00 GMT

When my husband and I were setting up housekeeping back in late 1978, we were offered the opportunity to occupy one of the upstairs apartments in the old funeral home in Savannah—the one in which my great-grandmother took up residence in the late 30s and where she remained until her death on October 4, 1960 (which I’m pretty sure took place in said apartment). Several of the directors and their families had occupied the place in the intervening 18 years with very little done as far as updating was concerned. However, as our wedding approached, my mother decided a complete overhaul was in order, one that required a basic gutting of the lath-covered walls which were draped with a cheeseclothesque material and vintage (read that brittle, faded, and torn) wallpaper so modern day sheetrock could take its place.

Once the actual construction/redecorating was complete, the issue of furniture arose. After all, what good is a newly renovated space if you have to sleep standing up? Enter my grandfather, son of the aforementioned great-grandmother. At her death he had taken her furniture to Bolivar and stored it in the walk-in attic space of the funeral home. So he called and offered, my mother accepted on our behalf, and a day was appointed upon which we would go west to see what treasures awaited us.

Can I tell you how wonderfully magnificent that trip was? Not only did we end up with an almost fully furnished apartment, but I was allowed to briefly travel back in time. To lay my hands on surfaces my great-grandmother touched on a daily basis and to bring back to life things she had chosen that meant something to her—to place them where she might have placed them and to use them as she had used them.

There was the full dining room suite, complete with a beautiful table (with two leaves for expansion) and six chairs, a china cabinet, a smaller cabinet, and a buffet, a coffee table and larger side table made of painted rosewood, a solid cherry occasional table with a musical lyre as its pedestal, a whole bedroom suite with a double bed (and no, she didn’t die in it . . . at least I don’t think she did . . .), a wardrobe and dresser, and a Duncan Phyfe sofa. Not only could we sleep lying down, we could even watch television in comfort.

Looking back I realize we were exceptionally blessed for three reasons: 1) I was the first of my generation to marry, 2) my grandfather had the foresight (and space) to save and store his mother’s furniture, and 3) he was willing to share. And now, my brother and I have an apartment full of furniture that once belonged to our parents . . . and the same decisions to face regarding those contents.

My two children already have their homes, both of which are fully furnished with all the necessities of life. My nephew and his wife and my niece have yet to settle into their “permanent” abodes, but who’s to say their tastes will be anything like their Grandmother Shack’s? And actually, if you think about it, two generations passed before my great-grandmother’s furniture saw the light of day again. Do we keep these furnishings for that long? And, if so . . . where ? As nice as storage units are, they aren’t always secure. We learned that the hard way. So where does one safely store two bedroom suites, a formal (and sizeable) dining table with chairs and a buffet, not to mention the kitchen table and all the living room stuff? And that doesn’t even consider all the breakables and knickknacks and other dust gathering thingies. Or the dishes . . . all the dishes . . . and the (hyperbole alert . . .) 37 foot long 1950s sofa with the low back that once was turquoise (as was customary for the times) and which magically changed to corally-peach (as was customary for my mother) before it moved from the house I grew up in to the apartment in which I only spent one night. By the way, I love that sofa. It’s down filled with some kind of fancy coil system and is exceptionally comfy, a discovery I only made after my mother’s demise since we were never allowed to stretch out on it before then. Especially not while wearing shoes. But I digress, as I so often do.

I don’t know what will happen to all of the above. It may end up being our kids’ problem if Robert and I manage to procrastinate long enough. Then they’ll have one apartment to jointly clean out plus each of our houses (so basically 1.5 residences per side of the family). And that daunting task is the point of today’s discussion.

It’s hard enough trying to deal with nursing home placement or funeral arrangements, but throw in personal property distribution on top of the rest of Life’s demands, and anyone would immediately feel overwhelmed, no matter how many hands there are to tackle the job. Not only is it extremely time consuming, but it’s physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. Giving away or selling your history is heart-breakingly hard when keeping it tucked safely away for future generations isn’t an option. And sadly, that’s something almost everyone will face at some point in their lives.

I’ve told my kids when, for whatever reason, we no longer need our home to just take what they want out of the house and set fire to the rest. Do I really think they’ll do that? Probably not . . . but you never know. Two of Grief’s traveling companions are Stress and Depression, and the three of them can lead you in directions you might never have considered under happier circumstances.

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“The Guy At The Body Shop . . .”

Wed, 13 Apr 2022 22:54:00 GMT

When I was a mere child of four . . . maybe five . . . (so basically, a lifetime ago) we lived in an old established neighborhood. Meaning we had old, established neighbors. There were very few, if any, other kids around my age unless we imported them from across town, so I had to learn to entertain myself. My brother was just an infant/toddler, meaning he wasn’t a whole lot of fun right then, so I created my own playmate—an imaginary friend I named Chester after Chester Goode, Marshall Matt Dillon’s assistant on the TV western “Gunsmoke”. I have no idea why I was allowed to watch that at such a tender age, but watch it I did, and Dennis Weaver’s character with his ever-present limp and his twangy voice hollerin’ “Mr. Dillion! Mr. Dillion!” absolutely fascinated me.

Fast forward that lifetime I mentioned earlier, and who should I meet but a real life Chester—Chester Stricklin. He didn’t walk with an exaggerated limp and he certainly didn’t have a twangy voice, but over the years he became more than the guy at the body shop. He became someone I trusted. He became a friend.

Chester started his over 50 years in automotive repair out of Morgan’s Body Shop in Savannah, a business easier to get into than out of given its location nestled in the fork where Highway 69 and Pinhook Road meet. He stayed with them for 20 years before branching out on his own and opening Chester’s Auto Body Shop (because, I mean, what else would he call it?) on Highway 226. And we just followed right along behind him. When you have a good person who excels at his chosen profession and treats you fairly, you don’t not call him when you need his talents.

That following part got a bit more challenging when he had to close his shop and went to work for Wilbanks Body Shop in Lutts. The convenience wasn’t there, but Chester was, and that pretty well settled that. The years had begun to catch up with him and his health was declining, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still work and enjoy life. Antique tractors were always his thing, as was fishing—and he loved music, especially when it originated from a church singing or a Bluegrass festival. As a matter of fact, as his obituary stated, he just enjoyed life in general—and I’m not sure there’s any better way to go about it.

There were several reasons that over the years we chose to go wherever Chester went. You may find it hard to believe, but people often hear our name and raise their charges accordingly, thinking we have all the money and won’t miss it. We never had to worry about that with Chester. Because Chester was a good man. And an honest man who never took advantage of us. Could we have found others who were equally skilled in repairing our mishaps? Probably. But we trusted Chester . . . because he never gave us a reason not to.

When you find a Chester in this world, you treasure them. You respect them for their abilities and their integrity. And they become more than “the guy at the body shop”. They become your friend. I’ve been blessed with a few of those over the years . . . Doug Gray . . . Gunter Sanderson . . . Mark Bizzell. I’m sure there are others that escape me at the moment, but these men took good care of us, just like they took good care of everyone they met, and their friendships meant the world to me. That’s why it was so hard to hear their names come across the phone lines from a hospice or hospital. Why it was so hard to see them appear on a first call sheet. When Chester died we didn’t just lose someone who made our vehicles look new again. When Doug left us we didn’t just lose the man who kept our HVAC systems up and running. When Gunter went on to better things, we didn’t just lose a skilled mason, just like we lost more than a detail-oriented lawn maintenance man when Mark died. They were our friends. They were my friends. And as good as their work was, I miss those friendships more.

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Slipping Away

Wed, 06 Apr 2022 22:53:00 GMT

Last week the family of actor Bruce Willis announced he was stepping away from the career he loved due to health issues. The 67 year old star of the “Die Hard” franchise and a plethora of other action films too numerous to list here, had been diagnosed with aphasia, a cognitive disorder that affects a person’s ability to speak, read, and write—basically, to comprehend and communicate.

Aphasia afflicts approximately 1,000,000 people in the United States and is often caused by strokes or other triggers such as brain tumors or infections and severe blows to the head—but it can also stem from dementia or Alzheimer’s. The disease is progressive, meaning eventually Willis will be left unable to communicate or to understand language in any form. In other words, he will be locked inside a body that still functions but with no cognitive ability.

As with so many who suffer from such illnesses, Willis’s family, friends, and co-workers had begun to notice the changes years before the diagnosis. Accommodations were made as he tried to continue acting . . . scripts were shortened . . . body doubles were used more frequently . . . and eventually directors began declining to work with him, not because of any hesitancy over his limitations but out of respect for the actor and a desire to protect his entertainment legacy.

Robin Williams’s family faced the same unknown for several years, but theirs came with a misdiagnosis, as is common with his illness. Diffuse Lewy Body Dementia mimics other diseases such as Parkinson’s, a label erroneously attached to Williams’s condition in its early stages. Lewy Body Dementia brings with it a whole list of symptoms including paranoia, hallucinations, confusion, and insomnia, all of which result in a blurring of the lines between fantasy and reality—and made it impossible for Williams to continue performing. So great was the depression brought about by his illness and mental decline that he ultimately took his own life. It was only in the results of his autopsy that the answers were found, because that is the only way to definitively diagnose Lewy Body Dementia—by autopsying the brain.

As with aphasia caused by dementia or Alzheimer’s, a diagnosis of Diffuse Lewy Body Dementia is a slowly evolving death sentence. There are no cures. There are no treatments. And there is no hiding the effects. Although the world was never privy to the private struggles of these two well-known actors, those closest to them witnessed their decline . . . and were left to wonder why.

For every celebrity who suffers from an illness that ravages their mind, there are millions of ordinary people who are equally afflicted—people whose names are not known to the world, but who still matter greatly to those who love them and are forced to watch as they slip away. It is a truly helpless feeling to stand beside someone who was once vibrantly alive but now does not recognize your face or even respond to their own name. And in the end the cause doesn’t really matter; the result is still the same. They will die twice and nothing you can do will change that. So while they can still recall their own histories and retell their stories, record those memories. Ask all the questions and glean all the information you can. Then someday, when they no longer know who they are, you can remind them—and yourself.

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Yogi Knows

Wed, 30 Mar 2022 20:25:00 GMT

Even if you aren’t a baseball fan, chances are you’ve heard of Yogi Berra, New York Yankees catcher and eventual manager and coach. An 18 time All Star, he won 10 World Series championships as a player. For those of you unfamiliar with baseball stats, that’s more than any other player in Major League baseball history.

Despite Yogi’s many contributions to America’s national pastime, he might be equally well-known for his “mastery” of the English language, specifically for his “Yogi-isms”—illogical observations that always held a grain of truth, even though he did note, “I never said most of the things I said.”

Some of his better known sayings include such gems as:

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

“It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

“It ain’t over till it’s over.”

“I’m not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did.”

“I don’t know (if they were men or women fans running naked across the field). They had bags over their heads.”

“Baseball is 90% mental and the other half is physical.”

And, of course, one of our favorites . . . ”Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours.”

Remember that grain of truth I mentioned earlier? Despite the impossibility of people who are already dead attending your funeral—at least in person—there really is some truth in his statement. Families remember those who take the time to come to the funeral home or the church or wherever to pay their respects when Death takes someone they love. Unless you’ve stood in their shoes beside a casket or an urn, you don’t know how much it means when people set aside time in their busy lives to acknowledge your loss and your grief. And believe me, when you are there for them during those dark hours, they will be there for your family when it comes your turn to shuffle off this mortal coil.

So the next time you’re in a reflective mood and your thoughts turn to folks long since gone and their words of wisdom, remember . . . “Never answer an anonymous letter” . . . “A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore” . . .” You can observe a lot by just watching” . . . and your presence means the world to people when they lose someone they love.

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How Much Time?

Wed, 23 Mar 2022 21:58:00 GMT

David Rossi : I’m sorry about Maeve. So, how long has it been now? Four months?

Dr. Spencer Reid : Three months and 15 days.

Rossi : That’s why you’re not sleeping. This can’t go on.

Reid : I realize that the socially acceptable amount of time to wallow in grief is coming to an end, and . . .

Rossi : That’s not what I mean. You wallow as long as you need, but talk to someone.

Reid : I feel like there are two types of people in this world, Rossi. The ones that get over their grief and move on, and the ones that descend into some sort of endless misery.

Rossi : I know how you feel. Give it time.

Reid : How much time? I thought by coming to work every day and helping other people, the pain would lessen, but it hasn’t . . .

So goes the conversation between two members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI – Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid and his friend David Rossi, a Senior agent with the same title. They sit together, discussing the deaths of people they’ve loved. For Rossi it’s his Uncle Sal. For Reid it’s the love of his life, Dr. Maeve Donovan, who was murdered by her stalker. Pay close attention to Reid’s second line in the scene recounted above . . .

“I realize that the socially acceptable amount of time to wallow in grief is coming to an end, and . . .”

His friend assures him he’s allowed to wallow as long as he needs to; it’s a point upon which the writers of “Criminal Minds” and I agree. They understood Grief doesn’t care about “socially acceptable” amounts of time. Because Grief doesn’t own a watch. Or a calendar. So when the people who aren’t grieving decide to place time limits on the people who are, it never goes well. Ever.

Grief isn’t here one day and magically gone the next. It isn’t an unwelcome house guest of which you can eventually rid yourself. Once loss occurs and Grief takes up residence, it will never truly leave. Oh, as time passes it may take extended vacations, but there will always be a day when it returns. Loss changes us. Deep loss changes us forever—which is a very long time to be without someone you love. And please note . . . I said love . As in present tense. Not past. Not loved . Just as Grief will abide with you forever, so will the Love you shared.

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St. Patrick . . . The Man, The Myths, The Legends

Wed, 16 Mar 2022 21:54:00 GMT

Thursday, March 17 ^th many of us will find ourselves celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, when Chicago dyes the river green, everyone best be wearing some shade of that color if they don’t wanna get pinched, and parades celebrating all things Irish abound. But what do we really know about this man we’re celebrating . . . this man who referred to himself as Patricius?

The Man . . .

For starters, some historians say his birth name was actually Maewyn Succat, although not everyone agrees. If it was then I might understand why he chose to change it. And the patron saint of Ireland isn’t even Irish. Patrick was born to wealthy parents in Roman Britain—Great Britain at a time when it was under Roman rule. It’s very probable his parents were Roman citizens—and aristocrats at that. His years of birth and death are also up for debate. After all, historical records from the fifth century aren’t all that plentiful. However, students of Irish history do believe he lived into the 490s, possibly 492 or 493, dying at the ripe old age of 120 . . . on March 17 ^th . Sound familiar? Even when the year varies, the day remains the same.

Patrick’s first trip to Ireland came compliments of Irish slave traders who kidnapped him from his family home and sold him upon their return. Before that time, the Apostle of Ireland wasn’t much of a believer, but the next six years of herding sheep on foreign soil strengthened his faith. After years of praying religiously, he was able to escape, heading to the coast of Ireland where he boarded a ship for Britain. At least he did unless you believe the other tale that’s told, the one that states his father’s position in the community required him to serve on the town council, a task he found so distasteful that he actually ran away from home to avoid it.

Whatever his reason for leaving, he did eventually return home and, a few years later, had a vision of a man coming to him from Ireland (this may belong in the myths and legends section . . .), a man carrying a letter which read “We appeal to you, holy servant boy, to come and walk among us.” Believing he had been summoned, Patrick returned to Ireland as a missionary and the rest, as they say, is history . . . with just a wee bit o’ blarney thrown in.

The Myths . . . and The Legends . . .

As with many historical figures, St. Patrick’s legacy grew after his death, possibly as an effort by his followers to make his rather mundane adult life sound a bit more exciting rather than as an actual recitation of facts. For example . . .

According to legend, Patrick had a walking stick or staff made from the wood of an ash tree. His custom was to stick said stick in the ground when he began to evangelize an area and to remove it when his work was done. At one such spot his message took so long to convey and the people so long to convert that the staff had actually taken root when he prepared to leave.

Although St. Patrick is often pictured with a cross in one hand and a wad of shamrocks in the other, he never mentions them in any of his writings. His earliest visual connection came in the 1680s when coins were minted that showed him holding a shamrock. Later, in 1726, a botanist named Caleb Threlkeld told the story of Patrick using the three leafed plant to illustrate the Holy Trinity. That makes perfect sense, but whether or not it’s true is again, up for debate.

You’ve probably also heard that Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland . . . which would have been a neat trick if Ireland ever had snakes. Supposedly he drove them into the sea after a herd . . . or flock . . . or whatever you call a bunch of snakes . . . attacked him as he fasted at the top of a hill. But according to naturalist Nigel Monaghan, the resident expert of history at the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin, it just isn’t so. There are no records, fossilized or otherwise, that prove a snake infestation ever occurred on the island.

The Summation and Application . . .

So, why a brief discussion of St. Patrick and his life? Well, it is St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday best known for the mandatory wearing of the green, not to mention parades and parties (and alcohol), with the occasional leprechaun thrown in for good measure. But St. Patrick’s life and legacy can also illustrate what happens when folks—famous or not—enter the afterlife. We often appreciate them far more once they depart, we often acknowledge all the good they accomplished and tend to overlook the not-so-great, and we often make them larger than life as time goes by. In other words, we won’t all become saints in the religious sense, but the people who loved us most in life may remember us that way.

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A Simple Touch

Wed, 09 Mar 2022 23:42:00 GMT

It hadn’t necessarily been a surprise, but then I’ve never believed any amount of advance notice would allow one to adequately prepare for the death of someone they love. In this instance, there had been time—days that stretched into weeks that stretched into months, but still . . .

The hour of the service was approaching when I stepped into the stateroom to visit for a minute. I had known the children for . . . well . . . pretty much their entire lives, but their destinies had taken them in different directions and far away from home, so visits to Savannah, even without a pandemic, had been few and far between.

The older daughter was standing in the middle of the room, her back to me as she conversed with others who had come to pay their respects. Her husband stood close beside me but he never spoke, which was understandable. I recognized him. He didn’t know me from Adam—or Eve, as the case may be. Of course, being the aspiring hermit that I am, and a sworn introvert, I didn’t attempt conversation, either. Besides, he was focused on her, watching for the slightest hint that something might be amiss, that she might be faltering in her struggle to maintain some sense of control.

I don’t know what he saw. Perhaps it was nothing at all; perhaps it was a movement so slight as to escape the notice of anyone who wasn’t watching for it or didn’t know her well enough to catch it. Whatever he saw, it caused him to move toward her. Positioning himself to her left and slightly behind her, he softly placed his hand against her back and began to gently rub it, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against her clothes, just enough that she would know he was there. And as I stood, taking in this moment that very few others were privileged to see . . . or to appreciate . . . she visibly relaxed.

The human touch. It isn’t going to solve the problems of the world, but it can give us the strength to carry on by reminding us that we aren’t alone. And when that touch comes from the right person, it can impart a sense of peace that cannot be measured. Even in the worst of circumstances, it can provide a haven in the storms.

A healing touch, offered in love. Something so simple . . . and yet so powerful.

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The Sword of Damocles

Wed, 02 Mar 2022 23:11:00 GMT

Ok. Show of hands. How many of you know about the sword of Damocles?

*scans the Internet for responses*

For those of you who don’t, please allow me to provide the Reader’s Digest Condensed version of the story. For those of you who do, feel free to skip the next paragraph.

In our tale, Damocles is a member of the court of King Dionysius. He is also a rather envious sort and consistently tells the King how fortunate he is to be surrounded with such wealth and luxury . . . to have people falling all over themselves to meet his every need. Dionysius grows weary of Damocles’ constant fawning, so he suggests they swap places for a day, a plan to which Damocles immediately agrees. Dionysius vacates his throne and allows Damocles to literally play King for a Day. But before he does, Dionysius suspends an incredibly sharp sword above said throne, a sword that constantly hangs over Damocles’ head, held in place by a single hair from a horse’s tail. The intent is to illustrate, among other things, that what you see isn’t always what you get. And that great power is not without great responsibility . . . or peril. Needless to say, after a bit Damocles decides being king isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, begs for his old job back long before the day draws to a close, and the story ends with everyone in their rightful places and the world left to form their own conclusions.

Right now I’m pretty sure there are an abundance of people who feel as though the sword of Damocles is perpetually suspended over their heads. I, for one, have awakened every morning for the last week with a feeling of impending doom—a feeling I’m sure many of us share—over the war between Russia and Ukraine. Can I fix it? Nope. Does it directly affect me? Not even remotely. But I’m concerned for the world at large and the Ukrainians specifically—and, in the long run, my grandkids and what kind of mess they may inherit someday. So every morning I wake up, turn on the news, and hope the major cities haven’t been overrun and the Ukrainian President isn’t dead. It’s kinda like watching a train wreck. You don’t want to see it, but you can’t look away.

As hard as it may be for some of us to distance ourselves from world events, there are far more folks right now who are trying to cope with their own personal versions of Damocles’ sword. It may be a lost job . . . a child’s illness . . . a spouse’s death . . . anything that brings unwelcomed change to Life as we know it. And every morning we rise to that feeling of impending doom. That feeling of despair that burrows into our souls, consuming our waking hours, and often our dreams. We want the life we had . . . and we know it can never be ours again.

One of these days, hopefully sooner rather than later, the situation in Europe will reach a peaceful and positive resolution. Hopefully. And my feeling of impending doom will dissipate. At least until the next time it rears its ugly head. However, for everyone dealing with their own personal battles, there may never be a resolution, especially if Death has his say. But there can be a truce of sorts, one that eventually allows us to grow comfortable in our lives once more . . . one that allows us to banish the sword of Damocles, or at the very least, replace that single horse hair with a log chain.

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The Right to Privacy

Thu, 24 Feb 2022 02:16:00 GMT

The morning of January 9 ^th most of the world awoke as usual, although there was at least one notable exception—Bob Saget, the actor and comedian who was found dead in his hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton Orlando, Grande Lake. The evening before he’d performed his full stand-up routine, retired to his room, and mysteriously suffered a blow to the back of his skull that literally fractured it at the point of impact, on the right side, across the front, and around his eye sockets.

Once the autopsy findings were released to the media, the speculation surrounding his death began in earnest. He slipped in the bathroom, hitting the back of his head on the tile floor . . . he hit the front of his head on something which then caused him to fall over backwards, injuring himself again . . . an intruder smacked him with a baseball bat. There seemed to be no end to the number of theories and everyone from medical experts to amateur detectives weighed in on the subject.

In the midst of the conjecture and chaos, Saget’s family filed a lawsuit. They weren’t looking for answers. They weren’t seeking large sums of money due to a wrongful death. They wanted one thing and one thing only. To stop the release of any pictures or video that had been taken of the scene—and of their loved one as he was found. The suit named the Orange County Sheriff John Mina and the District Nine Medical Examiner’s Office. To quote the family’s attorney, Brian Bieber:

“In order to protect the Saget family’s privacy, today on their behalf, I filed for an injunction to prevent the disclosure of any photographs or videos of Mr. Saget made by the authorities during their investigation. The facts of the investigation should be made public, but these materials should remain private out of respect for the dignity of Mr. Saget and his family. It’s very simple — from a human and legal standpoint — the Saget family’s privacy rights outweigh any public interest in disclosure of this sensitive information.”

The Saget family’s privacy rights outweigh any public interest in disclosure . . .

Of course they do, and anyone with an ounce of decency and empathy should know that. But Bob Saget was a celebrity and for some reason people feel entitled to the intimate details of their lives—and their deaths.

Kobe Bryant’s widow faced the same ordeal, but found herself defending her right to privacy rather than claiming it. Photos of the helicopter crash site—and the bodies of those who perished—had already been passed around by people who should have known better, who took an oath to protect and serve but did neither in that instance. And truth be known, it was probably that experience which compelled Bob Saget’s widow to take action before she found herself in the same circumstances.

Human beings come naturally equipped with an amazing sense of curiosity and, if someone doesn’t manage to squash it while we’re children, we get to keep that need to know and understand into adulthood. But by then we should also have learned to temper our curiosity with a sense of what is and is not appropriate. In my considered opinion, the intimate details of someone else’s death are none of my business—and I’m fairly certain most everyone would agree if it was someone they loved upon whom the spotlight was shining. Would you want that person’s death, untimely or otherwise, turned into fodder for the media? Would you want the pictures of that moment made public for all the world to see? Of course not.

It’s difficult enough to cope with Life’s tragedies without someone deciding the public’s “right to know” outweighs a family’s right to privacy. Do those pictures have to exist for the sake of any investigation? Yes. Do they have to be released to the world in the name of “news”? No.

That shouldn’t even be a question.

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How Could There Not Be Grief?

Wed, 16 Feb 2022 23:20:00 GMT

At the beginning of every month . . . actually more like toward the middle . . . I’ll flip through the funeral records from the previous month. Why, you may (or may not) ask? I’m counting. Of the families we served, how many chose to have what we call a full traditional funeral with a visitation followed by a chapel or church service? How many held their loved one’s service at the grave side? How many cremations did we have and of those, how many were direct cremations with no services and how many held some form of something? But no matter how I may break down the services requested by the families who called upon us, I always start with one category . . . total number of services, broken down by adult or infant/children.

Thankfully, most months our infant and children services line is blank. No one was forced to give up their little one. No family had to bury their future. But not December. For December that line told a different story. During a month that’s supposed to be filled with joy and family and celebrations of the season, three precious little souls had been snatched away by Death.

As I contemplated the circumstances surrounding each loss I was reminded of an observation made in my presence several years ago. This person, who I would like to clarify right now did not work at the funeral home, was talking about a mutual acquaintance’s recent loss of a pregnancy, and in the course of said discourse, actually uttered the words, “I don’t know why they bothered having a service. It wasn’t like there was anything there.” The implication was that at four months, because the pregnancy did not reach full-term . . . because the parents never had the opportunity to hold their child and play with her, to see her smile and reach the milestones we often use to mark an infant’s progress, it didn’t matter. They really didn’t lose anything . . .

After I overcame the urge to physically assault this person, I explained that the grief was real—they had lost much more than evidently this individual could possibly imagine. The excitement as they awaited their child’s arrival . . . the hopes and plans and dreams for their little one . . . all the memories they would have made together and the future of their family . . . it all changed in what I’m sure felt like the blink of an eye. The excitement turned to sorrow . . . the dreams disappeared . . . the memories stopped in that one moment. How could there not be grief? And how could they not recognize and acknowledge their loss?

Although I don’t often mention it, my husband and I lost our first child, at between four and five months into the pregnancy. So I can tell you from experience how devastating it is. And this was at a time when you didn’t publicly mourn that type of loss. Not a lot was said, nothing was done in the way of ceremonially acknowledging what had happened. But I do remember at church one Sunday morning, a gentleman just about the age of my parents came over to my husband and, unaware that I could hear him, asked if I was all right. Because he knew. He knew because he and his wife had also lost a pregnancy decades before, and he remembered the pain of that loss, even after so many years had passed. His acknowledgement of mine meant more than he could ever know.

So, if you are unfortunate enough to lose a child to Death, whether during pregnancy or after birth, never . . . never be ashamed of your grief . . . and don’t let anyone else shame you into hiding it. What other people may say or think doesn’t matter. How they may have handled the same type of loss at some point in the past doesn’t matter. This is your loss and these are your feelings. This is your grief and you are allowed to process it all in the manner that is best for you. And if that includes a full-fledged funeral or a cremation with a memorial service or a simple graveside farewell, so be it.

Never hide your grief—any grief—just because someone else doesn’t understand it.

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The King Is Dead . . . Long Live The Queen

Thu, 10 Feb 2022 00:15:00 GMT

On Sunday, February 6, 2022, Queen Elizabeth II celebrated a rare milestone these days—70 years at the same job. Granted, being the Queen is a singularly unique position to occupy, as noted by a friend of mine years ago upon learning that my daughter wanted to be a queen when she grew up. “Good work, if you can get it.”

Elizabeth’s ascension to the throne at the young age of 25 was brought about by the sudden death of her father, King George VI. He had become King by default when his brother and heir to the throne, Edward VIII, abdicated in order to marry Wallis Simpson, a twice-divorced American whose multiple marriages made Edward’s advisors cringe. So Edward took his toys—and Wallis—and went home to France, allowing Elizabeth’s father Albert, Duke of York, to rule as George VI. The date was December 10, 1935 . . . 325 days after Edward was crowned King.

From that point forward Elizabeth was the presumptive heir to the throne, a duty she understood but I’m fairly certain did not anticipate having to fulfill just 16 years later. And even though she was a princess, destined to rule over the British Empire, she woke up that fateful morning excited about the wildlife at the lodge in Kenya where she and Philip were staying. With camera in hand, she had gone about her day, completely unaware that her life had already changed drastically. In the hours that followed, she experienced much of what we all do when Death strikes close to home, just from a princess’s point of view . . .

Elizabeth’s father died in his sleep of coronary thrombosis—in other words, a blood clot. He was found in his bed at 7:30 the morning of February 6, 1952 by his servants who became alarmed when the water they were running for his bath did not wake him as it normally did.

Elizabeth and Philip were scheduled to tour Australia and New Zealand as stand-ins for the King and Queen since his health would not permit him to travel. But their first stop was Kenya where they initially stayed in a tree house perched high atop an enormous fig tree with accommodations accessible only by a ladder attached to the side of the trunk.

It was while in Kenya that they learned of George VI’s death, but not before the rest of the world knew. The telegram sent to the Government House in Nairobi could not be decoded and the couple’s remote location delayed the news reaching them. They were actually informed by way of Granville Roberts, a journalist covering their trip. Reuters had issued a news flash which Roberts’s office received, a simple, one sentence message. “The King is dead.” Roberts called Philip’s private secretary, Commander Michael Parker, who woke a napping Philip to share the news.

Philip took Elizabeth for a walk in the gardens where he told her of her father’s death. This young mother of two, the wife of a naval officer with as normal a life as a princess can have, was now the Queen.

Those around her never saw her cry, but once the plane was airborne, she excused herself and stepped into the bathroom where she stayed for an extended period of time. Although her eyes were dry when she returned, they were also red and puffy, a result of the tears she had obviously shed in private.

Always conscious of the message her appearance conveyed, Elizabeth realized she had no mourning clothes. She had quickly left Sagana Lodge and boarded the plane wearing the beige summer dress and white shoes she had on at the time Philip informed her of her father’s death. Upon her return to England, the plane touched down in a distant corner of the air field. An appropriate mourning dress was brought aboard and the new Queen changed before making her first public appearance. She was greeted by a group of dignitaries that included her uncle and Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

Perhaps Queen Elizabeth II’s cousin, Lady Pamela Hicks, best summed up the events surrounding George VI’s death and Elizabeth’s ascension to the throne. Traveling with Elizabeth in her official position as a lady-in-waiting, and thinking of the ladder Elizabeth had climbed to her tree house abode, Hicks observed, “She goes up that ladder a princess; the King dies that night; she comes down that ladder a Queen.” In other words, no matter your position in this life, Death has the power to turn your world upside down. And he usually does.

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Risks and Rewards

Wed, 02 Feb 2022 23:11:00 GMT

I was attempting to drag myself into a state of wakefulness Wednesday morning, contemplating whether I would be tackling the day or if, as has been the case lately, the day would tackle me. The bed was warm, the house was cold due to the drastic change in the weather . . . again . . . and I’d already hit the snooze button on my phone twice. And the third time was looking like a distinct possibility. That’s when I heard it, sneaking into that space that exists between asleep and awake. Rain.

Rain . . .

But it didn’t bother me. It wasn’t a violent downpour accompanied by flashes of lightning and thunder that would shake the house and send Bud Dog into hiding. It was just a gentle shower with water dripping from the eaves of the house, dancing on the sidewalk and the asphalt of the driveway. It was the kind of rain that whispers of staying in bed and snuggling under the covers. Of hitting the stop button instead of snooze and then ignoring the passage of time . . . and the pile of obligations and responsibilities that await you.

It was a moment of peace, even if there was an internal wrestling match in progress.

We all need those moments—now more than ever. And most of us manage to find them. It may be a special place or a memory to which you return. It may be a good book or a cup of coffee enjoyed in silence. Or it may be a person. Someone with whom you are able to abandon all that makes you anxious or nervous or stressed . . . someone who allows you to simply be and to enjoy the good things that negative thoughts and emotions often hold hostage.

But what happens when that someone is no longer there? When Life or Death takes them from you and that avenue to peace no longer exists? How ironic is it that the one person you need to help you deal with the stress of their absence is the one person whose absence is causing the stress?

There are no easy answers to that first question, and sometimes it seems as if there are no answers at all. No matter what some folks may tell you, special people truly are indispensable and irreplaceable. You can’t just go and find a new best friend you’d trust with all your secrets. You can’t just go and find another spouse or significant other that you’d literally trust with your life. Relationships such as those are built over time, forged by the trials and tribulations of Life.

So I’ll ask my question again—and then I’ll add another question to it. What happens when that someone is no longer there? I can’t tell you what you should do in that situation, because each person’s approach is going to be different based upon the relationship they lost and their own personalities. But I can tell you what not to do. Don’t sit and wait for the world to beat a path to your doorstep. You’ll be waiting a very long time. Don’t sit and wallow in self-pity. It accomplishes nothing other than making an undesirable situation even worse. And don’t expect people to just magically know how much you’re hurting. You’ll find yourself harshly judging them for situations they don’t even realize exist.

My second question comes from “The Girl in the Mask”, an episode of the television series Bones that I happened to be watching via On Demand one night while cooking (and yes, I do cook . . . sometimes . . .). A young man had come to the U.S. hoping to find his sister who had vanished. In the course of their investigation, Dr. Brennan (aka Bones) asked him, “Is it worth it, to have your happiness so contingent upon another human being?” It was a logical question coming from someone whose view of the world is rarely, if ever, influenced by emotion, addressed to a man who was obviously distraught over the loss of someone dear to him. His response? “If I would risk my life for Sachi, why would I not risk my happiness?”

That response requires me to state the obvious. If there were no valleys there could be no mountains. If there was no sorrow we might never appreciate the joy that can be ours. And if there are no risks, can there truly be rewards? That, my friends, is why we freely choose to invest so heavily in the love and security of another person, why we willingly accept the risk of their permanent absence.

Because the rewards are immeasurable.

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Ahoy, Maties!

Wed, 26 Jan 2022 23:09:00 GMT

I knew exactly how I wanted to start this particular post. So I googled the word “pirates”. The first thing I got was all kinds of information on the Pittsburgh Pirates . . . but I didn’t want baseball pirates, so I scrolled on down the page.

Next up was the IMBd page for the 1986 comedy The Pirates directed by Roman Polanski and starring Walter Matthau. There were a bunch of other people involved, none of whom I recognized (but then I don’t get out much) and I have no idea about the plot. Except that pirates are obviously involved. Again, not what I wanted.

After more Pirates baseball stuff I was offered various images of Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean . I enjoyed the first movie; the sequels, not so much. It got to be a little redundant after about the third one. And again, not what I was looking for.

As a matter of fact, no matter how long I scrolled or how many pages I scanned, I never came across a single mention of the subject matter at hand . . . obituary pirates .

Yep. Believe it or not, those are actually a thing, mostly in the form of businesses operating on-line for the sole purpose of pirating obituaries from legitimate funeral home and news media sites and then marketing them as their own. Normally they aren’t reprinted word for word since that’s deemed to be a violation of copyright laws—a practice that did get Afterlife in a world of hurt when Newfoundland attorney Erin Best got hold of them. When the dust settled, Afterlife was ordered to pay $20 million in a class action lawsuit for republishing obituaries in their entirety.

One of Afterlife’s “silent partners”, Pascal “Paco” Leclerc, started another company (which he named Everhere then later, Echovita) for the purpose of salvaging his reputation . . . and the income stream to which he had grown accustomed . . . and, in his own words, to inform the public of recent deaths. A public service thing, so to speak. Unfortunately, in order to avoid the copyright issues, Echovita only publishes summaries of the obituaries it borrows from other sources—and those summaries are rarely ever accurate. Take, for example, the obituary of Jane Thompson, which had been lovingly crafted by her family. Tugs and Cash, her two dogs, turned into her close friends. Her granddaughter was listed as a grandson and the children were nowhere to be found. According to Joel Thompson, Jane’s husband, “It looks like a fourth grader did it.” The family was understandable angry because their loved one’s personal information was being used without their permission, was inaccurately conveyed in the process, and was an embarrassment in its presentation.

To test this complaint, I went to Echovita’s website and typed in a random name from a family we served several years ago. Sure ‘nuff, up popped a poor excuse for a summary of the full obituary that’s published on our website. It was fairly accurate . . . except for naming his deceased first wife as surviving and completely omitting the woman to whom he was married at the time of his death. Both of which were correctly listed in the funeral home version. Then I went to another website—one that has contacted us in the past about “collaborating”, i.e., we send them all of our obituaries and they publish them on their website. I typed in my father’s name and, lo and behold, there was his obituary, word for word as I had written it, taken from the Commercial Appeal where it had appeared. I also checked for my mother’s; it was there as well . . . with a beautiful comment by a childhood friend of mine. A comment made within a few weeks of my mother’s death. A comment I had not seen until today . . . 13 years later . . . and which I would never have seen if not for this post.

And therein lies the problem with a great many of these sites. Friends and extended family may leave heart-felt words of sympathy which they believe the family will see—and which will remain buried in the depths of the Internet until the second coming. And the greater the number of these sites, the less likely family members are to see condolences left on them since they’ll basically be scattered across the world wide web.

So the moral to the story? When you get ready to read someone’s obituary and to leave messages of support and comfort, be certain you’re on the servicing funeral home’s website. That’s the only way you can guarantee the accuracy of what you’re reading . . . and the only way you can be assured the family will see your expressions of sympathy and recollections of the past in a timely manner.

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Tangible Connections

Thu, 20 Jan 2022 00:25:00 GMT

Well, Danny Tanner died. It wasn’t quite as devastating as Betty White slipping away on December 31 ^st , but still . . .

If you google “America’s dad”, Bob Saget, the actor who created the character, pops up, compliments of his role on the TV sitcoms Full House and Fuller House . Television audiences fell in love with Danny, thereby securing Bob’s place in TV history.

So when he died unexpectedly on January 9 ^th , his family, friends, and fans were shocked and grief-stricken, especially his wife of six years, Kelly Rizzo. And in her grief she did what many women do when they lose a spouse—she took his wedding ring, slipped a gold chain through it, and wore it close to her heart. This symbol of their devotion to one another, of their commitment to their marriage—this tangible connection to the man she loved—would now be with her everywhere she went, to be lovingly and sometimes absent-mindedly caressed when her thoughts turned to him.

Not surprisingly, widows often come into our office wearing their husband’s wedding band in some form or fashion. Or it may be his watch wrapping itself around their wrist with a band so large it could (and frequently does) slide half-way up their arm. They’ll never have links removed or buy one that’s smaller so it doesn’t dance about. Then it wouldn’t be his. It wouldn’t be the watch he’d worn. It doesn’t matter if the band is too large, broken or frayed, or the glass is cracked or missing. Honestly, it doesn’t even have to work . . . all it has to do is be. Be his. Be with her. Be a connection.

Men don’t always have the same options when it comes to carrying those extremely personal items that once belonged to their wives. The wedding bands normally don’t fit any finger and not every man will wear a chain around his neck. And a woman’s watch? They’re probably too feminine or too small. But I’ve seen new tattoos, the skin still red and raw from the process. I’ve seen small items pulled from blue jean pockets where weathered hands can hold them and no one is ever the wiser, or pictures lovingly placed in time-worn wallets, to be carried with them always.

Spouses do it. Parents and children do it. Even life-long friends do it. They search for an object that embodies the person they’ve lost. And once that object is found, it will stay with them forever . . . or until the pain recedes and the wound scars over. Even then, they may not be stored safely away . . . because there comes a time when they are no longer simply a connection to someone special. They have become as much a part of the person left behind as they were of the person they are learning to live without.

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Unknown Numbers

Wed, 12 Jan 2022 23:54:00 GMT

You may (or may not) have heard about the gentleman who was lost in the mountains of Colorado last October. He started out on one of the trails traversing Mount Elbert, Colorado’s highest peak, but failed to return come nightfall. The folks where he was staying reported him missing and from that point on, search and rescue teams began canvassing the mountainside, beginning with the areas where he was most likely to lose his way. From 10:00 PM until 3:00 AM, five team members searched in vain. Another team of three set out at 7:00 AM, scouring areas where hikers were known to easily lose the trail. And throughout the entire search and rescue effort, the team members called his cell phone . . . and texted him . . . and left voicemails . . . all in an effort to determine if he was, indeed, lost or even still alive. You know why he didn’t answer? It wasn’t because he didn’t have service. It wasn’t because he or his phone (or both) were dead.

He didn’t recognize the numbers . . . he didn’t recognize the numbers . . .

HE DIDN’T RECOGNIZE THE NUMBERS!!!!!

And yes. I know I’m yelling.

This man was lost for 24 hours in the mountains of Colorado . . . and he wouldn’t answer his phone because he didn’t know who was calling. Would it really have been the end of the world if it was about his car’s extended warranty or his school loans or his credit card account? No. If he’d answered just one of those calls, the search could have been shortened considerably and no one would have wasted hours and risked their lives hiking around in the dark looking for him.

Fortunately, most of us will never be so lost that search parties are formed for the sake of locating us. And hopefully, if we ever are, we’ll have enough sense to either call for help if we have service or answer our cell phone if it rings. Other times? Maybe not so much. We’re all tired of the spam calls and the untrustworthy folks who seem determined to gain our trust—and our money. So it might be understandable when we ignore those numbers that don’t ring a bell (pun intended).

But there’s at least one time when that habit needs to be broken.

In Tennessee, please don’t turn off your phone and don’t not answer any strange numbers if you’ve had a family member to die in a hospital or if they were taken to the hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. Because you see, in Tennessee hospitals are required to hold someone’s body for up to (please notice the “up to” part) 23 hours and 59 minutes (so just shy of a day) if they believe that person has the potential to be a donor. This gives Tennessee Donor Services the time they need to review that person’s medical history and, if they agree that donation is possible, to contact the family for permission. Which means if you turn your phone off because you’re absolutely exhausted or simply don’t want to be bothered . . . or you don’t answer because you don’t recognize the number . . . your loved one won’t be released to the funeral home for what could turn in to several hours. It can also delay the donation if you’re inclined to grant permission.

The gentleman in Colorado finally located the right trail and returned to his temporary place of abode around 9:30 the next morning, unaware that he’d been the subject of an extensive search involving over 32 man hours. Because he wouldn’t answer his phone. Because he didn’t recognize the numbers.

There are a few times in life when we just need to throw caution to the wind (a sarcasm font would come in handy right about here) and answer the phone. One of those might be if we’re lost in the mountains and it rings. And another might be if we’re the legal next of kin and Donor Services is on the line.

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Goodbye, Betty

Thu, 06 Jan 2022 02:20:00 GMT

I have a mental list of people that I will hate to see depart this life. Not family members or friends; they’re just a given. My list is composed of celebrities who, for a variety of reasons, occupy or have occupied a special place in my heart. Gene Wilder was on that list. So were Bob Newhart and Tim Conway and Madeline Kahn and Mary Tyler Moore. Dick Van Dyke is still on that list. So is Carol Burnett. And until December 31 ^st , so was Betty White.

With impeccable comedic timing and the ability to say the most ridiculous things with the straightest face and the most innocent expression, she became a fixture in that staple known as the American sitcom. Right about here is where I thought I would begin recounting her many achievements—until I realized how many achievements there were. But when you live to be 99, and you start at the age of 17 or 18 (or 8, according to some sources), you have a lot of time to work on that. Over those years, she was recognized as a master of her craft but, more importantly, she was recognized as a good human being.

For example, at the beginning of World War II she put her career on hold and joined the American Women’s Voluntary Services, driving a PX truck loaded with military supplies to the Hollywood Hills, and entertaining troops before they were shipped overseas. In 1952 she began hosting The Betty White Show on NBC. With full creative control (something that was exceedingly rare for a woman in those days), she was able to hire whom she pleased, and one of those hires was a Black tap dancer named Arthur Duncan. Some of the more conservative television stations had a problem with that and demanded Duncan be fired . . . to which White replied, “I’m sorry. Live with it.” And increased Duncan’s air time. Her acceptance of all people led her to observe later “I don’t know how people can get so anti-something. Mind your own business, take care of your affairs, and don’t worry about other people so much.” It seemed you could always depend on her to be forthright and honest and blunt, but in such a way that no one was offended . . . maybe. If they were, I’m not sure she worried too much about it.

She had a particular fondness for animals—all animals—and in my considered opinion (which isn’t worth much), that says a great deal about a person. It was a love that was fostered in the early 1970s by her time on The Pet Set where she featured celebrities . . . and naturally, their pets. Working with, and often leading, numerous organizations—and putting her money into various efforts—she made a huge impact in the area of animal welfare.

Her popularity was unquestioned and she knew how much her fans loved her, but in spite of this knowledge, she managed to remain humble and down to earth. She was so loved that, at the age of 88, she was invited to host Saturday Night Live as the result of a Facebook campaign entitled “Betty White to Host SNL (Please)”. At the beginning of the show, as she started her opening monologue, she thanked the almost 500,000 group members who had made the gig possible, observing that up until that point she “didn’t know what Facebook was, and now that I do know what it is, I have to say, it sounds like a huge waste of time.” The evening won her the 2010 Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Guest Actress in a Comedy Series and made her more of a legend than she already was.

Given the prevalence of information that is currently being published about Betty, compliments of her unexpected demise, I’ve been able to read a great deal about her life. Isn’t that how it so often is? We know very little about who someone really is until they’re only here in spirit, and then their lives become an open book. And when you’re someone famous, that’s usually followed by a for-real book, if one or two or ten haven’t already been published. The recurring theme seems to be that she did things her way, with integrity and humor but often shedding the mantel of dignity for the sake of her art. She was loyal to those she loved, tenacious in her pursuits, passionate about those causes to which she dedicated herself, and grateful for the life she was able to live. None of which you might have realized based on the public person she allowed us to see . . . the one who had no problem laughing at the world or at herself.

On December 31st, as if to thumb her nose at everyone who was preparing to celebrate the 100 ^th anniversary of her birth . . . and at the year 2021 . . . she slipped away quietly on the very last day of an already somewhat sucky year . . . 18 days before she would have joined that elite group of people who manage to survive for an entire century. A ginormous celebration had been planned, complete with magazine covers and television specials and guest appearances by a whole host of famous folks—and none of that mattered to Death. Betty White had been blessed with a long and productive life, with a mind and body that functioned up until the very last minute, and an exit for which many of us can only hope—an exit that has led to the rumor mill churning out all kinds of tales, about which Betty’s assistant Kiersten Mikelas observed:

“I’ve been reading a lot of the media coverage, and people seem really fixated on speculating about the way Betty died. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people put that much time into focusing on how she LIVED and, moreover incorporating a little of her philosophy into their OWN lives??? Be kind. Be kind to another person, to another animal, to the planet. THAT is the BEST way to honor Betty White. Certainly, the legacy of a life well-lived is worth more attention than the moments before that life ended.”

Betty White—comedian extraordinaire, consummate professional, entertainment icon, and all-round decent person. The only negative thing I’ve been able to find printed about her life was that, at the ripe old age of 99, she died too soon. What an amazing commentary.

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Hidden Stars

Wed, 29 Dec 2021 23:33:00 GMT

We have a dog named Buddy (aka Bud Dog, aka Bud Man, aka Buddy Pup . . .) who developed a weird looking (and feeling) knot on his shoulder, but before the vet got ready to remove it, he tested our furry friend for heartworms . . . and got a big ole positive for his efforts. So before we could de-knot the dog we had to go through round one of treatment, followed by 30 days of kenneling, followed by surgery and a second treatment, followed by another 30 days of kenneling.

For the uninitiated, heartworm treatments require kenneling of the treated animal so they don’t run around getting all excited, causing the heartworms to break loose and act like a blood clot. And for those who haven’t thought this all the way through, that meant we had to walk Buddy every morning and every evening and every night before bed. That is, unless we wanted to clean up a mess.

I took the morning and before bed shift and my husband took the evening walk. I don’t know about his experience, but Buddy was possibly the most accommodating dog known to man when it was my turn. I’d open the kennel door, he’d walk up to me and stick his head through the leash, and then gently walk down the steps off the porch (where the kennel was located, so he wasn’t out in the weather and we could install a heat lamp for the cold nights). Then he’d drag me all over the yard and out into the field, looking for that “perfect” spot. Once said spot had been located (and it was never the same spot twice), he’d take care of business while I stood looking around because . . . I mean . . . what else am I gonna do?

One night, while standing in the cold and listening to the silence that surrounded me—and waiting for the Bud Man to head back to the porch—I looked up. I don’t know why I hadn’t done that before; maybe on this particular night, Buddy was taking a bit longer than usual, perhaps the night was a bit darker than most other nights, or the moon was shining just a bit brighter than I was accustomed to seeing. Whatever the reason, I looked up . . . and the sky was filled with stars.

Where we live the stars don’t have to compete with the street lights or the parking lot lights of some major retail outlet. The sky belongs to them and I was awe-struck by their infinite beauty. I found Orion’s belt which pointed the way to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky and a part of Canis Major, or The Greater Dog. He is the constant companion of Orion, the hunter, who was placed in the night sky by Diana, goddess of the hunt and the moon, as a way to ensure his immortality after her brother Apollo tricked her into killing him. The Greater Dog also chases Lepus the hare, who sits eternally beneath Orion as though he waits for the hunter to notice him. If you’re a fan of mythology, then you know every constellation has a story, and that night so many of them sprang from the recesses of my high school and college-aged brain to remind me of what I had learned so many years ago.

I stood that night, gazing in wonder at something that had been there all along, but which in the chaos of Life, I had forgotten. From that point on, I looked forward to our nightly walks because I knew what awaited me. There were nights when the clouds rolled in and Buddy and I walked in the rain . . . cloud-covered nights that often tied themselves together in what seemed to be an endless string of darkness. But then the clouds would part to reveal a sky sprinkled with pinpoints of light . . . just as it has always been, despite Nature’s attempt to hide their beauty.

Most of us have grown weary over the last two years . . . years filled with cloud-covered nights that seem to have hidden the good things of Life behind an endless string of challenges and tragedies. But somewhere, behind all those clouds, the stars are shining. Sometimes, all you have to do is look up, though there are nights it might take a while to find one. And sometimes—like now—you have to be patient, knowing they’ll reappear when the time is right. But whether or not we can see them, the stars are always there . . . just as they always have been . . . just as they always will be, despite all the clouds behind which they are often hidden. Here’s hoping that in the coming year we will continually look for the stars, focusing on them when we find them, and knowing they will return when Life hides them from our sight.

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Decorated With Memories

Wed, 22 Dec 2021 23:56:00 GMT

A lot of people put them up each year . . . you know, the Christmas tree that’s decorated with memories. We have one at our house that holds the ornaments the kids (and grandkids) made in school, the plastic canvas ones stitched by my husband’s grandmother and those made by the wife of our former manager in Selmer. She always made them as favors for their Christmas parties and I was always lucky enough to get one. There are several I made for our dorm room tree when I was a freshman in college, satin-wrapped and studded with sequins and decorative beads held in place by straight pins. My roommate and I made those because we didn’t think we had enough money to actually buy ornaments, but I’m pretty sure we spent more on the materials than mass-produced ones would have cost. I’m also pretty sure we had a lot more fun making them than we ever would have had just walking into a store and purchasing some.

There are those that were gifts from the students I taught in the church’s Wednesday night kindergarten class and the few surviving ones that once graced the trees of my childhood . . . real trees that Dad would take outside and spray flocking all over—flocking that left a trail through the house as it made its way to the picture window in the living room so my mother could decorate it in turquoise mini-disco balls and snowy glass pinecones.

But there are three ornaments on our tree that mean a great deal more than most of the others. Each year I search for the perfect place to hang them so they aren’t necessarily side by side, but close enough that you can’t see one without seeing all three. If you look at the picture attached to this blog, you might be able to find them, hiding behind the icicles and ‘mongst the other memories. Some of you may recognize them as the silver snowflakes we provide for the families we serve through our Savannah location . . . some of you may even have a few that you hang on your tree each year.

Those three snowflakes represent three people who are very important to our family—my mother, my dad, and my husband’s grandmother. “Miss” Emma (as I knew her) or Nana (as all the grandkids and great-grandkids knew her) was a force to be reckoned with, having been a school teacher for . . . well, forever. She was active until a week before her death from a massive stroke, so her two oldest great-grands—my two children—have a lot of fond memories, including Christmas breakfasts at her house where everyone ate until they were stuffed and left smelling of country ham and redeye gravy.

Every year, when I unpack the ornaments and come upon these three, there’s a moment when I just sit and hold them and let the memories wash over me. And that’s the beauty of this season. It’s a time for friends and family—both past and present—and the memories we’ve spent a lifetime creating and collecting.

The holidays are hard when grief is your companion, and I know right now there are so many who are struggling just to get through the season. To all of you I want to say . . . remember those you’ve lost. Don’t try to banish them from your celebrations, because you can’t. Those memories won’t be locked away, no matter how hard you may try. So say their names. Look at their pictures. Tell their stories. And give those around you permission to do the same. You loved them without measure in life. It’s all right to let the world know you still do.

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Newton’s First Law

Thu, 16 Dec 2021 03:55:00 GMT

It was Monday morning and I was standing in the kitchen trying to decide which cookie I’d tackle first. There was a list of twelve, and prioritizing was important if everything was to get done in the limited amount of time I had set aside.

The TV was on, mainly for noise since the house was relatively quiet, but I also wanted updates on the storms that had devastated several areas in at least six states, the hardest hit being Kentucky. As a young child I had traveled to that state quite often, trips made for my mother to visit her half-sister. They lived in Hardin, Kentucky which was less than 30 miles from the city of Mayfield. For those who’ve been blissfully under a rock, Mayfield was almost wiped off the face of the earth on Friday night and Saturday morning.

Andy Beshear, the Governor of Kentucky, was standing before a sea of reporters, trying his best to maintain some control over his emotions as he fed them the latest statistics . . . 64 dead at the time, ranging in age from 5 months to 86 years . . . 30,000 homes without power . . . hundreds unaccounted for . . . directions for the families of those missing so DNA samples could be collected . . . And through it all he struggled. His voice broke and there were long pauses filled with grief and pain.

And I was standing in my kitchen, preparing to bake Christmas cookies. Despite the storms our area had experienced over the weekend, we had survived relatively unscathed. A few tree limbs, some debris—nothing that couldn’t be easily cleaned up. Nothing that changed our lives forever.

The Governor continued with his remarks, ending them by saying he had accidently scribbled them on the back of his kid’s school work. They were studying Newton’s first law of motion. An object at rest remains at rest while an object in motion stays in motion. That was what his son had written on the front of that page. It seemed almost prophetic in its symbolism. His state would continue to move forward, to address the devastation as quickly as possible, to support those whose losses were incalculable.

That seems to be how it always is with Life and Death. Despite our firm belief that the world should stop when we are suffering, it continues to turn, just as it always has. In this instance, so many are suffering from unimaginable loss . . . loss of homes . . . loss of businesses . . . loss of life. And yet the world continues to move forward. Christmas will come and go. The New Year will arrive right at the stroke of midnight on December 31 ^st . And the months on the calendar will peel off at what, for me, has become an alarming rate. Life will drag all of us along with it, whether or not we feel inclined to go. Those of us who have been blessed enough to make the journey peacefully should be grateful for the lack of tragedy and chaos, but we should also remember there are so many more who are struggling. It’s fine for us to continue moving forward . . . but we can’t leave those behind who are still trying to find their way.

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Yesterday’s Moments

Thu, 09 Dec 2021 02:34:00 GMT

When I was in high school and college, I spent a lot of my spare time doing needlework. There was cross-stitching and crocheting and some embroidery and needlepoint . . . and a whole lot of Bucilla felt kits. For the uninformed, these were complete kits that allowed you to create three dimensional Christmas ornaments or stockings or tree skirts. The pieces were printed onto appropriately colored felt (so there was a lot of cutting . . .) and each kit contained all the thread and sequins needed to complete the project.

Probably the most complicated one I ever tackled was a scalloped tree skirt featuring the twelve days of Christmas. Each scallop held an oval which held something symbolic of that day’s gifts. My mother thought it was magnificent and anytime I was home and she had company, I was required to pull out the unfinished skirt so she could show it off. With a lot of hard work I managed to finish it by Christmas—and since she loved it so much, I gave it to her. And she cried.

When they moved into the apartment at the funeral home she used it in the center of the old dining room table that had been repurposed as a game table in the upstairs sitting room. She would drape it across the top (and my dad would come along behind her and make certain it was exactly the same distance from each end and each side . . .) then set a small, decorated Christmas tree in the center. The last four or five years of her life, decorating had been minimal, especially upstairs since stairs had become an unnecessary hazard to be avoided at all costs, and the skirt had disappeared into the recesses of the apartment. Now she’s been gone for over fourteen years (which seems impossible) and for some reason, I had the tree skirt on my mind.

The apartment still holds many of my parents’ belongings, boxed and bagged, stored in closets and drawers, just waiting . . . so the tree skirt had to be somewhere inside those walls. With that knowledge, I walked into the apartment, climbed the dreaded stairs, and turned left, going across the sitting room where the old dining table once lived and into what would have been my room had I not married before they moved in . . . my room that now serves as a storage place for all things Christmas and about a million pictures, most of whom are of people I don’t recognize.

Knowing they held many of her Christmas decorations, I started in the large plastic boxes that were stacked four high in the corner. Although they were labeled as to their contents, I didn’t trust that . . . so I opened every single one. Meaning I also moved all but the bottom ones in each stack. There was the garland for their tree that was always done in peach and beige and gold, with cords and mesh ribbon and all the ornaments, carefully wrapped to protect them from the ravages of Time and rambunctious grandchildren. One container held what must have been every Christmas card they’d received in the 28 Christmases they’d spent there. And that was a lot of Christmas cards. There were the folding candle holders that stretched out like an accordion made of open picture frames and all the greenery and star-studded garland that had accompanied them . . . and another tub filled with Byer’s Choice carolers and miscellaneous decorations meant to spread Christmas cheer in every nook and cranny while gathering all the dust. And the container that held all the Santas she’d been given by one of the employees at the funeral home in Waynesboro . . . years and years of thoughtful gestures, now all packed away. Finding them reminded me of what he said when he came to my mother’s visitation . . . “I’d already bought her Santa for this year . . .”

Despite all my searching and digging and moving of stuff, there was no tree skirt to be found. As I stood in the middle of the room, surveying my surroundings and trying to decide where to go next, I spied the chest of drawers that once lived in my brother’s bedroom. Opening the doors at the top I found stacks of sweaters. The drawers in the second section held the same for both my parents, except for one that also contained two pairs of Izod pajamas, still in their original packaging, never opened because either my dad didn’t believe the ones he was using were tattered enough to discard, or because his physical condition made them impractical. That only left one drawer—my last chance before moving to *sigh* the closets that were still full of everything. I knelt down and pulled on the handles. The drawer easily slid out, revealing the tree skirt my mother had always used for their tree . . . a beige ruffled thing covered with large peach colored poinsettias and soft green leaves. It filled the drawer from end to end and side to side . . . but not from top to bottom. Beneath it I found the peach and beige stockings that my father meticulously pinned to the stairway each December. They had been handmade by a friend of theirs, one for each member of the family as the family had been at that moment, our names sown on in tiny peach-colored beads against the beige cuff of the stocking. There were eleven of them . . . my mother and dad . . . her mother . . . my brother and sister-in-law and their two children . . . and my husband and me and our two. And beneath those stockings, neatly folded, was the tree skirt I had made.

I gently lifted it from the drawer, allowing the folds to open so I could see my handiwork from so many years before. And then I looked around at the stockings and the poinsettia covered skirt, at the pictures and the Santas and the unopened Izod p.j.s . . . and there was a yearning and a sadness that I cannot begin to describe.

This is the time of year for gathering—for family and friends and celebrations. But it’s also a time of memories and longings for the past and its tangible reminders. Holidays like Christmas never fail to combine the two. And that’s okay. After all, today’s memories are simply the moments that made our yesterdays special.

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Beautiful Boy

Thu, 02 Dec 2021 02:37:00 GMT

As always, when writing about a family’s loss, permission was requested and graciously granted by Will’s parents so that I might share their story with you.

I knew I had to be in that room. As much as I dreaded the conference, I knew I had to be there. We were next door neighbors for 13 years. His dad had cut a gap in the hedge which separated our properties so my kids could walk across his backyard to get to their grandparents’ house. He was the middle of their three children and I had literally watched him grow up. So when their 11 year old son died suddenly, I knew I had to be the one in that room.

Will was a precious child . . . so loved and so cared for . . . so much like other boys his age . . . and yet so very different. He and his twin sister were constant companions and playmates, a relationship that would not have been possible except for her devotion to her brother. You see, Will couldn’t walk, so she chose to be by his side. And Will was nonverbal, but that never kept her from understanding him.

He loved the simple things in his life . . . his ever-present light-up music box and all his stuffed animals . . . his daily dose of Wheel of Fortune and the wonderful clicking sound the wheel made with each spin . . . indulging in his favorite ice cream flavor (which was anything covered in chocolate) . . . and all the hugs and kisses his family was willing to share. Like many boys his age, he loved being outdoors. Unlike other pre-teens who were beginning to stretch their wings, he looked forward to shopping trips with his mom and grandmother. To sum it all up, Will was a happy eleven year old who loved without reservation and who was unconditionally loved in return. In every picture I saw, the joy radiated from his eyes while his face was covered in a grin that spread from ear to ear. He most assuredly faced obstacles, but he never knew it—and his family never told him.

At the end of the arrangement conference his parents asked about clothes. What should they bring for their child? And I gave them my usual response—dress him just as you would if he was going somewhere. Then I followed with my observation that I never wanted to be buried with shoes on and everyone at “the home” knew they’d be subjected to a good haunting if that happened. That was when his mother looked down at her hands and after a brief pause said, “I’ve bought him underwear . . . because he was never able to wear anything but a diaper. And I bought him shoes . . . because he’s never been able to walk . . .”

I’ll be honest, in that moment I struggled. In two short sentences, she acknowledged the limitations her child had faced throughout his life—and that he was now freed from those limitations. I know that acknowledgement didn’t lessen the pain of his absence, but it did open a small window through which I was allowed to see their strength—and their grief—in the face of an unfathomable loss.

There is a monument in Salt Lake City Cemetery that was designed by the father of Matthew Robinson, a ten year old boy who spent his brief life blind and paralyzed. At his death his parents wanted his gravesite to be a place of inspiration . . . so his monument depicts him rising from the wheelchair to which he was bound on earth . . . joyfully reaching toward the heavens. When Will’s mother said what she did, that picture came to mind. Despite Will’s physical limitations, he was a beautiful boy . . . and it was a beauty that extended into the depths of his soul and washed over everyone around him. So rest in peace, little buddy. Even though you never realized it, you made the world a better place by just being here. And that will not be forgotten.

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This Season Of Thanksgiving

Wed, 24 Nov 2021 02:25:00 GMT

As we do every year at Thanksgiving, our blog is one day earlier than usual, just so we can officially wish you a Happy Thanksgiving this Thursday.

You’ve probably seen it, unless you don’t have cable or satellite TV. Then, as my daughter has to constantly remind me, you miss the commercials. Which I don’t suppose is always a bad thing . . .

It opens with an obviously distraught older gentleman, seated alone in the shadows of a well-loved room lit only by the lamps on the end tables. The voice over is his daughter, asking “Dad, are you sure you’re up to host?” He struggles to maintain his composure then breaths deeply and looks up at the ceiling, and in the background you hear his reply, “Yeah. We wanna keep it the way it always was, right?” And with that the snippets begin . . . he’s unfolding a white sheet that he carefully pins to the wall . . . he’s in the kitchen, wearing a festive Christmas apron, frustrated because his hand mixer isn’t working . . . he’s critically sampling the first batch of whatever to see if it tastes as it should . . . he’s unpacking the new throw pillow with the dog’s picture on it . . . and plugging in the tree. The light that glows from its ornament-filled branches illuminates his face to reveal a look of profound sadness . . . sadness that slowly gives way to the slightest hint of a smile. Then it cuts to the family gathering with everyone seated in the room where it began, now decked out with all things Christmas. And as his daughter and newest grandchild nestle in beside him and the home movies begin, you see him dancing in the kitchen with his wife, and he says to his little one, “That’s your grandma. She was the best at the holidays.” And if you’re paying close attention, you notice her festive Christmas apron.

Then you understand.

Granted, it’s a commercial, a subtle reminder that you can get stuff like Kitchenaid mixers and customized pillows from Wayfair while simultaneously yanking at your heartstrings. But the moments their marketing agency wove together are moments that play out in homes all across the world during the holidays. Someone is missing—and someone else is trying to cope with their absence.

Maybe that coping looks like his does. We honor the traditions because those bring comfort and a closeness to the person we’ve lost. Or perhaps we abandon the traditions in order to create new ones—ones that aren’t as painful because they aren’t wrapped around memories.

In this season of thanksgiving, I have watched that commercial time and again, and I have come to realize it’s telling me a great deal more than to buy stuff from Wayfair. For me, it’s a reminder to be thankful . . . thankful for the traditions that bind generation to generation, and the people who honor them. Thankful for memories, no matter how painful, that keep our loved ones alive long after they leave us. And, as much as I occasionally detest it, thankful for the technology that allows us to continue reliving those memories through sights and sounds that would otherwise be lost. But above all, I am reminded to be thankful for those people . . . past, present, and future . . . without whom the memories would not exist.

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The Ultimate Reminder

Thu, 18 Nov 2021 02:24:00 GMT

“It’s hard,” he said, as his eyes lifted from the floor and gazed into mine. He had followed me into the office to get his copy of the contract and a final hug; it was when he turned to leave that the observation was uttered. “It’s just hard. And now my sweet wife’s gone, too.” His face was etched with grief and I could see the tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes, but never once did he look away. Instead he began to name his friends that are no longer here, the friends he has outlived . . . and my parents were among the first he mentioned. For as long as I can remember, he and his sweet wife have been a part of our lives, but my parents had been some of the first in their group to die; my father outlived my mother by 18 months and, unbelievably, he’s been gone almost 12 years now. A lot has happened since then, and a lot of his friends have followed my parents.

He turned toward the door once more, slowly shaking his head as he left the building. As I watched him drive away, his parting words echoed in my head, and I wondered what it would be like to wake up one morning and realize you were the only one left . . . the last one of your friends to still be alive . . . the one to bury your spouse . . . the last of your siblings . . . Granted, he still has friends who are very much alive, but that number has decreased drastically in the past few years, and I’m sure each passing serves as a stark reminder that someday . . .

I was waiting in the church foyer for him the day of the visitation and service. When he came through the door, we shared yet another hug and then moved toward the entrance to the sanctuary. And there he stopped. The aisle must have seemed as long as eternity . . . and at its end was the casket that held the earthly remains of the woman who had been his partner in life for almost 68 years. He took a deep breath, slipped his hand in mine, and with a quick nod of his head said, “Let’s do this . . .” and didn’t budge. I gave him a moment before asking, “Are you ready?” and he nodded yes. Taking a step forward he said “I want to see her . . . but I don’t. You know?” And I did. I knew exactly. As undeniable as her death had been, seeing her here, as she was now, would leave no room for doubt or hope. It was the ultimate reminder that she would no longer be there for him to touch and to hold, to talk to and to care for as he had done for so many years. Although he was and will continue to be surrounded by people who love him, I have no doubt that in that moment he felt very much alone.

It was a beautiful service, but it’s easy to have beautiful services for people whose beauty is far more than skin deep. And when the last prayer had been offered and the trip to the cemetery completed, we shared one more hug and smiling I said, “Well, you got through it”. His reply came back quick and strong, a mixture of relief and reflection. “I got through it,“ and with a pat on my back he turned to speak with some who had attended the committal service, then moved on to the ride that would eventually deliver him home. It had been a hard day, but a good one spent celebrating the woman he loved. But it had also been a day filled with memories of happier times . . . and reminders of what the future holds.

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In Harm’s Way

Thu, 11 Nov 2021 00:18:00 GMT

Soon after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, James Maitland Stewart volunteered for service in the Army Air Corps as a private. Although he was an amateur pilot with over 400 hours of flight time, he was also 33 years old and well-established as an actor, having starred in such films as You Can’t Take It With You , Mr. Smith Goes to Washington , and The Philadelphia Story for which he won an Academy Award. But when the United States entered World War II, Jimmy Stewart left his acting career behind and joined the effort. At first he worked as a flight instructor, a position he believed had been assigned to him because of who he was. So he appealed to his superiors, a plea that resulted in deployment to England and eventually flying a total of 20 dangerous combat missions as a member of the 453 ^rd Bombardment Group.

When the war ended, he went back to Hollywood but continued to serve as a reservist with the U. S. Air Force. He was the first major star to enlist and upon his retirement from the reserves in 1968 had achieved the rank of Brigadier General—the highest rank ever earned by any actor.

Clark Gable was still grieving the loss of his wife Carole Lombard when he enlisted in August of 1942. Both he and Lombard had leveraged their fame to encourage the purchase of war bonds; it was while returning from one of those tours that the plane carrying Lombard, her mother, her press agent, and 15 servicemen crashed into Potosi Mountain near Las Vegas, Nevada, killing everyone aboard. Gable finished the filming of Somewhere I’ll Find You and, believing his contributions to the war effort were not enough, enlisted as a private in the Army Air Corps at the age of 41. He wanted to become an aerial gunner, but the military had other plans and assigned him to the Eighth Air Force with orders to make a recruitment film—a film that would be made in combat as an effort to recruit more aerial gunners. After completing Flexible Gunnery School at Tyndall Field, Florida and a photography course at Fort George Wright in Washington State, he deployed to England with the 351 ^st Bomb Group. That assignment almost cost him his life on more than one occasion, including an airborne attack that knocked out one of his plane’s engines and a stabilizer. A raid on Germany resulted in the death of one crew member and injuries to two others, with a 20mm shell penetrating the flight deck of the plane, taking off a part of Gable’s shoe, and narrowly missing his head.

Gable returned to the states, and the resulting film which he edited and narrated himself not only helped unite the American public in the war effort, but still stands as a firsthand record of the harsh reality of wartime aerial combat.

Before Paul Newman became the famous actor so many of us remember, he enlisted in the U. S. Navy. An aspiring pilot, he was dropped from the program when they discovered he was colorblind. Instead, he went on to train as a radioman and rear gunner. Eventually Aviation Radioman Third Class Newman and the rest of his unit were assigned to the aircraft carrier Bunker Hill. Just before his unit was to leave for the carrier and the Battle of Okinawa, his pilot developed an earache. He and the rest of his crew were grounded, an order that in all probability saved their lives. A kamikaze attack on the ship severely damaged it, resulting in the deaths of 393 sailors and airmen, with 41 missing in action and 264 wounded, including several from Newman’s squadron.

Our history as a country is filled with men and women who sacrificed their time and freedom to protect ours. Some of them, like the three mentioned here, were or ultimately became famous for things other than their military careers. Others were simple folks, known only to their families and communities . . . farmers and carpenters, shopkeepers and salesmen, homemakers and students, and every imaginable occupation in between. Some voluntarily entered the service while others were drafted. But despite their vocations, their status in the world, or their backgrounds, they all had one thing in common. They knew they were risking their lives. They knew there was a distinct possibility they would not return home as they had left, if ever. But they still went. And they still served. Throughout our history, brave men and women—famous or not—have placed themselves in harm’s way so the vast majority of us do not have to.

And they all deserve our gratitude and our respect.

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To The Pie Man, With Love

Wed, 03 Nov 2021 15:14:00 GMT

It was New Year’s Day . . . January 1, 2018, to be exact . . . and we were hard at work in Savannah. Death had been exceptionally busy over the previous 24 to 48 hours and as a result, three families were scheduled to come in for their arrangement conferences. That meant several of us were missing the sleeping-in and/or bingeing-on-football part of the day, instead spending that time meeting with families, processing information, and answering the phones that never seemed to quit ringing.

The office was officially closed (after all, it was a holiday . . .) so the office door was officially locked, but since we can’t really hold families hostage until they’re done, the double front doors were open . . . meaning anyone wanting to reach the office could, with a little effort, find a way in . . . meaning those of us in the office were periodically turning around to see if the person entering from the foyer was an employee or a random stranger. There was precious little time for taking a break and even less time for eating, not that any of us had thought about food in the midst of the chaos.

It was one of those door-opening moments that changed the entire course of the day, because the person smiling at us from the other side of our counter was Billy Allegood, bearer of McDonald’s pies and spreader of good will. He would come by every few days with a sack (or two) filled with freshly baked pies and basically force us to take some. Ok. Force is probably too strong a term. Maybe gently and persistently encourage us. But on that busy New Year’s holiday, he only had to offer once, and the gratitude that spread across the building made the rest of the day so much easier to handle.

Billy has visited us and numerous others in our town more times than I’m sure any of us can count. He always came bearing pies and he always told us he loved us and appreciated us and wished God’s blessings upon us before he left. But over the last few years his health, both mental and physical, had obviously been declining, and over the last few months he hadn’t been by, leaving us wondering and worried . . . until Monday morning when the call came telling us he would be coming to our building one final time.

We all know he’s where he’s wanted to be for years. His wife whom he cared for with such love and devotion was waiting for him. And his days of dealing with a body that was failing him and a mind he could no longer completely trust are over. What remains is his legacy of kindness and generosity, of love and faith that speaks volumes about the man he was. And for those of us he left behind, the world grew just a bit dimmer with his passing.

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Encounters of the Ghostly Kind

Wed, 27 Oct 2021 20:26:00 GMT

It was late one evening and I had settled into the lounge to make Pet Services account cards. There were no visitations that night, so the run of the building was mine, meaning if I had something I could do to the droning of a television, then that’s where I’d be found.

I was focused on my work with Aurora Teagarden solving murders in the background; this particular episode was familiar enough that I knew what was happening without ever looking at the screen . . . which is kinda sad, if you think about it. Paperwork was spread about with boxes of previously completed cards to either side of me, the idea being if someone had used our services before they would already have an account card to which the new services could be added—meaning each set of documents required shuffling through the cards to see if this was a new or existing client.

The building had emptied hours before and except for Aurora and company and a few folks awaiting their scheduled services, I was peacefully alone.

Or so I thought.

I was in the middle of filling out one of the account cards when the table actually jumped—enough that my pen went scooting across the card, leaving a trail of black ink in its path. It was almost as though someone had fallen against the table or taken both their hands and hit the edge. Needless to say, I looked up. Quickly. But the room was empty. The door was closed. And Aurora was still busily solving the mystery of the day.

Looking at the boxes of cards, I tried to remember if I had left them in such a way that they could have fallen forward. But no matter how hard I tried to make them make the table move, it just wasn’t happening. No amount of creativity on my part could duplicate the event, unless I actually resorted to hitting it.

After a bit I went back to my work, but I can’t say that’s where my focus was focused. Now, instead of Aurora Teagarden serving as a distraction, my mind was running through all the possible reasons why tables might jump when there was no reason for them to do so. At least no visible reason . . .

At this point, I should probably mention that the lounge occupies what was once an apartment inhabited by my parents. The first room with the vending machines was their master bedroom. The second room with the coffee maker and the cabinets was their combination kitchen and den. I should probably also mention that my father died in the first room, approximately 15 feet from where I had settled in. My mother died in what was their living room that’s on the other side of the wall from the second room. And my maternal grandmother died right about where I was sitting. So . . . did that mean I had three suspects?

Reviewing the possibilities, I settled on my dad. Of the three, he was the mischievous one of the bunch, always up for a good prank or a wry observation that would bring that twinkle to his eyes. My mother and her mother? Not so much. So, Dad it was.

It wasn’t the first time some of us have been fairly certain he was up to his old tricks . . . or just his normal habits . . . like making sure everything was centered, including the lamps on the chests which grace each side of the foyer. For a while there we had a running feud as to whether they should be in the middle or to one side. I’d pass through the foyer at night and find them in the middle. I’d move them to one side and the housekeeper would find them in the middle the next morning.

*sigh* If nothing else, he was most assuredly stubborn.

But Dad’s not the only one I believe occasionally roams about. Many nights I’ve heard Dave Hayes—and now I’m pretty sure he’s been joined by Charlie Baker—rummaging in the homemade tool box that sits on the table in the garage outside bookkeeping. You can tell me it’s just the building popping and creaking as it adjusts to the changing temperatures . . . and you could be wrong.

So, do I honestly believe in ghosts? Well, I’ve always said I’ll never say no, simply because I’d just as soon one didn’t appear to convince me otherwise. There are plenty of people in this world who firmly believe they’ve had their own ghostly encounters . . . and this close to All Hallows’ Eve, who am I to argue with them? Especially when I have my own tales to tell.

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Stolen Joy

Wed, 20 Oct 2021 18:41:00 GMT

His name was Fred. And he was either a wizard with a crooked wand or someone in a pointy hat holding a wiggly snake. That is until a retired kindergarten teacher looked at the drawing. She immediately recognized a firefighter holding a water hose . . . which made a lot more sense. The drawing had been done by 5 year old Owen Walker, newly diagnosed with leukemia and asking his hero to come back and save him. His mother found the drawing and sent it by mail to someone she thought could help. But the mailbag was involved in a collision with a tanker truck full of syrup, turning her letter and numerous others into a pile of stickiness.

So began the latest made for TV movie in Hallmark’s Signed, Sealed, Delivered series. The syrup-soaked envelope containing Owen’s drawing and his mother’s note landed in the Dead Letter Office of the United States Postal Service and into the hands of Oliver, Shane, Norman, and Rita whose sole mission in life is to deliver each letter that comes into their care. As the story goes, Fred turned out to be a stuffed doll dressed as a firefighter, a gift from Owen 10 years before to the fire house where his dad had been stationed. Having lost his father in the line of duty, Owen wanted his friends to have a mascot, someone who could ride with them and magically protect them. But when Owen got sick, he needed his hero back. And now, 10 years after his initial diagnosis, it became their job to make his wish come true.

Long story short, they found Fred and then they found Owen and the two were reunited. But in the middle of all that (and a whole lot more), they went to the firehouse where Owen’s dad had been stationed . . . and the person who greeted them as they walked through the door was Capt. Robin Walker—Owen’s mom . . . the widow of Thomas Owen Walker. Owen had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the fire department, but his age and health would not allow that, so his mother did instead. Which led Oliver to ask if Owen was afraid of losing her the way he lost his father. Her response was filled with the wisdom born of experience. When her husband died there had been a great many lessons for them to learn, but the most important one was “being afraid of losing someone someday steals the joy of having them today”.

I don’t know who wrote that line, but it is overflowing with truth. “Being afraid of losing someone someday steals the joy of having them today .” That fear won’t change the future; your worry won’t protect them from the evils of this world, but laying both aside is not easily done, especially when it seems we are constantly reminded of the fleeting nature of Life and how quickly and unexpectedly it can come to an end. Fear is the easy response . . . the one that comes naturally, washing over us and refusing to be banished.

But think how sad it would be to spend a lifetime afraid of losing someone, only to realize when it finally happens that you’ve wasted the time you had together, spending it immersed in fear rather than love. It’s a choice that’s ours to make, and as difficult as it may be sometimes, I hope we’ll always try to choose love and the joy it brings.

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Through the Storm

Wed, 13 Oct 2021 18:20:00 GMT

It was Saturday, October 26, 2019. I was enjoying a quiet day in the woods of Shiloh when the eye wall of an errant hurricane blew through the area. Over the next hour I listened as the wind whipped through the massive trees, uprooting them as though they weighed nothing, or snapping them apart like twigs.

At one point in the chaos my neighbor called to be certain I was all right. Her house is directly across the street from the entrance to the property and she knew how dangerous the situation was, especially given the age and size of the trees into which the cabin had been nestled. I told her I was—at least for the moment—but I was contemplating trying to make my way out of the woods and onto safer, less forested ground. Her response came back quick and firm. “No. You stay put. The storm’s too strong for you to try and leave.”

Once the storm subsided and I could survey the damage, I realized how true her words had been—and that she had likely saved me from great harm if not death. Where my instinct had been to flee, she knew that was not the wisest or safest course of action. I had to sit quietly and wait for the storm to pass.

Two weeks ago, I wrote what is probably the shortest blog I will ever write and entitled it “No Words”. I wrote that because it was the night when a blog is supposed to magically appear, but like so many of our number, at that moment I was overwhelmed by the storm that had engulfed us. The sheer number of deaths had been staggering, and many of them had been heartbreaking and gut-wrenching. There truly were no words. I was numb from it all and struggling just to be able to function, since not functioning was not an option. But at that moment I had to sit. I had to sit quietly and wait for the storm to pass.

We all have our storms. We all have those times in our lives when we have fought against the world until we just can’t fight anymore. When we’ve struggled in the storm and the storm is obviously winning. Perhaps the storm is spawned by loss, whether of someone we love or something dear to us. Perhaps it comes from events piling one on top of the other until their weight is more than we can bear. Whatever the origin of the storm, it is in those overwhelming moments that we must simply sit and wait for the storm to pass. And it will. Maybe not as quickly as we might like. Maybe not without leaving devastation in its wake. But it will pass.

And we will be stronger for having come through it.

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These Past Few Days . . .

Wed, 06 Oct 2021 20:35:00 GMT

I spent last Thursday night occupying a pew in a local church building . . . and wandering about the foyer . . . and visiting with folks I hadn’t seen in a while . . . and watching. I watched as the line of people wrapped around the auditorium and filtered through the door. I watched as stories were shared and hugs offered, as laughter and tears ran together. The young man being honored was only 30, a servant of our county and our country, senselessly killed in the line of duty. According to all I had heard, he was a good person, creative and intelligent and always thinking of others. It was why he chose a career in law enforcement. It was why he actively served in the National Guard. And it’s why on the evening of September 25 ^th he rushed toward the danger instead of running from it. His dedication cost him his life. It cost his little girl her daddy. It cost the love of his life their future together. It cost his parents their son. And it cost our community a good, decent human being.

Across the river from where I sat, a few miles farther down the road, there was another visitation . . . another family saying good-bye to their child. This young man was only 25, and as with the first, our community claimed him as our own. An exceptional athlete, even in his younger days, he made it to the Little League World Series and later excelled on the football field of Hardin County High School . . . until leukemia brought his life to a screeching halt. We watched as he fought the battle and won. We rejoiced as he and his bride to be planned for their future. And we grieved when that horrible monster reared its ugly head once more, as it had throughout the intervening years. He fought again, as valiantly as any warrior could. But this time the enemy was too strong; after eight long years of beating back the disease, the disease finally prevailed. Within hours of the first young man’s passing, Death claimed another good, decent human being. It was September 26 ^th —less than a week away from his wedding.

There is this ongoing dance between Life and Death, and more often than not, Life is allowed to lead. But eventually Life yields to Death and the dance comes to an end. For some, like the first young man, it comes swiftly with no warning, leaving no time to prepare . . . no time to say good-bye. For others, the end comes slowly over days or months or years. And even though that may offer the opportunity to say good-bye, no amount of time is ever enough when a treasured life is drawing to a close. Either way, when Death lays claim to the good, decent human beings of this world . . . especially the young ones . . . I am angry. Angry with Death for indiscriminately taking what should not be his.

These past few days have been steeped in so many emotions for so many of us, from anger and dismay to shock and horror to sorrow and grief—and helplessness in the face of it all. Death is ultimately the end of every life, but there should be rules by which he must abide. And the first two rules should be that parents will never have to bury their children and the good don’t have to die young.

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No Words

Wed, 29 Sep 2021 20:31:00 GMT

There are times in life when there are no words. When the air is heavy and the silence is deafening, even in the midst of the chaos.

There are times in life when the level of grief is beyond description. When the words do not exist that will convey the depth of the pain.

For many in our communities, that time is now. And so, instead of leaving you with an “official” blog, filled with real life illustrations and observations . . . or practical yet boring information . . . I need to take this moment and say . . .

There are times in life when there are no words.

Today is one of those times.

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The Surging Storm

Wed, 22 Sep 2021 20:30:00 GMT

In Savannah, there is a room off the service hall, close to the double doors that lead to the carport where the hearse lives and families park for funeral services. We call it the flower room . . . because it’s the room where florists leave flowers. But in the corner of that room, tucked away where most people won’t notice them, are boots—nine pairs, to be exact.

Those boots are strategically placed in that corner because they’re out of the way but readily accessible when a service ends in the chapel. If the weather requires it, the funeral staff heading to the cemetery will grab their coats from the rack nearby and their boots from the corner of the flower room. And then they make their way to the hearse or the flower truck, ready to wade through whatever muck and mire may be awaiting them at their destination.

I looked at those boots the other night, as I passed through the flower room and into what is known as the casket receiving side of the garage . . . as opposed to the first call car side of the garage which is on the other side of bookkeeping . . . which occupies what was once the center bay. All of which is beside the point. When members of the funeral staff grab those boots, it’s because they know the next few hours are going to be messy, possibly cold, definitely rainy, or perhaps snowy (though that’s not likely around these parts). They know even if the family chooses to visit the grave later, when the work is done and the weather is better, they’ll be going now unless there’s an approaching tornado or violent thunderstorm. Monsoons don’t count. Neither does bitter cold or sweltering heat. They will be escorting someone’s loved one to their final resting place. Because that’s what they do.

But to me those boots represent a whole lot more than protection from Mother Nature’s messier moments. I see in them a willingness on the part of our staff . . . actually, any member of anyone’s funeral staff . . . to go when they are called, no matter the day or the hour or the conditions they will be facing. They may be headed to the local hospital in the middle of the day—or Florence, Alabama in the middle of the night. They may be called to the scene of a fatal accident, to homicides or suicides. Many of them walk into an arrangement room to sit down with the families and help them find a way to honor their loved one. Many of them walk into the preparation room and diligently work to give families the best last memory possible under the circumstances, while others make certain things are ready at the cemetery or all the paperwork is processed or the building is clean.

There’s an awful lot that takes place from the time the phone rings until long after the last scoop of dirt fills the grave or cremated remains are returned to a family. And all of it requires going and doing on the part of every employee, from housekeeping to maintenance, from the grave crew to the secretaries—and of course, the funeral personnel—every one of whom wears their own pair of metaphorical boots. Unfortunately, compliments of COVID, the phones at funeral homes all across the United States have been ringing far more in recent months . . . and sadly many of those calls are coming from the same families time after time.

We’re tired. For a lot of us, we’re beyond tired, to the point of being overwhelmed. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. But we continue to go, despite how heavy those metaphorical boots are getting. The real ones provide some protection against the elements; we can take them off, clean them up as best we can, and pile them in the corner until the next time. But the others? As long as this storm is surging, we cannot put them away.

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Out Of The Ashes

Wed, 15 Sep 2021 19:55:00 GMT

I knew the week was going to be chaotic—and chaos is not conducive to clear thinking or putting words on paper—or computer monitor, as the case may be. So I started this week’s blog on Saturday night, when my world was still and quiet . . . and focused on the events of that day 20 years before. My intent had been to revisit the last words of a few who lost their lives on September 11 ^th , to repeat those words and to note their impact, even after so long. And when I finished—and I re-read what I had written—I was, quite frankly, far more depressed than I was when I started.

Not at all the outcome for which I had hoped.

But in my search for last words and fleeting phone calls, I had seen a story about a woman who lost her daughter on Flight 93, and the good she created from the devastation of that day. Her name is Deborah Borza; her daughter Deora was the youngest person to die on Flight 93 when it crashed into a field outside of Shanksville, Pennsylvania. She was a bright and bubbly 20 year old who had been visiting friends and was heading home to San Francisco when her flight was diverted with the intent of striking a Washington, D.C. target. Instead of lashing out in anger or hiding from the world, Deborah began earnestly working to help create a permanent memorial for Flight 93. And when that was accomplished, she began building the September 11 National Memorial Trail which connects the three crash sites in New York City, Washington, D.C., and Shanksville. Along the way she has collected and curated the stories of those who survived the attacks that day . . . and of those whose loved ones did not.

Her story led me to that of Amy Hargrave, an innocent four year old whose father, T. J. Hargrave, reported to work at Cantor Fitzgerald that morning and never returned home. A vice president of the firm, he had at one time played the part of Tim Werner on “The Guiding Light”—a role he created that was later filled by Kevin Bacon. Amy and her two sisters, Corrine and Casey, grew up in the shadow of that loss; their mother Patty tried as best she could to provide a normal life for them, but their father’s death was too much a part of history for them to be successfully sheltered from its impact. The years passed and Amy continued to struggle with her grief . . . until her family suggested she volunteer at the National September 11 Memorial Museum in New York City. And she did . . . as did T. J.’s sister, Jeanmarie. Together they have shared their stories and encouraged others to tell their own, something that has helped them heal in ways that might otherwise have been impossible.

But for the grace of God and a scheduled day off, Paul “Paulie” Veneto could easily have been a flight attendant on either of the United flights that were hijacked on September 11 ^th . Instead he watched helplessly as people he knew and worked with died. His life went into an opiate addicted tailspin for the next 15 years, but in 2015 he managed to get clean and began planning how he might honor his fallen comrades. Twenty-two days before the 20 ^th anniversary of the September 11 ^th attacks, Paulie went to Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts and started walking toward Ground Zero . . . 220 miles away . . . pushing a beverage cart like the ones he had used for so many years. With the flight numbers of all four aircraft painted on the sides and a Facebook page set up so the world could watch his trek, Paulie made it to his destination at 1:15 PM on September 11 ^th . His intent had been to shine a light on the heroic lives of those airline attendants and crew members who continued to do their jobs as the chaos engulfed them. As he put it, they were the first First Responders that day. And he wanted everyone to know. When he arrived at his destination he reached out to his Facebook followers with a simple, two-word post. “Journey’s End.”

These three people . . . and so many others . . . took the tragedy of that day 20 years ago and used it as the foundation for something good. In their grief, they found a way to overcome by honoring the lives of those they loved and lost.

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True Friendship

Wed, 08 Sep 2021 17:49:00 GMT

Her mother was an incredibly intelligent woman, a trait that led to her position as the administrative head of the State Department of Migrant Education in Colorado, her home before she retired and escaped big city life for the rural communities of Tennessee. She was a woman who gladly translated for one of the local judges and assisted immigrants as they sought to obtain their citizenship papers . . . who had articles published in Reader’s Digest and did product research and wrote reviews for Amazon. And she was a godly woman whose love for the Lord served as a guiding force in everything she did. So her unexpected death was a blow to her son who had joined her in Tennessee, and to her daughter who had remained out west.

After conferring it was decided she would fly in and her brother would pick her up at the airport. They would drive back, arriving in time to keep their appointment with the funeral home so they could finalize their mother’s arrangements. But upon her arrival he was nowhere to be found . . . and he wasn’t answering his phone. So she did the only thing she could think to do in the moment—she called one of her friends back home to ask for advice. Should she call 911 so someone could check on him? This wasn’t like him . . . something had to be wrong. Her friend tried to reassure her. He probably overslept. Perhaps there was an accident on the interstate that delayed him, or unanticipated traffic—but to each hypothetical situation the response was the same. No. I know something’s wrong. So her friend suggested she rent a car and begin driving, saving the emergency call until she was closer to her destination.

Only moments later she learned her brother had died in a car accident on his way to the airport.

In shock and grief she began making phone calls, telling her friends back home what had happened. Calling the funeral home to let us know why she had missed her appointment . . . and to schedule another one. This time to make arrangements for two people instead of one. Her brother, whom she loved so dearly and so deeply, would not be here to support her in their shared loss. This man who quit his job and came to Tennessee to care for his mother after she was involved in a horrific car accident—who was so much like her in his love of reading and his spirit of generosity—was gone.

There are no words to describe the heaviness that settled upon our building when that call came in.

Less than four hours after she told her friends what had happened, two of them were on a plane headed to Tennessee. They could not allow her to face this alone and they moved heaven and earth to be with her. And in record time. The three of them arrived the following afternoon, one of them armed with paper and pen, ready to make whatever notes were necessary to refresh their memories afterwards. The other sat beside her throughout the conference. Each of them listened carefully, keeping up with the details they knew were eluding their friend. Each of them walked with her step by step through the process, asking just the right questions at just the right time . . . and offering her the moral support and strength she so desperately needed as she tried to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Now before I continue, I want to stop and tell you I asked permission to tell her story . . . to tell their story . . . because I have not often been privileged to witness such love and devotion between friends. And all three readily agreed.

The following day she came to see her mother and her brother, to say her final good-byes. They had been placed side by side, at the far end of one of our staterooms. I opened the door and the three of them entered, a friend to either side, the child/sister in between. They held hands as they slowly began to walk across the room. And as they drew closer, each friend wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her as she prepared to experience one of the darkest moments of her life. And that’s the picture I want to leave with you. Three friends, there for each other, through the best of times . . . and the very worst.

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What Would You Take?

Wed, 01 Sep 2021 17:17:00 GMT

If I were to tell you that you had 24 hours to evacuate your home, what would you do? More specifically, what would you take with you? If we assume that your family members are automatically on the list (I know . . . a dangerous assumption in some instances), what else would you include? I asked my daughter and son-in-law this hypothetical question recently (at least, it’s currently hypothetical for us—not so much for the folks who were in Hurricane Ida’s path) and their responses were basically what I expected. Pets, things for their son such as his Pack-N-Play for sleeping, his seahorse and elephant and other “friends” that he likes to bed down with, clothes for all of them (the people, not the “friends”), any medications they might be taking, important papers, their iPads and definitely their phones . . . and then Kathryne went in a direction that hadn’t occurred to me. The antique quilts her grandmother had given her, other family heirlooms they had received over the years—those priceless things that are only priceless to her but can never be replaced. I asked about pictures but they reminded me most of theirs are on their phones or other electronic devices. Where I’d be hauling out box after box of photos, they can carry theirs in their pockets.

Then I changed my question. What if you only had an hour? Suppose there’s a forest fire bearing down on you but you have some advance warning? Now what do you take? The list was pretty much the same, but the plan changed. They would divide the tasks and approach them with a greater sense of urgency.

Then I changed my question again. What if you only had five minutes? That forest fire quickly turned or, like Waverly, Tennessee just experienced, the flood waters unexpectedly arrived. My daughter didn’t hesitate. They’d grab their child and their pets and go. Except she did note one of the cats would probably get left behind. She’s afraid of the world and hides when chaos ensues. Or when it doesn’t. Basically, she just stays hidden most of the time.

This is a question a good many people have faced over the years, and there are times they’ve ignored the warnings or waited too long to leave and it cost them their lives. One rather famous old codger who believed he could beat the odds was Harry R. Truman (not to be confused with President Harry S. Truman). Harry R. operated Mount St. Helens Lodge on Spirit Lake at the base of Mount St. Helens in Washington state. With more than two months warning before the fateful eruption of May 18, 1980, he refused to budge, saying the danger was highly exaggerated . . . he was far enough away and the lake would protect him . . . he had contingency plans for survival . . . but within one minute of the collapse of the mountain’s north flank, everything in its path was effectively vaporized. The lake was destroyed, the lodge was buried under 150 feet of volcanic debris—and Harry was never seen again.

Many made the same mistake when Hurricane Katrina hit the coast in late August of 2005. Over 1,800 people lost their lives. Tens of thousands who chose not to leave were stranded in New Orleans and the surrounding area with no food, water, electricity, or other basic necessities. Again, there was sufficient warning if they had only listened, but many of them didn’t believe the danger was real. Many of them decided protecting their property was worth the risk they took by staying. And many of them learned the hard way they were wrong.

So perhaps I should change my question just a bit. If you were told evacuation was necessary to possibly save your life, would you go? How long would it take you to decide? And then I can ask . . . what would you choose to take with you? And is it worth your life trying to salvage it?

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You’re Gonna Worry Yourself To Death . . .

Wed, 25 Aug 2021 20:32:00 GMT

Take a good look at the picture that accompanies this post. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was an off-ramp that would allow us to exit Life temporarily so we could retreat and rest and regroup before tackling it again? Unfortunately, between the news media and social media, the world seems intent on constantly reminding us of how terrible everything really is. And that it’s only going to get worse.

COVID deaths are climbing drastically (and no, this isn’t a COVID blog . . .) especially among our children. There is unrest in our country and across the globe (none of which I’m going to address here). There are natural and man-made disasters all around us . . . from the Surfside condo collapse to the forest fires that are consuming California and the earthquake in Haiti . . . from the tornado that damaged much of Iuka, Mississippi to the flood that ravaged Waverly, Tennessee . . . the images burn themselves into my brain and haunt me when I try to sleep. There is so much devastation and so much death, sometimes it’s hard to comprehend.

We can’t make sense of it all and there are no explanations that will satisfy those who are hardest hit by the catastrophes that seem to pile one on top of the other. And although I don’t understand the whys, I do understand how important it is that we learn to manage the stress and the worry, the fear and the grief that can consume us, even when it’s brought about by events that do not directly affect us. How do we go about reclaiming a little of our sanity and a great deal of our inner peace? Maybe the following will be a start toward answering that question:

All of that is easier said than done. I know that. But I also know if we don’t learn to control the amount of time we give to negative emotions and thoughts, and we don’t learn how to control our reactions to them, it can literally kill us. The old saying, “You’re gonna worry yourself sick” and its variation, “You’re gonna worry yourself to death” are old sayings for a reason. There’s truth to be found in those words. Think about that the next time you feel yourself being sucked into the tragedies that are not yours. Yes, there may be things you can do to help, but worrying isn’t one of them.

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Uncle Charlie

Wed, 18 Aug 2021 20:29:00 GMT

Tuesday night I was rummaging through all the family history stuff I have tucked away (actually, scattered about the building) searching for something to occupy our daily Facebook post, when I came across an embalmer’s license, neatly framed in black, stained by water and time, with signatures faded to the point of illegibility. It had been issued on January 9, 1958 to C. C. Roberts. I made pictures, emailed them to myself, cropped them on my handy computer, and posted one to our page.

But that little discovery brought back a flood of memories that are literally decades old. I never knew this man as anything other than Uncle Charlie. I’m not sure how that happened since he’s not my uncle, and although he was “Uncle” Charlie, I never knew his wife as Aunt Pearl. When I was in first grade, she was Mrs. Roberts, the ancient pillar of knowledge (at least she was to my five year old self) who took up our milk money every morning, insisted we nap every afternoon, and generally attempted to advance my education in age-appropriate ways. As I grew older she became “Miss” Pearl and the two of them became fixtures in my life.

Uncle Charlie worked for our family for almost 44 years, beginning with my great-grandfather, Robert E., and ending with my brother, Robert the third. Of course, Robert the third was a mere child when Charlie decided to retire; they sent the two of them on a funeral together so he could add the fourth generation to his resume. Not that Charlie needed a resume. After that many years, everyone in Hardin County knew and respected him.

In his younger years he drove the ambulance, just as most rural funeral directors did for the towns they served. And whenever he made a trip to Memphis, once he’d delivered his patient, he’d swing by Goldsmith’s downtown and visit the Russell Stover candy counter. Back then you couldn’t buy that just anywhere. Russell Stover candy could only be found in the finest department stores and he always came back from Memphis bearing a box of orange jelly sticks. You know—the ones that were about two inches long and a quarter inch wide, a ribbon of orange flavored jelly that had been dipped in luscious chocolate. Only we called them “Charlie Sticks” because . . . well . . . what else could they be?

Uncle Charlie and “Miss” Pearl were really not a great deal alike, as near as I could tell. He was a Baptist; she was a member of the Church of Christ. She was a strong Republican; he was a staunch Democrat. She was well educated; he didn’t know how to read or write when they married. But they loved each other dearly, a love they continuously demonstrated over their 50 plus years of marriage.

He always seemed glad to see my brother and me when we would venture into the funeral home, possibly because he and “Miss” Pearl were never blessed with children. So he just kinda adopted any who came his way. Their childless status was probably the reason my parents hosted their 50 ^th anniversary celebration in our home. It was why, when they were discussing where they wanted to be buried, they approached my dad and told him they wanted to be in Memory Gardens, hopefully close to where my family owned spaces. Because they considered us family . . . and we felt the same way about them. So now, when I visit the graves of my parents, I can walk just a few more feet and say hi.

I was in the second quarter of my freshman year of college when I got the call telling me Uncle Charlie had died. His retirement hadn’t kept him away from the funeral home; every day he would arrive at the office and all the men would go out for coffee. But on February 28, 1975, something happened as he made his way down the stairs to the basement. Something happened and he fell, landing on the concrete floor. Dad always thought he’d had a stroke first because of the way he behaved right beforehand. Of course he was within feet of an ambulance and after a stop at the local hospital they began the frantic trip to Memphis. I can only imagine how hard they must have worked, how fast they must have driven, trying to get him to the people they hoped could save his life. But as they entered Somerville, my father realized there was no reason to go any further. They stopped at Fayette County General where the attending physician confirmed my father’s belief. Dad didn’t want to take Charlie into Shelby County if there was no reason to. The ER physicians could have chosen to order an autopsy and Dad couldn’t stand the thoughts of his friend and mentor being subjected to that.

The funeral was two days later on Sunday, March 2 ^nd in the funeral home chapel. It was a 3:00 service presided over by Jim Osborne from the Baptist Church with Hilton Royster from the Church of Christ reading the 23 ^rd Psalm and praying. Merrell Wormack’s taped vocals filled the crowded chapel with In the Garden and Does Jesus Care . And the Shackelford staff served as his pall bearers, carrying one of their own to his final resting place.

You don’t forget people like Charlie Roberts or his wife Pearl. Those are the everyday folks that make the world a better place by simply doing what they’re called to do. Charlie’s portrait still hangs in the foyer of our chapel in Savannah, joining those of R.E. and Loura Paisley Shackelford and my parents, Bob and Bobbie. On the days when my presence is required in that space I’ll take a moment and spend it fondly gazing into the face I loved seeing for my entire childhood. I’ll remember the pats on the head and the kindness of a man who took time to pay attention to a young child. And those wonderful boxes of Charlie Sticks from the Russell Stover’s counter in Goldsmith’s.

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A Helping Paw

Wed, 11 Aug 2021 17:27:00 GMT

You may (or may not) have heard the story of Prancer, the demon-possessed Chihuahua whose foster mom posted an ad on Facebook, trying to find him a forever home because she was tired, as was her whole family. She used such colorful phrases as “a 13 pound rage machine”, “a vessel for a traumatized Victorian child that now haunts our home”, and “a Chucky doll in a dog’s body” to give readers a feel for Prancer’s personality. She also mentioned that, if you were married, you really didn’t need to apply . . . unless you hated your husband. To summarize, Prancer was a “neurotic, man hating, animal hating, children hating” dog that looked like a gremlin.

Surprisingly enough, Prancer did find a home—a very good, very appropriate home with a woman who met Prancer’s criteria for a peaceful co-existence . . . no men, no children, and no other animals in the house. They were perfect for each other and, in her words, he was helping her heal after several years of struggling.

And that, my friends, is the amazing superpower of animals. By their very existence they can help us heal from the afflictions brought about by Life. It’s why you see therapy dogs brought into hospitals and nursing homes as a source of comfort for the patients and their families. It’s why you see people who have lost their significant other adopting a pet when they never had one before. Without expectations, judgements, or demands, these devoted creatures provide the companionship and comfort people so desperately need in difficult times.

Over the years we’ve been privileged to experience that at the funeral home in Savannah. Just because Death walks with us every single day doesn’t mean we grow accustomed to the loss and the grief that follows in his footsteps. There were days we would venture out onto the employee carport, settle into a chair, and lavish attention on the current funeral home pet. For several years it was Abby, an extremely protective monster of a dog whose deep-throated growl would strike fear into the hearts of anyone who was in places they shouldn’t be after dark. Think Hound of the Baskervilles minus the mystery. But all you had to do was speak to her and she would immediately recognize your voice and your status as friend rather than foe. She was followed by Charlie the cat (named after Charlie the cat in the children’s book “Charlie” . . . not Charlie Baker the grave crew person) and Not Charlie who from the back looked exactly like Charlie. You only knew the difference when he turned and faced you . . . at which point you would think, “Oh, that’s not Charlie . . .” They were followed by Paisley, the most sociable of all, a black lab puppy that adopted us and then disappeared. We actually believe she was picked up during a visitation by some well-meaning family who thought she was a stray in need of a home. But that didn’t make her loss hurt any less.

Magically, each of these four-legged friends could take the worst possible day and make it more bearable. All they had to do was curl up beside us or rub against our legs and allow us to stroke their fur and tell them all our troubles . . . or at the very least just enjoy their company. But isn’t that how it is with most all of our furry family members? They have this uncanny ability to sense when something is wrong and to show us the love we need at exactly the right moment in exactly the right way. And the only thing they ask—but don’t really expect—is that we will love them in return.

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Even The Helpers Need Help

Wed, 04 Aug 2021 18:12:00 GMT

It was October 16, 1987 and the entire country was laser-focused on Midland, Texas, a town boasting an abundance of oil and mining experts . . . and an 18 month old child trapped 22 feet below the surface in an abandoned well that measured only eight inches across. For two days those experts had planned and then worked toward Jessica McClure’s rescue, drilling a parallel shaft 29 feet deep and then finally creating a connecting tunnel between the two. Robert O’Donnell, a lanky paramedic chosen for his slender build and long arms, descended into the newly drilled, 30 inch wide shaft then scooted on his back headfirst through the tunnel until he was two feet beneath Jessica. Using lubricating gel, he worked for over an hour to free her so he could bring her to the surface. Jessica, the child who had won the hearts of the nation as they watched her rescuers work feverously to save her, the child to whom they listened for two days as she cried and sang about nursery rhymes and Winnie the Pooh, survived the nearly tragic event and remembered nothing of it years later.

Robert O’Donnell did not fare so well. Although he was hailed a hero and placed in the media spotlight for years thereafter, he found it impossible to return to a “normal” life. His marriage crumbled, he lost his job due to an on-going battle with painkillers, and eventually came to realize the world had moved on—without him. In April of 1995, as he sat with his mother, watching the rescuers comb through what remained of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building after the Oklahoma City bombing, he traveled back in time to that day and those hours in the shaft. Turning to his mother, he said, “When those rescuers are through, they’re going to need lots of help. I don’t mean for a couple of days or weeks, but for years.” Four days later, Robert took a shotgun from the house, drove across the prairies of his family’s farm, and took his own life.

It was a tragic and unnecessary consequence of an event that seemed to have a happy ending. But for many who serve as first and last responders—firefighters, law enforcement officers, medical personnel . . . and yes, even funeral directors—there are too few happy endings and not enough emotional and mental support to help overcome the post-traumatic stress they endure. Those who responded to the twin towers on 9/11, those who raced to the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando or the Route 91 Harvest music festival in Las Vegas, those first on the scene at Sandy Hook and the Champlain Towers South in Surfside have all suffered for their bravery and their dedication in the face of mass fatality incidents —as have those who ran the ambulances and staffed the ERs in the long hours that followed . . . and those who consoled the survivors as they mourned their losses.

But it doesn’t have to be a mass fatality. Injury and/or death in any form or fashion can bring about those same feelings of helplessness and, eventually, hopelessness, especially if experienced again and again and again. It takes a very special individual to enter a profession that is guaranteed to bring not only rewards but also the mental and emotional stress that often leads to burnout . . . or far worse. And it isn’t just those individuals who suffer; their families are also affected.

If you know someone who must routinely face situations most of us cannot begin to imagine, please remember . . . it never hurts to ask if they’re okay. Knowing someone recognizes the struggle and the strength required to carry on may not be enough, but it’s certainly a start.

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Mrs. Trumbull Comes Home

Wed, 28 Jul 2021 14:09:00 GMT

It was Monday, February 14, 1966—Valentine’s Day, if you’re paying attention, a fact that has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but something that just occurred to me when I typed the first part of this sentence. Dad had just arrived home for supper, carrying a box the likes of which I had not seen before. Of course, I was only 9 at the time, so there was a lot I hadn’t seen. He gently set it down on the piano bench and told us he wasn’t comfortable leaving it at the funeral home overnight. Why, you may ask? Because in that box were the ashes of Mary Elizabeth Patterson, world renown actress and Savannah, Tennessee native.

In 1966 we didn’t have cremations in Savannah, or much of anywhere in the South for that matter, so being charged with the safety of her ashes was an unusual responsibility, one my father felt better about fulfilling by having her as an overnight “guest” in our home. Although born and raised in Savannah, Miss Patterson had only been a visitor over the decades of her career, having left to pursue her chosen profession, despite her parents’ best efforts to persuade her otherwise, including sending her to Europe as a distraction. Unfortunately for them . . . but great for the rest of the world . . . it only strengthened her desire to perform; upon returning she took her leave of Savannah, moving to Chicago where she joined a small Shakespearean troupe known as the Ben Greet Players. That leap of faith led to her Broadway debut in 1913 in the play Everyman . Her talents drew the attention of writer Booth Tarkington who personally requested that she perform in his Broadway production of The Intimate Strangers in 1921—and novelist William Faulkner who chose her to play the elderly female lead in the movie version of his book Intruder in the Dust .

She continued performing on Broadway until the mid-1950s; however, she also chose to pursue parts on the big screen, accepting her first role in 1926 at the age of 51. It was a silent movie called The Boy Friend , a role that was rapidly followed by a multitude of others. As a character actress she was able to transition from silent films to “talkies”, eventually performing in over 100 films with the likes of Katharine Hepburn, John Barrymore, and Bob Hope, just to name a few. But it wasn’t until she reached the ripe old age of 77 that she accepted the role which would make her a household name—although it didn’t start out as Mrs. Trumbull. Elizabeth’s first appearance on the I Love Lucy Show was as Mrs. Willoughby, the wife of the justice of the peace who married Lucy and Ricky the second time around. Fans of the show may not remember Elizabeth in that part, but they most assuredly will recall her horribly off-key rendition of I Love You Truly during the ceremony. The next year she was cast as Mrs. Trumbull and the rest, as they say, is history. At least where her career is concerned.

Elizabeth Patterson was 91 when she contracted pneumonia, an illness that eventually took her life. At the time she was living in the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood, her home for the previous 35 years. Her body was cremated and placed on a train, scheduled to make the trip cross-country and arrive in time for her service at the First United Methodist Church in Savannah on Sunday, February 13, 1966. That was why my father made his first trip to the train station the day before . . . and returned empty-handed. The trains might run on time, but Mary Elizabeth did not. She missed her memorial service (which went on without her), arrived the day after, and spent the night on our piano bench before being interred in Savannah Cemetery on Tuesday.

So, for those of you who didn’t know, Miss Mary Elizabeth Patterson is only one of several celebrities we have buried in our midst. If you’d like to pay your respects, her grave is easily found nestled among her other family members in the McDougal plots of Savannah Cemetery. If you’re turning onto Cherry Street (that runs through the middle of the cemetery) off of Water Street, take the first road to the right in the cemetery. If you’re turning onto Cherry Street off of Pickwick, take the second road to the left. You’ll pass the Shackelford family monument on your left and next to that, the Fariss family monument. Stop there by the ginormous oak tree and look straight across to your right. You’ll see the McDougal family’s section with their monuments reaching up toward the sky. Hers is the first one in the fence, nestled in the corner, made of the whitest marble and bearing the inscription “In Memory of Mary Elizabeth, daughter of Mildred McDougal and Edmund Dewitt Patterson. 1874 – 1966”.

“She walked with Kings, nor lost the common touch”.

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Help, Please

Wed, 21 Jul 2021 17:14:00 GMT

It was after 5:00 one evening and my mother was holed up in what we called the “big bathroom” (because in that house at that time, there were two bathrooms . . . the big one with the full-size tub and a double vanity and the little one with a half size tub and a single sink on stilts) when she called for me, asking me to “buzz” my dad and tell him he needed to come home and get ready to leave. Evidently, they were going somewhere that required her to bathe and him to quit work earlier than usual. I might have been eight or nine, meaning my little brother was five or six, but I was old enough to know how to operate the intercom that ran over the phone lines between our house that faced Church Street and the funeral home on Main. The only thing separating the two was a parking lot, so it wasn’t like it would take him 30 minutes to get home once he left work. He could have been clear across town and it wouldn’t have taken that long. As instructed, I went to their bedroom, picked up the receiver and hit the intercom button. There was a loud annoying buzz that played on repeat until my father finally answered. I relayed the message which was followed by a sigh from his end of the line. He told me to tell her he’d be home shortly.

Thirty minutes passed and I was summoned to the other side of the bathroom door again. And again, she insisted that I buzz my father and remind him that he needed to come home and get ready. So I did. The sigh was louder and the reply quicker in coming, unlike my father, who continued to work.

The third time she wasn’t as nice in her request and he was even more frustrated in his reply. But he did wrap up what he was doing (eventually) and walked across the parking lot, in through the front door . . . and straight to the bathroom. I’m fairly certain he planned on informing my mother that her insistent summons had not been necessary.

Instead, he came out carrying a dead snake.

Granted, it was a baby snake, one that had magically appeared from underneath the toilet while my mother was bathing. Evidently, the seal wasn’t sealed, the snake climbed up the outside of the pipe, and squeezed under the toilet onto the black and gray and white linoleum floor that I loved so dearly for reasons we won’t get into. Not wanting to frighten my brother or me, she had devised a plan to get my dad into the house earlier than usual without having to tell us why. Unfortunately, she didn’t take my father’s personality into account, or his inability to read minds. And my father, having absolutely no idea there was any type of emergency, saw no reason to be in a hurry.

When she finally decided she was on her own, she had taken her house shoe—one of those floppy, scuff type things—and beaten the poor snake to death with it. And when my father arrived I’m pretty sure he got a good talkin’ to over his lack of responsiveness.

But here’s the deal. It really wasn’t his fault. If he had known she needed help . . . any kind of help . . . he would have come home immediately. But he didn’t and that was on her, not him. I could understand why she didn’t want to scare us, but if she had ever indicated there was a real need for his return, that snake might have lived to see another day . . . and she might not have had to buy another pair of house shoes.

There are times we all need help, one of the greatest being when we’re trying to cope with loss of any kind. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with asking for that help. We shouldn’t get upset with the people around us for not seeing something we may be desperately trying to hide, while we’re desperately trying to hide it. And we shouldn’t get upset if we hint around (i.e., you need to come home and get ready to leave) and they don’t pick up on our cries for help because we successfully disguised them to look like anything but.

If you don’t have a family member or a friend who is understanding and available, or you just don’t feel comfortable sharing your struggles with them, there are groups you can meet with and counselors with whom you can speak. The point is, you don’t have to fight the battle alone. But you do have to let someone know there’s a battle being waged.

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Almost Famous

Wed, 14 Jul 2021 19:55:00 GMT

On June 3, 2001, the highly acclaimed show Six Feet Under premiered on HBO. Set in the fictional Fisher & Sons Funeral Home in the very real Los Angeles, California, the show attempted to take viewers inside the lives and minds of a funeral service family. Each show began with a death, be it natural, accidental, or intentional, involving people of all ages. From there the episode centered on how that death affected the family members who were still grieving their own loss in the form of their patriarch, Nathaniel Fisher, Sr.’s, death. The whole premise of the show wasn’t to allow the viewer to peek into the inner workings of a family owned and operated funeral home, but to focus “on human mortality, the symbiotic nature of life and death feeding off each other, the death industry, and the lives of those who deal with it on a daily basis.” At least, that was the idea according to my good friend Wikipedia. Critics raved but funeral service folks were less impressed, stating Six Feet Under “showed little of what really happens”. I think they missed the point.

Fast forward to April 19, 2004 and change channels to A & E. That’s where the reality series Family Plots found a home. Filmed out of the Poway Bernardo Mortuary in Poway, California, the series documented the day-to-day activities of three sisters and their father who worked for but did not own the mortuary. The show lasted two seasons, folding on May 8, 2006, and was viewed by some funeral service professionals as a “very real portrayal”. I would disagree based on the few episodes I watched, one of which involved a pizza fight in the employee lounge and another which had the father frantically driving to a cemetery to set up for a graveside service they forgot about. Where Six Feet Under earned nine Emmys, three Screen Actors Guild awards, three Golden Globes, and one Peabody, I can’t find any such recognition for Family Plots . . . which provides some insight into the success of each and is totally beside the point of this post.

Landing squarely in the middle of both premiers was a phone call that came into the Savannah office one afternoon. I can’t remember if I answered the phone or was summoned to it, but I can tell you exactly where I was sitting during the conversation. Strange, the things we remember about past events . . . The voice on the other end identified himself as someone connected with “a major television network” and he asked if we were family owned and did we really live in the funeral home.

Me: Yes, we are and my parents do. Why do you ask?

Him: We’re hoping to develop a show centered around a funeral service family that lives in the funeral home. And we got your name from your state association. (Translation—HBO’s got a really good thing going and we want a piece of it . . .)

Me: (In my head) Really? I’m not sure I believe that . . . I’m not sure I believe any of this . . . and why would they tell you to talk to me?

Me: (Out loud) I’m not prepared to make that kind of decision on the spur of the moment . . .

Him: Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to. Just consider it and I’ll call you next week to see what your thoughts are on proceeding and to answer any questions you may have.

The minute I hung up I called the office of the Tennessee Funeral Directors Association to find out how legitimate this call really was . . . ‘cause, let’s face it, stuff like that just doesn’t happen to normal people and before I wasted an enormous amount of time and thought (both of which were in short supply), I wanted to be sure this was actually a thing. They confirmed they had given out our contact information . . . because we were the only firm that came to mind when the caller tacked the “live in the funeral home” requirement on to his request.

I discussed the matter with my dad, whose mind was failing even then—we all knew something was amiss but we really didn’t know what or why. After an extended silence he finally spoke, “If it will help the image of funeral service, I think it would be all right.” And that was the extent of that.

I wasn’t worried so much about the image of funeral service. One TV show wasn’t going to change that. I worried about protecting the privacy of the families we served. I worried about the show’s content, knowing they could easily manipulate the most innocent and normal of circumstances in their quest for maximum entertainment value—and probably would. And I worried about protecting my father. Never in a million years did I want him ridiculed or made to look out of touch with reality . . . even though, through no fault of his own, he was . . .

In the end I decided this probably wasn’t the best idea, and once the show premiered I was proven right. In the course of their two season run the firm resigned from Selected Independent Funeral Homes, an international organization of well-respected funeral establishments from around the world, based on the investigation the organization opened into the conduct of the Poway Bernardo employees. The firm still exists today, but with most of the aforementioned family members having left for other positions with other businesses. I have zero regrets about by-passing that circus and avoiding the distraction it would have been for the families who are here to focus on their loss and saying good-bye. They were my primary concern, and their well-being the primary factor in my decision.

But we were almost famous. Almost . . .

And that’s one missed opportunity I’m ok with.

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Stepping Back In Time

Wed, 07 Jul 2021 18:52:00 GMT

Last Thursday a literal treasure trove landed in my inbox. One of my Bolivar cousins had been cleaning out some things in his dad’s old office, and he hit the photographic jackpot. Attached to the email he sent were eleven pictures, nine of which I’d never seen. Some were taken in the living room of the house in which I grew up. Some were in the home of my paternal grandparents. And at least one was from the family cabin that once stood in Hickory Valley. Despite their various locations, all the photos had something in common—each one included members of my family who left us years ago.

Although I was beyond excited to see these long-lost memories, the one you see here brought about feelings I can’t even begin to describe. That’s a little me, cradled in my daddy’s lap, screaming my head off over who-knows-what . . . and the look on his face says far more than words ever could. With one hand gently caressing my tiny shoulder and the other lightly resting on my leg, he looks as though he desperately wants to comfort me . . . and has absolutely no idea what to do, which is completely understandable. I was his first, and brand-spanking new, and he was a whole 25 years old at the time. He and my mother had been married almost four years when I arrived, somewhat of a surprise since they’d been told the likelihood of them having children was about one in a bazillion.

As I sat scrolling through these eleven pictures I tried to imagine how my cousin must have felt when he found them. After all, his dad was in several, as were our grandparents. I’ve been fortunate enough to come across old photos before, and the feeling that discovery generates is so warm and comforting . . . like stepping back in time and finding the people and places you loved so much just waiting for you.

But then I started thinking . . . what will my children . . . or better yet, their children . . . find sixty plus years from now? Because that’s how long these photos have been in existence. We don’t make pictures with film anymore and then print them to paper. Almost everyone is carrying a camera around in their purse or pocket or attached to their belt instead of hanging around their neck. As of right now, my phone has 7,677 pictures on it and 153 videos. Granted, a lot of those came from wandering cemeteries or documenting funeral services that families are kind enough to let us share with you. But a lot of those are also birthdays and Christmases and Easter egg hunts and the grandkids being cute. Have I downloaded them to a computer or put them on a flash drive? No. Do I have them stored in the Cloud? Well, up to a point, but the Cloud recently notified me I was about to overload my current capacity . . . as did my phone. And even if I had done all those things, would anyone know how to access them? I know they don’t have my phone’s passcode and I’m not sure my fingerprint is going to unlock it after I’m dead—if they even think to try. Does anyone know my login and password for my iCloud account? Nope. Even I have to look those up and then I’m still not sure what to do with them. What about my laptop? Can anyone unlock it? Only the IT guy when he works on it, and he usually has to ask me because the hint doesn’t make any sense to him. And I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only person making thousands of pictures that no one will ever be able to see.

We need to fix this, people. Since we aren’t going to revert to film and paper and a million gallons of ink, we can at least try to get our pictures organized and stored somewhere so someone at some point can actually find them. I need to store my logins and passwords somewhere and tell my kids where that somewhere is. And threaten their lives if they get into them before I’m gone. I need to find a way . . . we need to find a way . . . to make sure the thousands of moments stored in our phones and on our computers and in our clouds can be experienced again and again by the people to whom they will mean the most. Otherwise, we’re going to lose the visual reminders of our history—and our children and grandchildren and the generations beyond will never know how amazing it feels to be transported back in time.

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A Hair’s Breadth

Wed, 30 Jun 2021 16:59:00 GMT

The nation . . . and truly the world . . . have held their collective breath as the search and rescue mission in Surfside, Florida continues. From that tragedy have unfolded the stories of those who, by a twist of Fate, survived when so many did not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They stood side by side as they spoke to the reporter, holding hands as they described how a soccer match and a whim had saved his life. Halfway through the interview, she reached for him, clinging to his hand that already held hers, struggling to escape a nightmare that would not end and to maintain what little composure she had left.

They had gathered with friends at her apartment to watch their home country of Brazil play, and when it was over and everyone was leaving, she asked him to stay. Her child was away for the night. It would give them some much needed quiet time together. But he really didn’t want to. He was tired. His clothes were wet from retrieving a soccer ball from the complex’s swimming pool. But she persisted and he finally agreed. At 5:00 the next morning his alarm went off and that was when he saw the notifications. And all the text messages asking if he was all right. His apartment no longer existed and everything he owned was gone. But he was alive, thanks to a soccer game and her insistence. The T-shirt she was wearing for the interview had the word “Intuition” scrawled across the front, perhaps a not so subtle reminder that sometimes you should follow your instincts and figure out why later.

Now he comes to the site two or three times a day, irrationally expecting that someone at some point will tell him he can move back home. While his lifesaver struggled to hold back her tears, he stared vacantly into the distance as he told the reporter, “I haven’t realized what happened. I haven’t cried. It’s like a movie playing in my head. It isn’t real . . .”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Her mother brought her to the site when the tragedy first occurred. Somewhere beneath the rubble is her father. Her parents were estranged, thankfully living in separate buildings, and she would alternate spending time with each. On that night, it was her mother’s turn.

The next day she came alone. As the mayor of the city surveyed the damage, he noticed her standing quietly, looking down at her phone. Engaging her in conversation, he learned of her connection to the building and why she had come back. Across the screen of her phone flowed the words of a Hebrew prayer. She had come to recite the prayers of her ancestors on behalf of her father. And she would continue to come until he was returned to her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He had eaten dinner with his parents that evening and returned to his own condo in the building next to theirs just a few hours before. He could see their abode from his . . . could often see his mother happily working in the kitchen . . . could see them enjoying each other’s company. It was such a comfort and a delight to see them together, approaching 59 years of marriage. But when, in the very early hours of the morning, the earth shook and dust filled the sky, he raced to his balcony, only to see there was no longer anything to see of what was once their home. His only consolation was that they died at the same time, his only hope that they were together when it happened.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They lived on the tenth floor of the south tower, just three from the top, and that is where they were when a portion of the building collapsed. Both were buried in the rubble, but her 15 year old son managed to work his hand up through the debris and into the open. A passerby who just happened to be out walking his dog at 1:30 in the morning, heard the collapse, saw the dust as it boiled up, and heard the boy as he screamed. As the stranger tried to reassure him and summon help, the young man begged, “Please, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me . . .” He was pulled from the rubble by rescuers as was his mother just a short time later. He survived the unimaginable. She did not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

How many of us have escaped Death’s clutches by mere seconds? How many of us have passed within a hair’s breadth of him and lived to tell the story? Every occupant of the Champlain South Tower—everyone who escaped with their lives—has a story to tell. They are as varied and as heartbreaking as the people themselves and in the days that follow they will be compelled to tell them again and again. At first it will be to help complete the picture of what happened in the early morning hours of Thursday, June 24, 2021 . . . but in the years to come it will serve as a reminder of how one instant in Time, one twist of Fate, changed their lives forever.

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Road Closed

Wed, 23 Jun 2021 22:33:00 GMT

Every morning I leave my house, get into my van and drive down the driveway that’s two-tenths of a mile long, stop before entering the road, then turn right. For the last two weeks, that’s been followed by a deep breath, a great sigh, a turn into the parking lot of Tool Tech, and migration in the opposite direction. Why, you may ask? Because the manhole at the end of our street broke, or so I’ve been told. From what I understand, it’s a very important manhole and was, therefore, under a great deal of stress, at least as far as manholes go. Now it has to be repaired which seems to involve digging a crater in the street and replacing the original manhole. It also means that end of the street is blocked by sizable pieces of equipment. And trucks. Lots of trucks. I guess that’s to keep folks like me who are operating on autopilot from driving into the crater.

You’d think, after a week or two of this (or perhaps more), I’d remember to turn left at the end of the drive and take the scenic route to my destination. But it’s terribly hard—if not impossible—to break almost 25 years of habit. And probably by the time I do, they’ll have the manhole repaired/replaced and the street will be open to exiting traffic. And I will once again be forced to retrain my brain. Or at least allow it to lapse into my previous behavior.

As I sat in Tool Tech’s parking lot this morning, preparing to pull back out into the road and head north, it occurred to me that this was hopeless and I might as well just get used to making U-turns. And then it occurred to me that this was yet another real life analogy for grief. Because that’s how my mind works and I learned to accept that years ago.

If you would, just take a moment and reflect. For untold numbers of years, you’ve awakened every morning to find the same person next to you. You’ve worked beside someone on a daily basis or had someone you knew you could always call when you had good news to share . . . or bad. You’ve known that, no matter what, that someone would always be there. Perhaps it’s a spouse or a parent, a child or a sibling, even a good friend.

And then suddenly, they aren’t.

How long does it take for you not to look across the bed, expecting to see them each morning? How often do you look around the office or the plant or the whatever when you arrive, expecting to see their smiling face just waiting to greet you? How long will it be before you quit reaching for the phone when you need advice or want to include them in your news . . . or just to hear their voice and spend some time catching up?

The answer, honestly, is forever. There will always be moments when you’ll expect them to be where they will never be again, and in those moments the shock of their absence may not hit as hard as it once did, but it will still hurt.

One of these days, I’m gonna reach the end of my driveway, turn right, and proceed to my destination. There won’t be any more deep breaths and great sighs, no more U-turns and scenic routes. But for those of us dealing with loss, the construction will never really end. There will always be a need to detour. There will always be habits we have to continually change. That doesn’t mean we’ve broken under the stress. Just that someone occupied so much of our life that it can never be the same in their absence.

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Love In Action

Wed, 16 Jun 2021 17:34:00 GMT

When Erma Bombeck was nine years old, her beloved father died. A crane operator for the city of Dayton, Ohio, she observed many years later that he got up every morning and went to work . . . until one day he didn’t. He went to the hospital instead and died the next day. In the course of her discourse, she listed many of the things he had done for his family: getting the prescriptions filled when someone was sick, bringing the car around when it was raining so no one else had to get wet, opening the pickle jar when no one else could, fearlessly entering the basement by himself. Her list continued as she mentioned all the mundane, everyday things her father had done that no one ever really noticed or, if they did, never thought much about.

Until he died. Erma remarked that, when playing house with her dolls, the mother doll always had a great deal of work to do, but she never knew what to do with the daddy. So he would tell everyone in the “family” he was going to work . . . and then she’d throw him under the bed. Only after her own father’s death did she come to understand that those mundane, everyday things he did were his way of saying he loved them.

Fathers are unique creatures, their greatest talent being their ability to put everyone else’s needs and wants ahead of their own without ever drawing attention to their actions. Granted, as with every other category of folks, there are some who don’t deserve to wear the title, but for the most part, fathers spend their lives providing for and being protective of their families. They work when they don’t feel like working. They play when they’d much rather rest. They try to fix everything that’s broken, from plumbing pipes to tender young hearts, and lie awake at night worrying if they believe they’ve failed at the latter. Even if they’re small in stature, their shoulders are broad enough to carry the weight of the world . . . and a small child whose legs no longer seem inclined to work. And you’ll probably never hear a complaint in either circumstance.

All of these deeds and so many more are the language of love for a father. They may not be as inclined as a mother to actually speak the words “I love you”, but they are continually saying it, a thousand times a day, in a thousand different ways. We just have to learn to listen with our eyes and our hearts instead of our ears.

Not long after her father died, little nine year old Erma went to her bedroom, pulled the daddy doll from under her bed, and placed him gently on top of it. Later on she would write of her own father, “He never did anything—I didn’t know his leaving would hurt so much.” Through the eyes of a child, her observation was accurate . . . he never did anything that registered in the moment as something of importance, and so it may be with our fathers today. Hopefully, as we age we will grow to understand the motivation behind their sacrifices and hard work. Hopefully, as we age, we will give them the honor and respect they deserve but never require. And hopefully, before it comes their time to move on to better things, we’ll understand just how great that loss will be.

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Extraordinary Ordinary

Wed, 09 Jun 2021 18:08:00 GMT

Recently, with the permission of his family, we posted about Jimmy Ruth on the funeral home’s Facebook page. Mr. Ruth was an unassuming man who spent his life driving for bus lines and trucking companies, living a rather normal, somewhat uneventful life . . . except for that time in 1961 when a professor at A & I University in Nashville, Tennessee asked him if he would drive a group of student activists to Jackson, Mississippi. Known as the Freedom Riders, these groups were usually met with violence—violence directed not only toward the Riders but also to those who ferried them across the country. Jimmy didn’t let that possibility stop him from doing what he believed was right, even though four other drivers had already declined to make the trip. It proved to be a peaceful journey with what Jimmy termed some of the nicest people he’d ever met. But he didn’t know that would be the case when he agreed to go.

His story led me down a path of memories, one that tested my ability to recall names and events (neither of which I‘m very good at, so I enlisted our local brain trust [i.e., the other employees] and our handy database . . . as well as the all-knowing internet and our store room full of records). It didn’t take long before I had a list of quiet, unassuming folks who’ve passed through our doors and on to better things, their lives at the time of their deaths never hinting at their past.

For example, decades ago we were assisting the family of a gentleman who spent most of his life as a commercial pilot. A most worthwhile and necessary occupation, but nothing really remarkable . . . until his family mentioned in passing that he was the pilot for the Beatles during their first U.S. tour in 1964. As a matter of fact, if the funeral director wrote the information down correctly, he was their preferred pilot on each of their three tours around the country.

Before I mentioned that though, I needed confirmation, so I called the person I thought had waited on the family. Turned out I had chosen poorly, but he had at least heard the story; however, he believed the group being flown around wasn’t a group at all. It was a person . . . named Elvis. Further conversation led us to the conclusion that he might be mixing his stories, since he knew he assisted a family whose loved one gave Elvis guitar lessons. Think about that for a minute. I know somebody had to, but . . . He. Taught. Elvis. I mean, would Elvis really have been Elvis if he hadn’t developed that particular talent? And what if no one else had taken the time to help him learn? So here was yet another name to add to my list.

Then there was the sweet little lady with whom I attended church for years and years. She was short of stature, carrying a little of the weight that often comes with age. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts and, as time progressed, her ability to get around became almost non-existent. When she died I walked into the stateroom to pay my respects . . . and saw all the pictures of her from days gone by that were on display. She had been a professional dancer in New Orleans and the photos that were scattered about the room—set to the music of the Roaring 20s that played softly in the background—told the story of a beautiful young woman, full of energy and life . . . a very different person from the one Time eventually crafted . . . from the one I had known.

The longer I thought the longer my list became, and perhaps someday I’ll revisit a few more of the extraordinary ordinary folks we’ve been privileged to serve. But before I end today’s stroll down memory lane, there’s one other gentleman I want to mention. He lived just down the road and around the corner from the funeral home. I would often pass his house and make a mental note of his presence in our community. He was a veteran, as are many of our residents, having served his country honorably during World War II. But he’s the only veteran I knew who survived the Bataan Death March, a harrowing ordeal during which 80,000 Filipino and American prisoners of war were moved from various points around the Philippines to Camp O’Donnell, a one-time American base that was used as a POW camp after the Japanese invasion of the islands. Of the 80,000 that began the journey, only 54,000 completed it . . . and thousands more died while being held at the camp. I cannot imagine the horror of what he must have endured, but he returned home and married, raised a family and worked at the paper mill until he retired. And when he died his obituary mentioned his service in the Army . . . and nothing more.

All around us are people who have lived ordinary lives, punctuated by extraordinary events. Each has a story to tell, even if it’s been kept tucked away from the world, known only to a chosen few—and I am always in awe of those people when their stories come to light. They may not have understood or appreciated or even cared that those moments were unique to them—and amazing to the rest of us—but those stories allow me to look at them with fresh eyes . . . with a deeper appreciation of the life they lived . . . and the person they became.

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Echoes In Time

Wed, 02 Jun 2021 17:55:00 GMT

I am a fan of Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and if you don’t know who they are, well . . . there isn’t much way I can explain it. But if I were going to try, I’d tell you they are a musical group whose performances are filled with lasers and lights and smoke and magic . . . and stories. So many wonderful stories. This is an affinity I share with my daughter and now with my oldest grandchild, Wilson. As a matter of fact, the December before the world was engulfed in COVID, at Wilson’s request the three of us attended one of their concerts in Memphis. He will never know what an accomplishment that was for him since I’m not fond of noise . . . or flashing lights . . . or crowds . . . all of which were a thing. But I loved every minute of it, mainly because of the company. And the music. The drive home, not so much.

One of their albums is entitled “Beethoven’s Last Night”. It was written as a rock opera telling the story of Ludwig van Beethoven’s last night on this earth, and his encounter with Mephistopheles who has come to collect his soul (spoiler alert, he doesn’t). As Beethoven despairs over the realization that he must spend eternity in torment, the devil offers him a deal. Give up his music . . . allow it to be destroyed—wiped from the memory of mankind—and his soul will be spared. And he has an hour to make his choice.

Mephistopheles disappears, leaving Beethoven agonizing over what course he should choose. It is then that he sings “What Is Eternal”. And within that song, you find the lyrics:

Each vision and dream now
Completely dismembered
To give one’s whole life
And find nothing’s
Remembered

And what good is a life
That leaves nothing behind
Not a thought or a dream
That might echo in time . . .

And it is upon these words that I wish to focus.

Compared to the overall number of humans on the planet, very few of us realize in our youth what is required to make a monumental difference. And by the time we do . . . and perhaps wish that we could . . . we find it’s too late. There can only be one Mother Teresa, one Mahatma Gandhi. We can’t all be as famous or as recognizable as Oprah or as wealthy as Warren Buffet. And if we start comparing our lives and our accomplishments to theirs, we may perceive ourselves to be miserable failures, those who will leave nothing behind by which they might be remembered.

That was Beethoven’s greatest fear on his last night . . . and it may be ours as we see our time on this earth drawing to a close. Have we done enough? Did we try enough? Have we made enough of a difference? If my own longevity patterns itself after that of my parents, I might have ten more decent years, and I know how quickly those will fly. I could sit here and agonize over what kind of difference I’ve made in this world (and honestly, sometimes I do wonder), but then I look at my children and I see functional, independent human beings who are creative and thoughtful and trying to make the world a better place. And I look at my grandchildren and I know they’ll remember the Mona (that’s what I’m called . . . as in Mona Lisa . . .) who played Hide and Seek with them, and went down to the creek or hiking at Shiloh, who taught them what poison ivy looks like and introduced them to “Hall of the Mountain King”, things I hope one day to do with little Malcolm who, at age two, isn’t quite ready for all of that. But he does reach for my hand when he doesn’t trust himself to make it down the steps and wanders the house calling for me when he thinks I’m missing.

I suppose my point is that very few people in this world leave nothing behind. Very few of us will escape this mortal coil having given our whole life then finding that nothing’s remembered. We may not accumulate an abundance of fame or wealth, we may not be known to millions of people, but if we have touched the lives of our family and our friends, if we have made their worlds just the slightest bit better and taught them to do the same for others, then that should be—and is—enough.

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Lest We Forget

Wed, 26 May 2021 17:08:00 GMT

Every year about this time, I tend to turn my blogging attention toward the holidays. Goodness knows, we have enough of them to acknowledge in May and June, specifically Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, with Memorial Day sandwiched almost smack in the middle.

Last year I made up my mind that for Memorial Day I would focus on a few heroic souls who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, and I think it’s a decision that’s going to become a tradition. I’m afraid too many of us have forgotten the real reason this day was set aside, a bout of amnesia enabled by Congress’s June 28, 1968 decision to use it as the finale of a three day weekend (which became effective in 1971), thereby watering down the meaning of what should be a very somber day. For those of you looking for a light-hearted something-or-other, or who prefer not to think about wartime death, I would kindly suggest you move on without reading further. But for those of you who acknowledge the sometimes harsh realities of life, I’d like to tell you just a little about three young men who lost their lives in service to our country.

Within the sacred grounds of Savannah Cemetery in my hometown of Savannah, Tennessee, there rests the mortal remains of James Wesley Ingle, a private in Company K of the 343 ^rd Infantry. He came into this world just a few days after Christmas in 1886, born to Thomas J. and Mary Belle “Minnie” Ingle. According to his family records, James was a twin, sharing his birthdate with his brother, William Henry. When he completed his draft card on June 5, 1917, he was 30 years old, living at home and working on the family farm in Adamsville. A little over a year later, he received his orders, reporting for duty at Camp Gordon on July 25 ^th and shipping out for Europe on September 11 ^th . Twelve days later, he died in a military hospital in France and was interred in Magdalen Hill Cemetery in Hampshire, England. Neither of his parents would live to see his body returned home, his mother having died in 1902 and his father following her—and his son—in 1919. Almost 18 months after his death, on April 21, 1920, James Wesley Ingle’s body was exhumed, the beginning of his journey back to Tennessee and to his final resting place in the city cemetery of Savannah where his mother and father were waiting. Engraved upon his monument are his name, his dates of birth and death as well as his rank and the company with which he served . . . and the simple words “He died in France”.

Freddie K. Martin came to Savannah, Tennessee compliments of Brown Shoe Company, a manufacturing concern (that made shoes . . . of course) for which his father worked. He graduated from Central High School as a member of the Class of 1963 and, according to a classmate of his, moved to Memphis not long afterwards. By their account, he was in Memphis when he was drafted. By the military’s account, he was in Hollywood, California. Wherever Freddie might have been residing, he entered the Army and began his first . . . and only . . . tour of duty in Vietnam on July 2, 1968. A little over a month later he died at the age of 22, a casualty of combat. The date was August 20 ^th —or possibly the 19 ^th , again depending upon your source. The place was the Hậu Nghĩa province of South Vietnam . . . or perhaps the Hậu Giang province. The sites documenting his military service seem to have trouble agreeing on so many of the details. What we do know is that Freddie’s body was recovered and returned to his family, who chose to bury him in East View Cemetery in Union City, Tennessee. His father died two months later and was buried beside his son. Freddie had attained the rank of sergeant, a position noted on the bronze veteran’s plaque that his father requested . . . but did not live to see.

John Emerson Milender was planning a career in the military, enlisting in 1948 at the ripe old age of 16 ½, give or take a day or two. On June 22, 1951, he married Louise Webb and over the next 15 years their family grew to include four wonderful children. During his career, John spent time in Germany and a year in Okinawa, but exactly 189 days after his last tour of duty began—at the age of 34—Sgt. Milender died in combat in the Quang Tri province of South Vietnam. Had he lived until July, he would have begun his 18th year in the service. Instead, his wife Louise became his widow and a single mother of four. John’s body was recovered and sent home for burial in Pisgah Cemetery, arriving in Memphis at 10:38 AM on February 9, 1966, escorted by Sergeant First Class Plyler. A service was held at the Freewill Baptist Church the following Friday and four days later Louise signed the application for his veteran’s marker; it showed his date of discharge as January 28, 1966, the date of his death.

By intent I have not shared the gory details of these deaths, not because I don’t know but because my point isn’t how horrifically they died. It’s that they had to die at all. And that, my friends, is why we observe Memorial Day. Not celebrate. Observe. And remember.

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Reservations Required

Wed, 19 May 2021 18:40:00 GMT

She was a bit distressed when she called, and distressed people are generally routed in my direction. The message I got wasn’t exactly coherent (and I understood why later), therefore, the first order of business was to obtain clarity. So, with her husband’s funeral record in hand, I returned her call.

It seems that almost a decade ago we buried him in a rural cemetery in an adjoining state, in a row of graves that had been set aside for his family by the father of the current cemetery committee member with whom I finally spoke. And now someone else was buried in the spot she’d planned on using for herself when the time came. And she expected us to fix it.

So I called a funeral home in that county seeking the name of a committee member and a contact phone number (with fingers crossed since many rural cemeteries don’t have committees . . . therefore, no members . . . therefore, no phone numbers), but I was in luck. Not only was there a committee, but I hung up with the name and phone number of a member.

To make a long story somewhat shorter, contrary to her belief, the cemetery didn’t sell her lot to its current occupant in 1996. It’s first come, first served, so no lots have ever been sold there. The person occupying “her spot” was another family member who, five years after her husband’s death, had been placed there with the permission of her husband’s family. To further complicate matters, she had never placed a monument on her husband’s grave . . . like, a double monument that would have acknowledged his presence and reserved her place. And now, five years after she lost her spot . . . ten years after her husband died . . . I was getting a phone call.

I understood her distress, but we didn’t conduct the second burial; we don’t control the cemetery, and I can’t intervene on her behalf with her husband’s family because, honestly, it’s not any of our business. This is between her and his family and the cemetery committee. And based on our initial conversation, I’m pretty sure she isn’t going to understand that.

So why am I telling you this? Because the entire situation could have been prevented if she’d just bought a monument to mark her husband’s grave and to reserve her own. It’s a cautionary tale about burying in rural cemeteries and just trusting that your eternal resting place will be there when the time comes.

As I reviewed that last paragraph it occurred to me a caveat might be in order. Many rural cemeteries do a wonderful job of keeping up with who’s supposed to go where. However, often the original records were never written down for posterity. They were stored in the noggin’ of a sole cemetery caretaker or committee member, which can make the difficult task of approving burials even more so, especially when the original keeper of the mental notes has long since taken their leave. But even with the best of records (and physical evidence on the ground), mistakes can be made. For example, a few years ago a family that I know quite well called, concerned that, despite having corner markers placed in their cemetery of choice, someone had managed to trespass in to their lots. Not on to. Literally, in to. So what happened? Grass. Grass happened. The markers were flush with the ground, the grass grew over them, and the member of the committee that marked the grave for the family we were serving didn’t see them and therefore, didn’t know the site had already been claimed.

This is the very reason you see iron fences and concrete borders in many of the older cemeteries. Those proclaim to all the world that a particular area is only to be used by certain people. No random strangers allowed—and even family members usually require permission. But those fences and borders make grounds maintenance difficult, so most cemeteries are no longer allowing them to be constructed.

So, what’s a person supposed to do if they want to be absolutely certain the final resting places of their family will be available when needed? Plan A: Buy a monument. It doesn’t have to be anything elaborate or huge. It can be a standard 12 inch by 24 inch flat marker with just your name engraved on it. It can even be smaller, as long as you make certain the grass doesn’t engulf it. Just put something there that says “These are taken . . .please go somewhere else.” Plan B: If you don’t want to buy a whole monument, buy corner markers. These are usually six inch by six inch pieces of granite (although they can be almost any size and shape) with the initial of your last name (or anything else that will fit in the available space) etched into the surface. Generally, these are placed at each corner of your block of lots (hence the name . . . corner markers) although it’s advisable to use them across the head and foot of your spaces as well, if you’re attempting to mark an abundance of graves. And then keep them from playing hide and seek in the grass. A good trimming/weed eating once in the spring and once in the fall goes a long way toward helping your corner markers do their job.

I don’t know what’s going to happen with the little lady and her grave predicament (pun intended), but I’m pretty sure there isn’t going to be a happy ending to her story. It would be nice if I could get my magic wand out of the shop and just make everything better, but I’m pretty sure that won’t happen, either. So in the meantime, may I suggest we all learn a valuable lesson? If you make your cemetery reservations in advance, be sure you have something to show for your efforts. That may be a deed of interment rights issued by the cemetery. It may be a monument that makes it almost impossible for anyone else to occupy your spot. Whatever your chosen method of declaring ownership, just be sure it doesn’t rely solely on trust.

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At That Place

Wed, 12 May 2021 17:03:00 GMT

The first Sunday in May—May 2 ^nd this year—is Decoration Day at Memory Gardens on Highway 69 in Hardin County. It’s one of three cemeteries we own and the one where my parents are buried, so every year I travel south to make pictures and post them on the funeral homes’ Facebook page. And to say “hi” to Mother and Dad.

We never officially set a Decoration Day. As a matter of fact, for the longest we didn’t even know we had one. The folks with family buried there looked up the road a piece at Graham Cemetery and decided it made perfect sense to hold Decoration at Memory Gardens the same day as Graham’s . . . since they were so geographically close. And so it was. They just forgot to mention it to us for a few years.

On this particular Sunday I was racing the rain. Storms were predicted for the afternoon and evening, so I made my way to the cemetery a bit earlier than I usually do. Even at that, there were already folks there, walking the cemetery to admire the flowers, gathering around the graves of their family members to share stories and make pictures of everyone in attendance. A good many of the flowers had been placed the day before by families or florists, but there were still people exiting their cars, bouquets and children in hand, headed to the graves of their loved ones to honor those who lie beneath the sod and to teach their children to do the same.

A brief note of explanation before I continue. Whenever I enter a space, whether it be a store or a restaurant, a park or a cemetery, I try not to look at people. For one thing, I don’t want them to think I’m staring at them, which is, quite frankly, never the case. Through them, maybe, but never at them. For another, if they see me and they know me, conversation is then required. I’m just not very good at that. I always feel like my mouth begins operation before my brain engages . . . and the results aren’t always the best.

Given the foregoing explanation, I was focused on the flowers before me, trying to decide which ones to photograph, when I heard my name. Now, I may pretend I don’t see you (actually, there’s no pretending to it), but I won’t ignore you if you speak. So I looked up, searching for the source. It took me a moment to recognize him. He looked thinner . . . older than I remembered him looking when his wife died, which had been long enough ago for the monument to be in place but not for the freshly laid sod to have greened up. We spoke for a minute and then I left him to his contemplation. He had come to spend time with her, not with me, and as he stood, head slightly bowed, fidgeting with a twig he had picked up, I could tell these moments were hard. I don’t know how long he’d been there when I arrived, but shortly afterwards he slowly walked across the cemetery, got into his truck, and left.

As I watched him continue around the drive toward the south exit, a familiar figure caught my eye. He had been there the year before . . . and the year before that. As a matter of fact, he’d been making daily pilgrimages to the cemetery, weather permitting, for almost four years, often bringing his lawn chair and sitting with his wife for as long as Life would permit. I stopped and spoke with him one year, asking permission to take his picture and tell the world of his dedication, and he readily agreed. He showed me his yellow rose belt buckle and rolled up his sleeve to show me his yellow rose tattoo. He’d made it through years in the military and never been tempted to ink anything into his skin. But her favorite flower was a yellow rose, and that was the only reason he needed when she left him. The foundation of his dedication is his love for her, and I have no doubt that he’ll visit her grave as long as the good Lord lets him.

I wandered a while longer, around Serenity, across Christus, and into the Garden of Devotion. As I began to make my way back to my van, he had completed the slow walk back to his car. We left almost together, headed to very different places under very different circumstances. And as I drove, I thought a great deal about these two gentlemen—and all the other husbands and wives that I know are walking this same path. There is comfort to be found at the foot of those graves. They know someone they loved dearly and spent a lifetime with is no longer suffering. But there are also no more moments together. They come and they stand . . . or they sit . . . because at that place they are as close to that person’s physical remains as they will ever be again. At that place they can remember the past they shared . . . they can feel the loneliness of the present . . . and they can be reassured that someday in the future they will be together again.

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Always Will Be

Wed, 05 May 2021 17:04:00 GMT

This coming Sunday is Mother’s Day. If it snuck up on you, there’s still time to order flowers or buy chocolate or at least find an appropriate card. Of course, that’s assuming your mother is still around to receive such gifts. Some of us aren’t so blessed, and it seems like this day gently pokes at that loss, making it a bit more painful than usual.

Most every year I try to focus on this holiday, as well as Father’s Day, sympathizing with those who can no longer offer celebratory hugs in recognition of the day, and encouraging those who can to never take for granted how blessed they truly are. But not this year. I was going to, but a few things have happened over the last month or so that have caused that focus to shift.

In the overall scheme of Life and Death, children should bear the responsibility of burying their parents, but it seems of late we’ve met with more and more parents who have been given the unimaginable task of burying their children. The causes of their demise are as varied as the ages at which they’ve died, but in the end, there is no comfort in the cause. Only anguish in the loss. Some of these parents will return home to other children—not that those still living can ever compensate for the one that is gone, but at least the house will not remain quiet forever. There are still memories to be made and milestones to be reached . . . and maybe even grandchildren to be held. But some of those parents who cross our threshold are burying the only child they have. Either way, whether it’s one of one or one of a dozen, whether they are newborn or grown with families of their own or somewhere in between, there is still grief. So.Much.Grief. There is still heartache and an emptiness that cannot be filled. There will still be a lifetime of wondering why it had to be their child who was taken too soon and what might they have become if only . . .

As you can probably tell by now, this isn’t a blog filled with answers or helpful suggestions as to how one should cope with losing a child. I don’t have any answers where that’s concerned. And I would never dare make suggestions on how to cope with a loss I cannot begin to imagine. All I really have are questions. Lots and lots of questions. And they all begin with “Why?” But I will say this, and I hope everyone who has taken the time to reach this point will commit these words to memory. Let them echo in your life and influence how you treat every grieving mother you encounter. And if you are that grieving mother, I hope you know . . .

Once you are a mother, you are always a mother.

Your task may be to keep them clothed and fed and safe in this world. It may be to cheer them on as they tackle Life and to offer comfort and support when Life tackles them. Or it may be to keep their memory alive, shining across the years you’ll spend without them. Whatever your lot may be, you are— and always will be —their mother.

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Grief Snakes

Wed, 28 Apr 2021 18:24:00 GMT

There are probably many people in this world who have absolutely no fear of snakes. I am not one of those people . . . which made finding one over the kitchen window when I walked into the house at 11:00 one night a less than desirable event. Please note. I said “over the kitchen window”, as in sprawled across the trim eight and one half feet above the floor. It was just stretched out there lookin’ at me as I stood debating what to do with an errant snake that was hangin’ out . . . eight and a half feet overhead.

Long story short, I woke up my husband, drug him into the kitchen, handed him a broom (to match the one I was already holding) and together we banished the snake to the azaleas beside the porch. There was a bit more to it than that, including the snake disappearing into a cabinet through a hole meant only for cords—which then necessitated the emptying of said cabinet and the drawer above it while trying to find the snake . . . again. And then realizing the snake had gone back out the cord hole and was hiding under the stuff that had fallen over on top of the desk when I moved the computer trying to get to the cord hole before the snake did.

*sigh*

I didn’t sleep very well that night.

As I lay there, wide-eyed and somewhat anxious regarding the possibility of our friend having friends, I tried distracting myself by playing the Alphabet Game and then counting sheep (which turned into snakes) and then finally considering this week’s blog. And as the night wore on, I began to realize that close encounters of the reptilian kind provide an excellent analogy for the all-consuming nature of Grief.

Think about it. Better yet, don’t. I’ll just explain.

The event or events that generate grief generally begin abruptly—the equivalent of finding a snake in the most unnatural of places. Perhaps it’s a medical diagnosis you aren’t expecting, either for yourself or someone you love. Perhaps it’s the sudden death, either accidental or from natural causes, of someone close to you. Perhaps it’s something less life threatening but still life altering, such as the loss of a job or other financial difficulties. Any of these circumstances—and so many more—can give Grief the foothold it needs to consume you.

Now, every time I walk into the kitchen, can you guess the first place my eyes go? If you said (or thought) the kitchen window, you’d be correct. And then I look at the other kitchen window . . . and I wonder what might be on top of the cabinets that I can’t see. My eyes scan the floor and the counter tops and the sink . . . anywhere a snake might hide in plain sight. If I’m sticking my hand in the cat food bucket or the dog food bag, now I look first. It’s becoming a habit, and one I’d prefer not to have. But I just can’t help it. The memory of that snake looking back at me is simply too fresh to easily dismiss. Grief works the same way. Every time you walk into a particular room, your eyes may be immediately drawn to the recliner they once occupied or the book they never had the chance to finish. But Grief is a sneaky devil (not unlike a snake). It doesn’t limit its triggers to household objects. Grief may use a shared song or a favorite TV show, a smell or a place to take you back in time and remind you of everything you lost in that moment.

I’m sure over time my snake radar will settle down and I won’t be compelled to consider every nook and cranny as a possible den of vipers. Just as the memory of that night will fade in its intensity, so Grief will eventually step back and allow you some measure of control over your own thoughts and actions. The tears won’t flow as freely and there’ll be more smiling when that person crosses your mind. But that doesn’t mean it has permanently left the premises. I have now learned the ugly lesson that my house isn’t snake-proof; Grief teaches that same lesson, for once it enters your world, it never truly leaves. It just grows quieter, waiting for that perfect moment to make its presence known once more.

So, that’s the analogy that occurred to me after a rather exciting and definitely unexpected evening with Randy (that’s what I named him . . . Randy the Rat Snake . . .). Fortunately, with the help of my sleep-deprived husband, I was able to “relocate” Randy, herding him back out into the world from whence he came. And although we will, with time, be able to adjust to the losses of this world and the grief that ensues, the key word here is “adjust”. I don’t have to live with a snake in the house forever. Rather than adjusting to his presence I can send him on his way. Grief is not so easily banished, and for most of us once encountered it will become a life-long companion.

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The Great Equalizer

Wed, 21 Apr 2021 17:47:00 GMT

With a great deal of interest I watched the preparations and the people associated with the demise of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. And I have decided that, despite their wealth and power and the world stage upon which they must live, when it comes to Death the royal family isn’t so very different from the rest of us.

Before you think I’ve lost my mind, please allow me to elaborate. Granted, most of us don’t spend sixteen years converting our vehicle of choice—a Land Rover—into a hearse with the intent that it will provide our final ride. Our services may not be broadcast to the world (perhaps live-streamed if the equipment cooperates and the Internet doesn’t go down) and the streets aren’t usually lined with a grieving mass of people (although I have seen that in my time . . .). Had we not been in the ‘midst of a pandemic, I’m sure there would have been dignitaries and world leaders in every nook and cranny of the chapel. Instead, there were a chosen few—the closest family members—who were allowed to attend. And they wore masks and practiced social distancing.

But think about William and Harry . . . and let’s add Charles to that mix. There has been a great deal made of the tension brought on by some of Harry’s decisions and the reactions of his family. That’s not something easily set aside when the need to address Death arises. Many families absolutely cannot, and there are times we’ve been told by the legal next-of-kin that a particular person’s presence is not to be allowed under any circumstances—usually because of some incident that occurred years before or some on-going feud they’re unwilling to pause. Fortunately, although there may be tensions over the past, most families manage to lay down their weapons long enough to honor the person who has died. And sometimes, they actually realize it’s best not to pick them back up afterwards. In other words, the loss of one family member can lead to the reconciliation of others.

The Duke himself had a great deal to do with the planning of his services, mainly because he was afforded the time—for example, his customized Land Rover hearse. Of course, most of us wouldn’t go to that extreme, but how many funerals have you attended where the hearse was replaced by a mule or horse-drawn wagon? Or a fire truck . . . or an El Camino? When people have the time to contemplate their own mortality and the farewell party they wish to have, those services often become a reflection of who they were. Prince Philip’s coffin was draped with the flag of Greece, his native country, and bore his cap and sword from his days in the Royal Navy. And behind the Dean of Windsor, who conducted the service, were all of Philip’s medals and insignia—just as many of our families will bring items that were dear to the person they are honoring so those may be displayed during their visitations and services.

But you know what struck me the most? What picture has stayed with me the longest? The Queen, as she sits silently and alone, head bowed, saying good-bye to her husband . . . her strength and her rock . . . of over 73 years. She even wrote a very personal note to him—a note that was quietly slipped into the flowers atop his coffin—a note that stayed there throughout the service and was entombed with him at its close. She signed it “Lilibet”, a childhood nickname that only he had used in recent years . . . only he because there was no one else living who had that kind of relationship with Her Majesty the Queen.

I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how much power you may exercise or how much wealth you may possess. Death brings grief, especially when he takes from you someone who has been that much a part of your life. When you look at the pictures documenting their time together, you find they are almost always smiling or laughing. Philip could make her laugh, even after so very many years, and I’m sure that quality endeared him to her—especially given her role in this life. And now, despite all the people who surround her, despite her position and her power and her wealth . . . she finds herself alone.

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Multitasking

Wed, 14 Apr 2021 18:22:00 GMT

She’s a celebrity, although evidently not one I’m familiar with since her name has completely escaped me. Or maybe I can’t remember her name because her words keep bouncing around in my brain, driving out everything else about the event. For whatever reason, I can’t tell you who she is . . . only that she had just given birth and been told immediately thereafter that one of her closest friends had died of COVID. It was while retelling the story that she said, “I could only grieve for so long. My baby had to be fed.” And at that point I thought, “You don’t understand how this works, do you?”

Grief is not mutually exclusive. As a matter of fact, for the most part it demands that we multitask. Did you suffer a devastating loss? We’ll give you some time off from work, but not nearly enough to satisfy Grief. In school? That’s nice. You’re still gonna have to do your homework. Have a family that depends on you? Great! You have a built in support group . . . and people who still expect to be fed and have clean clothes in the closet. Not to mention help with the aforementioned homework.

All the while, Grief is running in the background, like one of those pesky computer programs that you don’t know exists until you try to shut down. Then your computer tells you there’s something there that won’t go away so it can turn itself off. Suddenly you understand why everything has been running slower . . . if it’s running at all. There’s been this rebellious piece of software holding your technological life hostage. You knew something was going on, you just didn’t know what.

Grief does exactly the same thing. The whole time you’re trying your best to continue functioning, Grief is running in the background of your life, gunking up the works and slowing down the world. When you lose someone you love, Grief becomes your constant companion, a shadow that somehow manages to exist with or without the light. You see, once Grief enters your life, it will never truly leave. It may subside for a while. It may shrink into the background and sit quietly, but there will always be a time when it makes its presence known.

So to say one can set aside Grief in order to fulfill the responsibilities and demands of life is not at all an accurate statement. You do not set Grief aside so you can function. You learn to function with Grief as your companion.

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Well-Made Beds and Freshly Shaved Legs

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 18:23:00 GMT

A friend of mine once told me she always makes her bed in the morning . . . in case she doesn’t make it home that night . . . or ever again. That way, people coming to the house after her demise won’t encounter a rumpled mess of a bed.

Her comment brought to mind one of Lewis Grizzard’s classic stories about his mama. Each time he had to travel, she would inquire as to whether or not he was wearing clean underdrawers (kindly read that in your best Southern accent), because he might be in an accident. He finally told her it didn’t matter. If he found himself face to face with a semi he wouldn’t have clean underdrawers for long. Which reminds me of another friend whose travel preparations include shaving her legs . . . so in case she’s in an accident . . .

How many of us have “rituals of protection” we go through before traveling? Or habits we’ve developed for reasons that defy reason? I’m certainly not saying there’s anything wrong with well-made beds or clean underdrawers or freshly shaved legs—as a matter of fact, I’m in favor of all three—but there are times when we get a little carried away in preparing for the great unknown . . . and other times we don’t do nearly enough.

For example, let’s talk about my good friend eBay. We have this love-hate relationship in which it tempts me with all kinds of goodies . . . which I don’t buy . . . at first. Now I have this glorious mix of family heirlooms and eBay finds. My daughter has repeatedly begged me to identify the heirlooms so at my demise they’ll know what to consider keeping (please note, I said consider, not absolutely will) and what can go away without the slightest shred of guilt. Of course, I know which is which. And I am currently the only one on the planet with this knowledge—so unless I find a simple way to pass that knowledge along, my children are going to say very ugly things about me when they start trying to empty the house.

But you know what? Family heirlooms versus eBay finds is nothing compared to the mess some families encounter when Death strikes. Even if there’s been some preparation time, they are often caught flat-footed and uninformed where the important stuff is concerned. Take family history, for instance. When my mother died my brother and I realized we had no clue where she was born. Her father had worked for TVA during their dam building years so she had literally lived all over this part of the country. By the time she was in tenth grade she’d been enrolled in ten different schools, some for over a year. But where did it all start? For reasons I won’t bore you with, we finally settled on Adamsville, Tennessee. It wasn’t until much later, when we were going through old pictures, that we came across a copy of her birth certificate which proved us right—and gave a totally different spelling of her first name.

Accurate biographical information is important but there are a few other things that are equally so and which can certainly present seemingly insurmountable obstacles if they aren’t settled before death. Insurance beneficiaries, for one. If your beneficiary has died, and you have no contingent (or replacement) beneficiary named, your family will most probably have to open a small estate to collect on that policy. Although not as involved as a full-blown estate, it still requires time and money and paperwork and headaches, all of which can be avoided with a simple form filed with the insurance company before you die.

But this issue isn’t limited to just life insurance. Do you have a retirement plan or other investment accounts? What about annuities, bank accounts, and savings accounts? Did you win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes and someone else gets $5,000 a week for life after you don’t need that anymore? If the intended recipient of any of your valuable assets has departed for other worlds, you need to officially name a new recipient. Some of the things I’ve listed may not have actual beneficiaries, such as bank and savings accounts, but there are still ways you can grant access to those for select members of your family after you’re gone.

So, in summation I would like to state the following:

There’s no harm in having rituals you perform every morning or before every trip. Who knows? They may even help, if by doing nothing more than granting you peace of mind as you proceed. But there are also far greater details to which we should attend, not necessarily for our peace of mind—although that could be a definite fringe benefit—but for the folks we’ll someday leave behind.

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Funeral Funds Back In Your Pocket . . . Maybe

Wed, 31 Mar 2021 20:31:00 GMT

Spoiler alert: This is an educational post. Second spoiler alert: The possibility of up to a $9,000 reimbursement for funeral expenses is the subject. Third spoiler alert: This is long (for which I deeply apologize), but there’s a great deal you need to know about qualifying for this program. Believe it or not, this is the Reader’s Digest Condensed version.

The recently passed Coronavirus Response and Relief Supplemental Appropriations Act of 2021 and the American Rescue Plan Act of 2021 set aside money for the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to use for the purpose of reimbursing individuals or families who lost someone to the COVID-19 pandemic. The maximum amount of the reimbursement per death (which will be determined by the total funeral bill) is $9,000 and the maximum amount for which any one individual may apply (in case they have suffered multiple losses for which they were financially responsible) is $35,500.

Of course, there are guidelines that dictate who may apply and under what circumstances. FEMA will accept applications only from United States citizens, a non-citizen national, or a qualified alien. Those applying must prove they were the financially responsible party and must have documentation to back that up. I’ll get to the documentation part in a few paragraphs. The person who died does not have to be a citizen, but they must have died in the United States or one of its territories. Only one application may be filed for someone who died as a result of COVID and only one person may file that application as the applicant. If others signed as the responsible parties and helped with the funeral expenses, one other person may join with the applicant as a co-applicant . . . but only one other person. If there are others who bore some responsibility, they will have to give their receipts to the applicant or co-applicant . . . and then trust those people to share the reimbursement with them when it is received.

Now, what’s covered by this reimbursement? Well, most funeral expenses, whether burial or cremation, as well as a monument and a cemetery lot or cremation niche. What isn’t covered? Transportation to the funeral, no matter the mode (unless you are going strictly for purposes of identifying the deceased), and room and board while you’re there, just to mention a few.

Are there other criteria for applying? Of course. The deceased in question must have died after January 20, 2020, and their death certificate must state that COVID either directly or indirectly contributed to their death. It may also state there were COVID-like symptoms, but the more specific the wording, the greater the chance you will qualify for reimbursement. Suppose your loved one died of an underlying condition made lethal by COVID, but COVID isn’t specifically mentioned as a contributing cause. Death certificates can be amended, including causes of death, but you’ll have to plead your case with the doctor who signed it, since they are also the ones who certify that the listed conditions brought about the death. The funeral home cannot amend the cause of death.

Now, about that documentation thing. Those who plan to apply for reimbursement will need a copy of the death certificate giving credit to COVID as a contributing factor, copies of their receipts for the payment of the funeral expenses or a copy of the funeral contract, and (pay close attention here), a list of any funding assistance they may have received toward payment of the bill. This is where it gets a bit sticky since the intent of this program is not to duplicate benefits but to reimburse people for expenses they paid themselves.

If your loved one had a burial or funeral insurance policy that paid some or all of the funeral expenses, you will not be reimbursed for the amount covered by that insurance. In simple terms, if your loved one had a prearranged and prepaid funeral through a funeral home, the amount paid by that policy will not be reimbursed. However, if your loved one had life insurance that was not written as part of a prearranged funeral, and you assigned part or all of that insurance to the funeral home in satisfaction of the funeral bill, then you can be reimbursed for that amount. Also, for those of you who may be members of the burial associations through our firms, that amount will not be eligible for reimbursement. If your friends and neighbors helped pay that bill, or your church took up an offering on your behalf, or you used a GoFundMe account or collected money through Facebook—none of the funds raised by these methods will be eligible for reimbursement. In other words, these funds are meant to pay you back for anything you spent out-of-pocket.

In the next few days . . . or weeks . . . FEMA is going to establish a dedicated toll-free number just for this program. People who wish to apply for the funds must call this number to register. There will be no on-line or paper applications—everyone calls the toll-free number and gives FEMA the following information:

After giving FEMA this information, you will be given a registration number. Using that number you can fax or mail the required documents to them or set up your own account at DisasterAssistance.gov and upload the documents there.

NOW . . .

Pay very close attention to this next part.

NO ONE FROM FEMA IS GOING TO CALL YOU FIRST. NO ONE FROM FEMA IS GOING TO ASK YOU FOR YOUR PERSONAL INFORMATION UNLESS YOU CALLED THE TOLL-FREE NUMBER FOR THE PURPOSE OF APPLYING FOR REIMBURSEMENT OF FUNERAL EXPENSES.

As with every good thing, there are people attempting to scam those who have already suffered so much. DO NOT give your personal information to anyone claiming to be with FEMA unless you called them at the dedicated toll-free number.

If you have any questions, we’ll gladly try to help, but we can’t apply on your behalf; funeral homes can’t apply at all, even if they were never paid for their services. We can provide you with copies of the death certificate (FEMA does not want or need a certified one) and copies of your receipts or a copy of the original contract. And once the toll-free number is in working order, we’ll put that on our Facebook page. In the meantime, start gathering your information. Two billion dollars has been allotted for this program but sadly, given the number of COVID-related deaths, that may not go very far.

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The Great Mystery

Wed, 24 Mar 2021 20:44:00 GMT

As I sit writing this not-so-little post it is Saturday night and my daughter-in-law and her middle child (my grandson Anderson) are on an adventure. They have traveled to Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee for the sole purpose of spending the night in the Thomas House Hotel (‘tis a mere coincidence that the hotel shares its name with these two particular travelers). And to hunt ghosts.

Allegedly, (or at least according to CNN), this hotel is the second most haunted location in the United States. Originally constructed in 1890 by general store owners and brothers Zack and Clay Cloyd, the hotel was meant to house the rich and famous who began visiting the mineral springs of the area. A fire leveled the building in 1924 but it was rebuilt and reopened in 1927. At some point it became the Thomas House Hotel, a historical albeit rather normal structure with the normal flow of guests. Normal, that is, until the early 2010s at which time the paranormal investigators discovered it and promptly descended upon it, never to leave. Much like the ghosts they spend their time hunting.

This trip is the result of Anderson’s desire to attend a real ghost hunt with his mommy as a present on the occasion of his 10 ^th birthday. The adventure was booked, his brother came down with COVID, and the adventure was cancelled in favor of quarantine . . . actually just postponed until this weekend. Now they are there, in the midst of all the haunting (and I understand there is a great deal of haunting), hoping to encounter friendly spirits who will provide them with stories to tell for years to come.

They may meet Edwin who drowned in the swimming pool in 1969. Or the gentleman who fell from his horse and drowned in the creek in I-don’t-know-when. But they are really hoping to meet Sarah, the daughter of one of the Cloyd brothers, who died at the hotel as a child. I don’t know the actual cause of Sarah’s death, but I do know room number 37 was her room. It is said to be the most haunted room in the entire hotel . . . the center of all the ghostly activity . . . and it is the room in which Anderson and his mommy will be staying the night.

According to those who have encountered Sarah, she is a mischievous little girl who never appears until you are fast asleep. At some point in the night, you become aware of someone standing beside your bed and, when you open your eyes, you find Sarah, quietly watching you. Your awakening will cause her to vanish but not before she utters one word, and only one word. “Play.” Is it a command? Is it a request? I don’t know. And if I have my way, I never will.

You won’t catch me saying there are no ghosts in this world, simply because, if there are, I’d just as soon they didn’t provide me with proof of their existence. The truth of the matter is, none of us really knows. We don’t know why someone would be trapped—or choose to continue walking—upon this earth after death while others are whisked away never to be heard from again . . . if any of that is even a thing. Frankly, we really don’t know what the moments after death are actually like. We know what we’ve been taught. We know what we believe. But we have no first-hand experience in the matter and those who’ve made that trip haven’t seen fit to share the details of their journey with the rest of us. Granted, in the age of modern medicine there are some who have passed through Death’s doors into the great beyond, only to be yanked back by technology, but if they can be revived, were they really dead? (Kindly read that with your head cocked and your eyes slightly squinted. Or with one eyebrow raised, if that’s something you can manage.) Again, I don’t know the answer. And again, I’m not sure I want to.

With all that being said, I will simply observe that Death is most assuredly one of Life’s greatest mysteries, presenting us with so much that is unknown—something which many of us fear. Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to wander about the earth afterwards, unseen by mere mortals whilst moving stuff about and rapping on walls. Perhaps we’ll be whisked away and allowed to observe from afar. Whatever the end result of the end may be, one thing is certain. I may not know the answers to all the questions now, but one day I will.

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No Expiration Dates Allowed

Tue, 16 Mar 2021 22:37:00 GMT

We have a snack basket in bookkeeping. It’s a basket filled with snacks (obviously . . .) that occasionally double as lunch . . . or a munchie that keeps us from fading in the middle of the afternoon. I’m usually the stocker of the basket, but I’ve been falling down on the job lately. A lot. So before I scheduled my last Wal-Mart pick-up, I went through the basket to check the expiration dates on all the stuff.

The Fiber One Chocolate Fudge Brownies? They were best by July of 2019. The Lance Toasty Peanut Butter Crackers? June 6, 2020. The Kind Peanut Butter Dark Chocolate gluten free bars with eight grams of protein? They’re about a year old. And my favorite? The Lance Captain’s Wafers filled with Peanut Butter and Honey? Well, let’s just say most of them died in 2019, except for one lonely little pack that’s evidently been living in the basket since before October 13, 2018.

The only things in the whole basket that were still allegedly edible were the 100 calorie, 14 grams of protein, foil packs of StarKist Ready-to-Eat Deli Style Tuna Salad. Two of them are good through May of 2021 and the third is supposedly fine until December 21 ^st . Which, quite frankly, scares me.

It took me a while to find the “best by” and expiration dates on some of those things, mainly because there isn’t really a designated spot on all food items where they can be found, or they were stamped in such a place that it was almost impossible to read unless the light hit the plastic just right. But at least every item had one so I knew when to start seriously considering whether or not I actually wanted to consume a particular snack—unlike my father who ate moldy bread and anything else he could make look presentable with a little scraping.

I’m pretty sure you know where I’m headed since expiration dates and Death are generally linked in the minds of us mere mortals. But what I want to stress is that human beings don’t have one. Granted, we’re all going to “expire” at some point or other, but as the doctor in the commercial for Cancer Treatment Centers of America so aptly observes to Peggy, the patient, “I don’t see an expiration date stamped on the bottom of your foot” or something to that effect. And yet we so often hear of people who have been given days or weeks or months to live—predictions that often prove inaccurate.

We had a woman call our office many years ago wanting to schedule a funeral for her husband on the coming Saturday. We knew we hadn’t been called by anyone official, or even unofficial, regarding his death, so of course we asked where he was. Turns out he was at home, still very much alive, but the doctor had told her he wouldn’t live through the week. And she really wanted a Saturday funeral. So she called to schedule it.

We didn’t, and she was none too happy about it.

The gentleman managed to survive for several weeks after his appointed time of demise, much to his wife (and probably the doctor’s) surprise. But not to ours. Because we understand that the human spirit is capable of some remarkable feats including, but not limited to, outliving expiration dates that are artificially thrust upon it. Often that’s because the mind is a powerful tool which, when positively engaged, can make a world of difference in the outcome of an illness. But not always. Which brings me to some words of wisdom, spoken by the late Valerie Harper after her diagnosis with lung cancer that eventually spread to her brain. “Don’t go to the funeral—mine or yours—until the day of the funeral.” Her doctors gave her three months to live in January of 2013.

She died on August 30, 2019.

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In Recognition

Wed, 10 Mar 2021 19:02:00 GMT

It was a Sunday . . . the Sunday before a Monday holiday . . . so for many in the country, it was a long weekend filled with family and friends and fun and such. For us, it was a work day. A family arrived that morning, prepared to spend a few hours with one of our funeral directors, planning a service for someone they had loved and lost and wanted to honor. They came with her clothes and their pictures for the video and the details of her life swirling in their heads, soon to be written down as they sat and shared their stories.

The only person they saw that morning was the funeral director. They didn’t see the secretary who was on call, the one sitting in the office, waiting for the personal information sheets so she could begin entering the information into the computer which would then allow her to print the register book and the memorial folders for the visitation. They didn’t see her log in to the website and update it with funeral arrangements and the obituary she had written. They didn’t see the members of the grave crew who would arrive later to open the grave since the funeral was scheduled for the next day. Nor did they see the housekeeper who was making certain the bathrooms were clean and well-stocked with soap and toilet paper and paper towels, and the lounge was ready for their use . . . or the staff member who made the trip out of town to bring their loved one home . . . or the embalmer who spent hours working to erase the visible effects of the illness that took her life.

On any given day, you will find all the folks mentioned above, and many more, working tirelessly to serve the families who have called on us in their grief. It isn’t an easy job. None of it. Not the secretarial work or the cemetery work or the housekeeping . . . and certainly not the tasks assigned to the funeral staff. For us, they answer the phones every evening from the hours of 5:00 PM to 8:00 AM and all day on Sunday. They get up in the middle of the night, put their work clothes back on, and go to the hospital or the nursing home or to someone’s house because a death has occurred and a family has asked that we be called. And then they return at 8:00 the next morning, ready to face whatever the day may bring.

Our charge, as a collective group, is to take the stories the families bring to us and gently hold them; to preserve them and, as much as we are able, to share them with the world. In the overall scheme of life, this is our solemn duty—to honor the dead by memorializing their life while walking with the living as they navigate those first few days of loss.

Why am I using this forum to write about the dedication and compassion of our employees . . . of all true funeral service professionals? Because Thursday, March 11 ^th is National Funeral Director and Mortician Recognition Day. For the last several years, I’ve posted the picture you see with this blog and thanked everyone for everything they do. I want them to know how important each and every one of them is to our work . . . whether they clean the building or process the paperwork, whether they work directly or indirectly with the families to carry out their wishes. It takes a special person to choose this life—and I want everyone to know, we have some of the best around. So to the secretaries and the accounting folks . . . to the maintenance men and the housekeepers . . . to the grave servicing personnel and the funeral staff . . . for the long hours and the heavy days, for your dedication and compassion and service . . .

Thank you.

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Home Sweet Home

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 17:20:00 GMT

My father and my uncle once owned a piece of property that wasn’t quite smack in the middle of downtown Bolivar, Tennessee, but it was close . . . a vacant lot that for all I knew had always been just that. It was next door to and across a side street from the Methodist Church and one day the leaders of that congregation came asking whether or not they would be willing to part with the land. In my ignorance I didn’t see a reason not to, but Dad agonized over the decision. He finally elected to sell to the church because his mother had been a member there, so it only seemed fitting in his mind that if anyone else was to own the property, it should be them. But I clearly remember him saying in almost a whisper, “I guess it really doesn’t matter. The house isn’t there anymore.” So the property sold and the church built a fellowship hall and life continued moving on.

Fast forward several years . . . years that took my father’s voice and stole his brilliant mind . . . meaning I couldn’t ask any questions and expect any answers. While looking through some old family photos I found one of my dad and his sister outside a white frame house. His mother was there with them and as I stared at this picture I suddenly understood his hesitancy and his observation from so many years before. At one time that vacant lot had been far more than an empty piece of property. It had been the site of their home, the house in which they had spent their earliest years. I don’t know when or why they moved to the two story red brick farther down Market Street. That was the house I remembered. That was the house where we celebrated Christmas and to which we came for random visits. That was the house with the beautiful floral carpet and the painted white mantel that had the giant, gold framed mirror hanging over it and the upstairs closet that ran from the middle bedroom to the bedroom at the end of the house—kinda like our own personal secret passageway. I never knew the white frame house that was so close to the main part of town. So I never knew the meaning of that vacant lot.

But my father did. And when representatives of the church came calling, they weren’t just asking him to sell a vacant lot. They were asking for a piece of his history, a place that held memories that were never shared with me. I’m sure that sharing didn’t seem important at the time. After all, the house wasn’t there anymore. But as I stared at that picture I wished I had known. I wished I could have seen it. I wished I had asked the questions when there was someone who knew the answers.

When houses become homes they become far more than a mere structure. They become a place for our memories and experiences to remain, a tangible representation of a particular time in our lives. For my dad, his early childhood centered around that house. And even though the house no longer stood, he could still see it when he looked at that lot. The land held the memories the house no longer could—and when it sold I could see the sadness in his eyes—I could hear it in his whispered words of resignation.

Grief comes in many different forms, from many different directions. Death, of course, is the biggest culprit, but anytime we lose or let go of something—not necessarily someone—that has been an important part of our life, there will be grief involved. Pictures may be able to preserve the past; memories may be at our beck and call as the years fade away. But being able to walk where our ancestors walked . . . to open the doors they opened and stand in the spots where they stood . . . such experiences are on a very short list of things that can provide real joy and contentment—as well as sadness and longing. And often in the same breath.

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Half Sorrow

Thu, 25 Feb 2021 02:52:00 GMT

Molly Steinsapir was your typical 12 year old, with the possible exception of being a vegetarian. She loved animals and aspired to be an actress . . . or maybe a politician since government was a special interest of hers. And she enjoyed riding her bike, something she often did, always taking the usual precautions . . . riding with a friend . . . wearing a helmet. That’s why it seemed so unreal when she had an accident while riding on the last day of January.

Molly would initially survive, but for the next two weeks she remained in critical condition in the UCLA Medical Center. There were MRIs and blood transfusions, surgery more than once, consultations and prayer. Lots and lots of prayer. And all the while, Molly’s mother was reaching out to her friends and family . . . and to strangers who took notice of their suffering. Hundreds of thousands of people on Twitter began following Molly’s story—and sending messages of encouragement, love, and hope.

At one point, Molly’s mother Kaye addressed the reason for her consistent, very public communication regarding her daughter’s accident and ensuing treatment. I want you to pay close attention to her words because the point I wish to make isn’t about Molly’s accident or her family’s struggle in its aftermath. It’s about what Kaye said.

“Some of you wonder why I share what is happening to us. Writing and sharing my pain helps to lessen it. When I’m sitting here in this sterile room hour after hour, your messages of hope make me feel less alone. Even my husband, who is very private, likes reading them.”

Writing and sharing my pain helps to lessen it . . . in other words, pain shared is pain divided. Those words originated as part of an old Swedish proverb, “Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half sorrow,” and I’m not sure any truer words have ever been spoken. When Life presents us with moments of joy, we naturally want to share them with the people we love; we want them to celebrate with us—to experience the happiness we feel. But for some reason we are less inclined to share our sorrows. Maybe we think our openness will make those around us uncomfortable. Maybe we have the mistaken idea that no one really wants to hear about our struggles. Whatever the cause, when we insist that no one accompany us as we travel the road mapped out by grief, it only makes the journey that much more difficult. The comfort and support of family and friends and yes, even strangers, can reassure us that we are not alone in our grief. And that grief often begins long before Death’s ultimate arrival. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has ever waited and watched as someone they love slips away.

For two weeks Kaye kept the world informed of Molly’s struggle . . . for two long, hope-filled, prayerful weeks . . . until February 15 ^th . On that day, Molly’s brief stay on this earth ended. Hundreds of thousands of people who had no clue who Molly Steinsapir was until January 31st, who have never met Kaye or her husband Jon and probably never will, are grieving with them because Kaye chose to share her sorrow. And her path, though still unimaginably difficult, will be made a bit easier because she chose not to travel it alone.

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Neither Rain Nor Sleet Nor Snow . . .

Thu, 18 Feb 2021 01:27:00 GMT

I’m sitting in my office—which just happens to be in the garage (it’s a long story . . .)—and I hear the garage door as it begins its ascent, letting in the winter winds and sleet as it goes. Outside I hear the crunching of the ice as our removal van approaches, the driver positioning it so he can back into the first bay of the garage. After coming to a halt it begins to beep incessantly as the back hatch is raised. The beeping stops when the door is fully opened but in its place is the sound of the cot being removed and taken into the building. The door beeps again as it closes . . . and then I’m back to the silence that is bookkeeping on a snowy day with nothing more than tapping on the keyboard and the occasional ringing of the phone and the roaring of the garage heater to break the monotony. Oh, and the sound of the ice chunks as the warmth allows them to fall from the wheel wells of the van.

Winter weather in the south tends to bring the world to a screeching halt—or in our case, a crunchy slide. Halting isn’t always an option if you’re brave enough to get out in a vehicle and oblivious enough to end up on an unscraped, unsalted side road. All the staples of life magically disappear from the grocery shelves and everyone closets themselves in the safety of their respective homes, except for those of us who delight in the snow (that would be me). We will venture out to play or, if necessary, to work, with the knowledge we can return to the warmth of our house at any point. In other words, if allowed we will basically cease to function until the thaw.

But you know what doesn’t stop for sleet and/or snow? Births don’t. If a child decides it’s time to enter the world, it really doesn’t matter if there’s a sheet of ice six feet thick on the roads. And illness . . . illnesses and catastrophic health events like strokes or heart attacks will continue undeterred by horrid driving conditions. As a matter of fact, emergencies of any kind will continue and sometimes even escalate compliments of the aforementioned oblivious people of the world. You know what else doesn’t stop? Death.

It would be nice if there was a button someone could push, a magical button that basically brought the world and all its horrible happenings to at least a temporary halt—a truce with Nature, so to speak—until such time as the weather cooperated and everyone could safely move about without freezing or landing in a ditch . . . or worse. But until someone manages to invent such a magnificent button, doctors and nurses will still creep to work. Police and firefighters will still respond to emergencies. And funeral home staff? We’ll still be going when we’re called. We’ll still be here to assist the families confronting loss, because Death doesn’t take holidays. And he doesn’t check the weather before he comes.

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That Deafening Silence

Wed, 10 Feb 2021 16:39:00 GMT

As an aspiring hermit (something I believe I may have mentioned before), I have a soul that delights in solitude. There doesn’t have to be artificial noise created by some man-made device. I don’t have to have people around me, constantly talking to me and expecting me to respond. Small talk has never been my strong suit and if I can avoid the panic of having to engage in such, I’m okay with that. That doesn’t mean I have to constantly be alone, just that if, given the choice between a party and a book by myself, hands down I’m curling up with the book, the only exception being family birthdays and family holidays.

But there’s a sizable difference between solitude that is sought and that which is forced upon someone. Right now there are more individuals than ever before who are facing an unwanted silence in the place that should provide the most comfort—home.

I’m not sure we ever realize how much we need the people who share our lives until they’re no longer present. And I don’t mean “need” as in being physically dependent on them. I mean “need” as being mentally and emotionally bound to them. I think Alan Jay Lerner said it best when he wrote the lyrics for “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” for the musical “My Fair Lady”.

“I’ve grown accustomed to her face. She almost makes the day begin. I’ve grown accustomed to the tune she whistles night and noon. Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs are second nature to me now. Like breathing out and breathing in. I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely I could always be that way again and yet, I’ve grown accustomed to her looks . . . accustomed to her voice . . . accustomed to her face . . .”

Professor Henry Higgins was bemoaning the fact that his student Eliza Doolittle had walked away from their relationship . . . and beginning to realize just how much he missed her. Granted, for them there is a reunion and a happy ending. But when a spouse or significant other dies, there’s no one to script a joyous return. A home can suddenly become a house, quiet and still, missing the laughter and conversation, the discussions and yes, even the arguments that brew when two people know each other almost as well as they know themselves. In the blink of an eye, one is left behind, forced into a solitude that can be suffocating in its magnitude. Even if friends come to temporarily fill the void, they can’t stay forever. And when they leave, the silence becomes deafening once more.

I’m not going to offer possible solutions or advice; I know better than to think this is a problem easily solved. Everyone is different and what works for one person may be the worst possible idea for someone else. But I am going to remind the rest of us that we have an important part to play when someone we love is struggling with loss while traveling the road to adjustment. There’s no reason anyone should ever have to make that journey alone. We have the power to see to it that they don’t.

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Someday Soon

Wed, 03 Feb 2021 20:47:00 GMT

Being in a reflective mood of late, I’m currently sitting in front of a fire . . . watching the flames dance about . . . listening to the silence and pondering life and all its mysteries. There’s a mug of Earl Grey tea on the table next to me (decaf so I won’t lie awake all night, pondering the ceiling) and a laptop in my lap (as in where else would it be?) and I’m attempting to find a way into what I want to say just now. It’s a way that’s not easily found.

Usually, when people want to tell me something and they begin with “I don’t know where to start” I’ll tell them to just spit it out. We’ll work on it from there. So I guess this time I’ll be doing some metaphorical spitting. It may be messy and it may not make much sense, but maybe we can work on it from there.

My husband’s uncle died on Friday. His health had been declining for years, but a hip replacement followed by complications followed by COVID put an end to his life on this earth. Someday, when I can coherently piece my thoughts together, I’ll tell you about him and something he once said to me. But for now his death has brought on these moments of reflection, and in that mirror I can see how much things have changed over the last year or so.

When the Governor of Tennessee issued Executive Order 17 on March 22 ^nd of 2020, we encountered an abundance of confused and then disappointed families . . . and a fair amount of push back. We understood their frustration; we shared their dismay. But there wasn’t much we could do to change the situation. Most of the folks calling on us had no idea Executive Order 17 was even a thing, much less what it said. COVID-19 was new and had barely touched the rural communities of the south . . . but those of us who had access to the thoughts of our professional brothers and sisters to the north knew what was coming. We tried to explain to the families we were serving that this was a necessary measure and one that we were bound by law to enforce. But the enemy hadn’t fully made his presence known yet, and that seeming absence led to all manner and kind of questions. Why were precautions necessary? Why did we have to limit funeral attendance to 10? Why did it have to be their loved one who wouldn’t be honored as traditional southerners honor their dead? It wasn’t fair . . . I remember standing in the foyer one night, “discussing” with a gentleman the coming tsunami of viral infections while he assured me it would never reach us . . . if it was even real.

It was amazing to see all the ways creative thinkers could devise for circumventing an Executive Order. And it was so hard to tell them their efforts were in vain—hard because what we were telling them the law required went against everything we as funeral service professionals believed.

But today? Today most of the families we serve come to their arrangement conferences wearing masks—and sometimes those conferences must be delayed because the decision-makers are in quarantine. They limit the number of people that will be in that room—and they stress that in any public announcement—if there is a public announcement at all—the words “The family requests that all visitors wear masks and maintain social distancing” be included. Some have even brought boxes of disposable paper masks to place beside the register book so anyone arriving unprepared won’t have to leave. Many have chosen to have a graveside service—out in the open where the fresh air can hopefully disperse any viral contaminants—with no visitation for friends beforehand. Some have chosen a private family service simply to limit the number of people with whom they will come in contact. Others will ask for their visitation to take place in the chapel if possible or at a church so there will be more room for those in attendance to spread out, to maintain that six feet of separation that has been drilled into our heads.

And what has brought about this change? Experience—the greatest teacher of some of the hardest lessons Life has to offer. So many families have been affected, so many have suffered but thankfully survived. But so many lives have been taken and so many have been left to grieve and wonder what could have been done differently to protect those they lost. Experience has made certain we learned these lessons it brought—but for many, those lessons came too late.

I look forward to the day when I can reach out and shake someone’s hand again . . . when I can hug a grieving friend, or even a stranger who needs that comfort. I long for the day when I can welcome people to our building with an understanding smile and they will see something other than the sides of my mask moving up. Just as much of the world does, I yearn for normal again, knowing full well that the new normal will never be as the old normal was. Too much has changed and too many are no longer with us. But hopefully, someday soon, families and friends can safely gather to bid a final farewell to someone they love. Hopefully, someday soon, those farewells will be fewer and much farther apart. Hopefully. Someday.

Someday soon.

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A Solitary Man

Wed, 27 Jan 2021 18:37:00 GMT

In 2002 Patricia Talorico sat quietly on a bench at Highlands Elementary School in Wilmington, Delaware. She had been assigned to do a story on a budding politician—an assignment that had already gotten her a royal chewing by the man’s opponent. Her editor wanted something special, something that, in her words, would “sing”—and she had no idea what that was. As she sat dejectedly thumbing through her notes, a voice said hello and asked if she was all right. She looked up and found herself talking to Beau Biden. He wasn’t trying to make an impression, just being kind, and it was a gesture that meant the world to her at the time.

Now, before I continue with my story, I want to take a minute to assure everyone—there is nothing political about this post. Although the cast of characters includes some well-known political names and references political events, I am not, nor will I ever, endorse or condemn anyone’s political beliefs in this forum. That being said, I shall now continue.

That act of kindness in 2002 is what led Ms. Talorico to the cemetery where Beau Biden is buried on January 20, 2021. She had been tasked with traveling about the state of Delaware and gauging the reaction of the residents to one of their own being inaugurated. It seemed only fitting in her mind that she pay her respects to the absent son of the new president before she began her mission. That’s why she was in the cemetery on that particular day. And it is how she was privileged to see the lone officer, kneeling in respect, at the grave of Beau Biden while his father spoke after being sworn in as the 46 ^th President of the United States.

That officer stayed throughout the inaugural address, kneeling before the stone that marked the grave of the President’s first born, his hands clasped as though in prayer, his head bowed to shut out the world. Other than a few cemetery personnel, no one else was present. And rather than approach the person, Ms. Talorico decided to respect his privacy. The journalist in her wanted to ask all the questions. Who are you? Why are you here? Did someone ask you to come? Did you know Beau Biden or serve with him? But the human in her understood those answers were not important. This person had chosen to be there privately, without fanfare or public pronouncement, and she chose to honor his desire for solitude. Through her car window she took the photo that has since gone viral . . . the photo you see here. And then she left.

I don’t know why this person was there. Well, I do, but I don’t. I don’t know if they were asked to be there or if they simply, for whatever reason, had an overwhelming desire to experience that moment in that place. But I do know they were there to honor someone who was deeply missed at a time when his family would have given almost anything to have him with them. I don’t know who that person was . . . as of this writing, I’m not sure much of anyone does. And I hope it stays that way. Because in his anonymity, he represents all of us. He is the embodiment of the grief we feel at Christmas when a chair once occupied now stands empty. When a birthday rolls around but that one special phone call doesn’t come. When we have good news to share or need a shoulder to lean on . . . and to cry on . . . and the one person we want most to be with us can only do so in spirit. The person kneeling at Beau Biden’s grave that day is all of us as we kneel at the graves of those we love, whether physically or emotionally or both, and wish desperately for their presence at the most important—and the most mundane—moments of our lives.

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Once Upon A Time

Wed, 20 Jan 2021 20:28:00 GMT

Once upon a time, there was a magical land, a place so beautiful and so filled with peace that it had managed to banish all the evil of this world from its borders. But one day a terrible storm rose up from the south; in anger it moved across the land, destroying everything in its path with the wind it had summoned from the storms of the oceans—winds that would not yield to the peace and the beauty that had vanquished all other enemies.

When the terrible storm had passed there was much work to be done. The magical land was crying out for help, the path into its forests blocked by the giant trees that had fallen in battle with the winds. A band of woodsmen, armed with the tools of their trade, arrived and began working in earnest, clearing a path so the people of the forest could seek shelter away from the ravages of the storm. One chose a large tree that was blocking their safe passage, and began the exhausting work of cutting through its massive trunk. And as he reached the last few inches of this mighty giant, in one last act of rebellion, it broke in two. The four foot stump was pull upright by the roots that had once anchored it—back into the crater it had left when it gave way to the winds. The earth shook . . . the woodsmen quickly moved away . . . and the stump settled into place as though it had never moved.

The great storm had come in the fall of the year and throughout the winter and into the spring, everyone worked to remove as much of the storm’s damage as they could, and although the land had begun to heal, it still bore the scars of that terrible day. One morning, as the guardian of the land made her way through the greening woods, her eyes were drawn to that stump. The stump that had lost the glory of its magnificent, leafy crown . . . the stump that could no longer offer shade and protection and a home for Nature’s creatures . . . had a small branch growing from its barren trunk. That branch continued to grow throughout the spring and the summer, and as the days grew shorter and the nights grew colder, it remained green with life. Only when the last days of autumn gave way to the darkness of winter did the green turn to a vibrant red—but even then the leaves did not fall.

This tree, from all appearances, was damaged beyond any ability to survive. And yet it did. There are many of us right now who feel overwhelmed by the winds that are swirling around us. Those winds have brought every negative emotion known to man . . . and Death. So. Much. Death. But as Nature, in her infinite mercy, has given her subjects the ability to survive the unsurvivable, so we as human beings have been given a strength we often do not know we possess. Sometimes Life forces us to start over, whether from the loss of someone we love deeply or the destruction of something we hold dear. And we must begin again. That doesn’t mean we are attempting to replace whatever it is that has been lost. Only that we must, of necessity, create something new.

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The First Snowfall

Wed, 13 Jan 2021 20:22:00 GMT

In case you’ve been under a rock somewhere, a lot has happened this week, none of which I’m going to address (thank goodness, everyone says . . .). That doesn’t mean I didn’t consider it, but I’m tired of COVID (although that will probably come up on another day because it’s a pandemic and such and a fair number of us can’t seem to behave ourselves) and I’m not touching politics with a 39 ½ foot pole (a not so subtle reference to the Grinch).

Then it snowed . . .

Granted, it wasn’t much of a snow—by some standards, a mere dusting. And it didn’t last long, just long enough for the milk and eggs and bread to magically disappear so everyone could have French toast. The roads never really iced over and the trees never really glistened in the sun, compliments of the frozen stuff, but it was still wonderful . . . a gentle reminder that the world can be quietly covered in beauty from time to time.

But it also reminded me of another day, a hundred years ago (all right, maybe closer to 55 or 60) when, as Bing Crosby so eloquently reminded us (in the words of Burke, Burke, and Webster):

“Every winter breeze that scurries
Sends the snowflakes up in flurries
It’s the good old sentimental season when
Folks put runners on their surreys
They forget about their worries
And a man becomes a boy once again”

They forget about their worries, and a man becomes a boy once again.

In that era I just referenced . . . decades ago when I was a young child . . . we had snows. Real snows. The kind that stayed on the ground forever . . . where you could build a dozen bigger than life snowmen and have snow cream for a week and make all the snow angels. And after one of these monumental snows, I stood in the parking lot behind the old funeral home on Main Street in Savannah and watched as the funeral directors—grown men that included my father—took a set of metal covers from the basement and went sledding down the sidewalk that ran beside what was then the First United Methodist Church and what has since become a vacant lot next to the replacement First United Methodist Church.

For those of you unfamiliar with the funeral merchandise of years gone by, a set of metal covers consisted of two sheets of corrugated metal, slightly arched, that could be laid over the top of a casket or a wooden box. They were designed to keep the soil from landing on top of whatever was beneath them as the grave was filled and to help support the weight of said soil once the filling was complete. It wasn’t a permanent solution like a vault, but it helped for a while.

But if you turned them upside down and positioned them so the arch was in the front and back rather than the sides, then they made a fantastic sled. The ridges ran in the same direction you were traveling, so there was no drag, and you could actually hold on to the front so you weren’t solely dependent on an excellent sense of balance and massive core strength (which, let’s get real, none of them had) to remain upright and in motion.

I know I’ve seen a picture of them, standing at the top of the hill, awaiting their turn at the helm. But I never found it, despite rummaging through all the pictures left behind by my parents. I did find an abundance of folks I don’t know (side note, people—label your pictures so when you’re gone someone knows if they’re looking at a family member or a random stranger) but not the famed sledding picture I so eagerly sought. Maybe the only place that picture exists is in my noggin’. As I stood in the parking lot, freezing my little fingers off and watching with glee, the image of these grown men behaving as children etched itself in my memory and still resides there after all these years. If only for a moment, men whose lives often revolved around the loss and grief of Death were allowed to become boys once again.

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The Rest of the Story

Wed, 06 Jan 2021 19:30:00 GMT

Last week’s offering was entitled “All Bright and Shiny” referencing, of course, this brand new year with which we have been gifted. It was an easy one to write. It was so much harder to post.

You see, I had drafted it earlier in the day. Actually, it had almost written itself. I knew my kids wouldn’t be coming in for our traditional New Year’s Day supper; I was missing the grands and thinking back on all we’d managed to survive and how long it had been (and how long would it be?) ‘til I could see my Bartlett bunch again. So the blog was written and read and re-read and edited and finally put on our website. All that was left was to link it to our Facebook page—which is what I was preparing to do when my cousin Claire called. They were busy in Bolivar and she was catching me up on some work stuff . . . then she mentioned that one of their employees, Jim Edwards, hadn’t been able to make it to work that day. They’d called to check on him when he was late and he assured them he was trying, but he was so exhausted he just couldn’t seem to get moving. A few hours later they called again, suggesting he try to see a doctor since he wasn’t feeling any better.

That evening they rang his phone, trying to check on him, but he didn’t answer. So one of them went to his house, which was just down the street from the funeral home, but no amount of banging brought him to the door. Concerned, they called the police and asked for a welfare check. As Claire and I were speaking I could hear the sound of the siren in the background. Jim’s house was just across the backyard from hers, so it was immediately obvious that the ambulance was pulling into his drive. She got off the phone, only to call back within just a few minutes.

Jim had died.

This was the knowledge I had when I set up the link on Facebook. This was the knowledge I had when I publicly encouraged the world—or at least those of you who read this blog—to make the most of your new year and to treasure every moment . . . because we have no guarantees.

But you know what I didn’t know? I didn’t know Jim had been a multi-sport athlete in high school, playing football, basketball, and baseball. And I sure didn’t know his teammates nicknamed him “Wiffle Bird”. Although he and I attended the same college, he was a year behind me and I never realized he was the catcher for UT Martin’s baseball team.

I knew he was absolutely devoted to his mother; he spent every available moment with her when he wasn’t working. As a matter of fact, he had just returned from visiting her the day before his death. But I didn’t know his family had given him the title of Master Griller because of his skill. And I didn’t know he enjoyed golfing and fishing or that he loved the Cardinals and the Vols—and Hershey’s chocolate. I didn’t know he had two nephews, one niece, and three grand-nephews he loved dearly. He made such an impact on their lives that his niece gave her son Jim’s middle name of William. She thought he’d be pleased since he’d never had children of his own . . . until he told her he’d never liked that name. But that was just Jim’s ever-present, dry sense of humor; he was really very honored, even if he didn’t readily admit it. I wasn’t aware of any of this because, despite the fact that Jim had worked with us for twenty plus years, he was in Bolivar and I was in Savannah, and our paths rarely ever crossed. When they did there was always a smile and a few words of greeting, but never enough time to visit.

Jim will be greatly missed in Bolivar and it saddens all of us to know that his wonderful 96 year old mother will now have to bury her son, something I’m sure she never thought would happen at this point in her life. I think of him dying alone and, like so many people have done in similar circumstances over the years, I hope there was no suffering—just a gentle release from this life as he moved into the next. As I ended last week’s post, I reminded all of you of the obvious—that we were within reach of a new year—“a brand new year, all bright and shiny and full of promise and opportunity.” And I encouraged you to “Use it wisely and treasure every moment of it. If 2020 taught us anything at all, it is that we have no guarantees where Life is concerned.” Jim’s untimely death just reinforced that lesson. Godspeed, Jim. And when we meet again, maybe you’ll tell me why your teammates thought “Wiffle Bird” was an appropriate nickname.

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All Bright And Shiny

Wed, 30 Dec 2020 20:26:00 GMT

Almost two years ago . . . on January 2, 2019 to be exact . . . I posted the blog “Family Matters”. And at the end of said blog, I wrapped up with the observation that “It’s a brand new year, all bright and shiny and full of promise and opportunity.”

If those words had been written at the beginning of 2020 my crystal ball would currently be residing in the trash . . . ‘cause it was obviously broken.

To put it as nicely as possible, 2020 has been a series of contradictions. There have been weddings and births and muted celebrations of Life’s milestones. And there has been loss. So. Much. Loss. And that loss has touched the life of every human being on the planet—a statement that I don’t in the least feel is an exaggeration.

Jobs have been lost. Businesses have closed. Activities we took for granted have ceased, or at the very least, been curtailed significantly. And Death. Death has made his presence and his power known time after time after time, taking thousands of lives to which he might not otherwise have been entitled—because this year he’s had a minion assisting his endeavors. A minion known as COVID-19 who can, quite honestly, be given credit for all of the aforementioned.

You know what I have missed the most over these last few months? It’s not eating in restaurants or going to movies or attending church services or even the mommy-daughter trips Kathryne and I had started taking. It’s kissing my grandchildren. I know. It’s such a little thing, but it was something I did whenever we were together. It might have been a peck on their forehead or a slightly longer one nestled in their hair. But with my Bartlett bunch there hasn’t been much seeing, let alone touching. With our little Malcolm things are slightly better, but we always wear masks to protect him and his parents, especially since, due to our work, we’re more exposed than most people. Even if I had the chance to snuggle my little man, it wouldn’t be the same when there’s three layers of protection between us. Layers that will keep my nose from inhaling that wonderful baby scent. Layers that will keep my lips from feeling his silky hair or his baby-soft skin. Not long ago, as his daddy was about to take him home, Kathryne pulled down her mask to kiss him goodbye . . . and right after she did, he reached over and pulled it back up. Malcolm is 19 months old. For over half his life, this is all he’s known . . .

There are some who will say we’ve been overly cautious, and you may be right. But we’ll never know, will we? We’ll never know what might have been if we had simply gone about Life as though Death and his minion were not waiting in the wings. And frankly, that’s knowledge I’m willing to live without.

But guess what? There’s hope on the horizon! Hope that we can return to some form of normal! Hope that in the coming months we can beat back the scourge of COVID and take back our lives! And when that happens—not if, but when —please remember, there are many whose losses cannot be replaced, only mourned. What brings hope for the rest of us is arriving too late for them. Let that knowledge sit with you and temper any celebrations you might consider.

We have a brand new year that will be here in a matter of hours . . . a brand new year, all bright and shiny and full of promise and opportunity. Use it wisely and treasure every moment of it. If 2020 has taught us anything at all, it is that we have no guarantees where Life is concerned. Let’s make 2021 a testament to that lesson.

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We Will Wait

Mon, 21 Dec 2020 20:21:00 GMT

I’m sitting beside a lovely Christmas tree (even if it is mine), covered in twinkling lights and ornaments, many of which hold memories from days before I even existed. The advent calendar that hangs behind me only has a few more days to mark off before Christmas Eve arrives. But the day before—Christmas Eve Eve, if you will—is when I will stop pulling the handmade felt ornaments from their numbered pockets and pinning them in their appropriate spots. Normally, on December 24 ^th , I would take Santa and place him on the last branch of the tree, signifying his impending arrival and the excitement of Christmas Day. But not this year. This year, I will stop with December 23 ^rd .

Why, you may ask? Because I love my children and their spouses. I love my grandchildren beyond words. And, although we have worked diligently to be careful and cautious and avoid contact with the newest “C” word, we know that isn’t always enough. My Bartlett bunch is currently under a mask mandate, with my daughter-in-law teaching virtually and my grandchildren attending schools that have worked hard to follow every CDC guideline. My daughter has tried to stay safely at home with her little one while her husband has done a great deal of his work from that refuge. At least as much as he can. And when he can’t, there’s always a mask and hand sanitizer and social distancing. But my husband and I are a different story. Although we’ve tried to exercise all the caution, we can’t closet ourselves away from the world. Because we’re considered essential workers in a world where Death doesn’t wait. And we have seen the devastation carried by COVID.

So as a family we have decided we will not gather on Christmas Day. And we won’t drive by each other’s houses and throw packages on the porch so we can watch everyone open their gifts over a Zoom call. We will wait. We will wait until we can gather safely, enjoying the traditional meal of beef tenderloin with Fordhook lima beans, Golden Potato Casserole, homemade rolls, and Pink Fluff. With all the desserts we can manage to bake. And boiled custard. We will wait. And I’m ok with that.

You see, once we made that decision, I realized I didn’t have to hurry anymore. If the gifts weren’t all wrapped on December 24 ^th , I didn’t have to stay up all night trying to finish. If there was something in short supply before Christmas, there’s a good possibility I may be able to find it afterwards. So the Christmas trees will stay up, even if it’s ‘til June (which, honestly, comes close to happening sometimes anyway . . . ‘cause it’s a whole lot easier to get it all out than it is to pack it all back up). The gifts will stay ungiven (unless they’re perishable or have an expiration date . . .), and the house will stay decorated with explanations offered to anyone who comes in and looks startled but is too polite to ask.

I’m ok with waiting because, deep down inside, once I got passed the disappointment and the frustration, I could acknowledge what I’ve known all along. Christmas isn’t a specific day. It isn’t about what’s on someone’s wish list or what’s under the tree. It’s who you get to share it with. It’s the spirit of love and peace and joy, of goodness and kindness that the season embodies. And the date is really of little consequence when you think about it; without my little ones (both large and small) around me, it really wouldn’t be Christmas at all.

So we’ll wait until we can safely gather. And the grandkids will come running in and be as excited as they ever are on December 25 ^th . And the kids will become children again, anxious to see what treasures await as they survey the tree and dive into their stockings. And we’ll talk and laugh and eat until we’re miserable. And I’ll be able to feel all their arms around me after having waited for this eternity to pass.

I know this path isn’t for everyone, and I’m not judging anyone who choses differently or suggesting they do otherwise. But there are always options beyond the norm, if we just look outside that pesky box that so often confines us.

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Finding the Light

Wed, 16 Dec 2020 07:46:00 GMT

I just happen to have one of the most adorable (and smartest) 19 month old grandsons ever. Of course, I’ve probably mentioned that at least once . . . or twice. His name is Malcolm and at present his vocabulary is expanding on a daily basis. He’s added words such as elf, leaf, a ball, and lizard (at least his own versions thereof), but probably his most used word is his first one . . . “light”—or in Malcolmese, “ighhht”, with an emphasis on the t at the end. If there’s a light anywhere close by, he points to it and says “ighhht”. It can be on a Christmas tree, the cable tower that’s almost in our back yard, the ceiling fan . . . you name it and if it glows, he’ll find it and inform every one of its existence.

Lately, Malcolm has also become fascinated with lamps—I think because he knows they have the ability to become lights if someone will just let them. So when he walks into a room with an unlit lamp, he immediately points at it with the most distressed look on his face. But once you turn it on, the distress melts away, and you hear the familiar “ighhht”. Then he moves on to the next one, his mission accomplished for the moment.

His insistence on the presence of light was never more obvious than one evening when I was taking him downstairs to play while his mommy and daddy sat and visited with my husband. The stairway was well lit but the room below was dark, the most accessible light switch for it residing at the bottom of the stairs. About halfway down, little Malcolm stopped. He pointed into the darkness and, with the slightest hint of fear in his voice, said “ighhht.” Looking up at me, still pointing, he again insisted, “ighhht.” I explained the switch was at the foot of the stairs, but it didn’t matter. To this innocent child, the darkness needed to be banished. And that needed to happen before he continued his journey. It didn’t matter that there were toys. It didn’t matter that the room could soon be lit. There was only darkness then, and with that darkness came fear.

We all have those moments. Moments when we stare into the darkness, begging for the light but knowing our journey has not yet reached that point. For those who are grieving during this holiday season, that darkness may seem overwhelming and eternal. But there are some things you can do that may not flood your world with light, but which will at least allow you to find your way.

Given our current state of affairs, there probably aren’t many social gatherings right now, but if there are, nothing says you have to attend just because you’re invited. If you don’t feel like going, it’s perfectly all right for you to decline. If you don’t feel like decorating the whole world for Christmas, then don’t. If you think you should but you can’t bring yourself to tackle it all, choose a few special things and focus your efforts on them. And if the traditions are too burdensome, then change them. Every tradition was new at some point; perhaps this is the time to introduce something that allows you to make the holidays your own while still acknowledging the past.

Don’t be afraid to talk about the one you’re missing. Say their name, share their stories—don’t banish them from the celebration. That’s like the elephant in the room . . . just because no one talks about it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It only means everyone will uncomfortably try to avoid it until someone acknowledges its presence. By including the one you’ve lost in your celebrations—whatever form they may take—you recognize the pain that comes with their absence, and that allows you to begin moving toward the light.

One of the last, and hardest, pieces of advice is one I have personally experienced. Find a way to focus on someone other than yourself. I don’t mean for the entire season, but perhaps just for a few moments scattered throughout. Send Christmas cards to folks you know are unable to celebrate with their families or perhaps folks who have no family left. Take a plate of cookies or a pie or cake (depending on your skill level) or even a casserole or a whole meal to someone who, for whatever reason, is suffering just as you are. Write letters to the people who have encouraged you over the years. Do something . . . anything . . . that will help someone else while taking your mind off of your own grief, even if just for a moment. And through it all remember, it’s fine to cry when the tears demand their freedom, and it’s fine to laugh if the occasion presents itself.

We all have lamps scattered about our lives, but those lamps are useless if we never turn them on. Even our little Malcolm has figured out that lamps don’t light themselves. But he values the light they give when we ask them to shine. Find the lamps of your life and light them whenever you can. Although they will not always be able to shine, those moments when they do will help see us through to the other side of grief.

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A Season of Hope

Wed, 09 Dec 2020 20:23:00 GMT

‘Tis the season to be jolly . . . or so they say, although I’m pretty sure there are an abundance of unjolly people currently struggling through the holidays. For some of us—or maybe even a lot of us—that struggle is very real for a whole host of reasons, and those reasons often make it hard to be jolly or even semi-happy right now.

If I were to begin listing all the reasons the season has lost a bit of its shine this year, loss would be right up there at the top, and I’m not sure anyone would argue that point. We’ve lost a lot of our freedom to go and do as we please. We’ve lost the ability to safely celebrate many of the traditions that have been created in years past—and goodness knows, this is the season of traditions. And for so many people, someone they love has been lost, and their ability to publicly acknowledge and honor those lives as they are accustomed to doing has been set aside in the name of protecting others. It is difficult to engage in the Southern traditions that memorialize the dead when the living are so vulnerable.

But despite all these negative situations/events/circumstances, you still see the Christmas lights twinkling through the windows when you venture out. You still find the wreaths on the doors and the candles in the windows and a host of Christmas creatures scattered about the yards. And, despite the fact that funeral homes tend to be places of mourning focused on loss, you’ll find those same twinkling lights shining through our windows. You’ll find those same wreaths on our doors. Right off hand, I can’t think of any Christmas creatures scattered about, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there on the grounds of one of our buildings.

So why do we do that? Why do we celebrate the season in such a festive manner when most of the people walking through our doors probably couldn’t care less? They’re overwhelmed with the loss and the planning and the realization that life has changed forever and there will be no going back to things as they once were.

Because in the darkest times of life there must always be a glimmer of hope.

That hope comes in so many forms and is often unrecognizable when we first encounter it. It can be found in the comforting words of a friend who willingly listens to our pain. It can be found in the silent, starry night sky if we take the time to gaze quietly upon it, just as it can be found in the solitude of the woods or the rushing of the river. It lives in the hugs of our children and grandchildren, in their phone calls and Facetimes. And it lives in the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree when we sit and take in its beauty. Each of those is filled with promise. Each of those can momentarily lighten the burdens under which we labor by reminding us there are better days ahead.

You see, in every one of those moments and so many more, there abides peace, and with that peace travels hope. Hope that the darkness will not linger. Hope that tomorrow will be a little better, a little brighter. Hope. Pure and simple. Hope.

For those who are struggling this season, whether it’s from the confines of COVID or the devastation of personal loss, there is hope. It may not seem possible now, but if you listen closely you can hear it whispering softly.

This darkness will not last forever.

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The Carpenters Continued

Thu, 03 Dec 2020 01:02:00 GMT

I am a Christmas junkie. There. I said it. I revel in all things Christmas, unless there is an abundance of glitter involved in which case I dislike cleaning up the mess—and being all sparkly. And of all things Christmas, the thing I like the most is Christmas music. It’s all I listen to from the day immediately following Thanksgiving (never, never, never before) until New Year’s Day. And every year, I’m scouring the aisles at Wal-Mart looking for the latest CDs or preparing to replace the ones I’ve managed to destroy by hauling them around in my storage building on wheels (also known as my van). My Christmas musical taste is extremely varied—although I’ve managed to avoid country compilations so far—and ranges from Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Mannheim Steamroller to John Denver and the Muppets and Bing Crosby. Those last three don’t actually sing together; John Denver did an album with the Muppets and, of course, Bing Crosby never had the chance or I’m sure he would have, too. If you haven’t heard the Muppets version of The Twelve Days of Christmas , I highly recommend it.

The exceptionally nice part about my addiction is that no one values Christmas CDs very highly, so for around $5.00 each, I can pick up one or two or ten (depending upon what I find that I don’t have) and give them a good home. I will troll the music section at Wal-Mart or dig through the bin in the middle of an aisle in the Christmas decorations and usually manage to find something I don’t already have. Although I may not sound very discriminating in my tastes, I do have a few criteria that a CD must meet prior to landing in my buggy, the main one being that the Starlite Singers cannot be involved and some original artist well known for his or her version must be.

One particular evening found me digging through the cardboard bin in the midst of the Christmas section and happily finding several CDs to add to my collection when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but The Carpenters Christmas Portrait CD. I have always enjoyed the music of The Carpenters while envying Karen Carpenter’s voice. The smooth silkiness of it coupled with her wonderful range and the heartfelt emotion conveyed … but I digress, as I usually do. I picked it up, delighted with my find, and then I stopped.

My father loved music and had always loved The Carpenters. They were probably his favorite group and he would often sing along if one of their songs happened to be playing on anything anywhere. His range could equal hers so keeping up was never a problem and he always commented on the beauty of her voice. As his health declined and his mobility became non-existent, gift-giving became even more of a challenge than it had already been. What do you give someone who has been relegated to a bed, wearing nothing but the top of a pair of pajamas, unable to do anything other than stare out a window or gaze listlessly at a television? At that point he could still communicate, although what was said might be based on the fantasies of his failing mind—so what does one do? One day I decided he needed a CD player and something to go in it. He loved music … he loved The Carpenters. It seemed to be the perfect idea. He would still sing sometimes, lying in his prison of a bed. And his voice was still as wonderful as it had been although more tentative as his health declined. So, on whatever gift-giving occasion we were celebrating, we presented him with a CD player and several CDs, one of which contained The Carpenters greatest hits. Knowing how much he enjoyed them, I opened the case, inserted the CD into the player, turned it on, and pushed play. The room was instantly filled with her beautiful voice and my father’s eyes lit up … and then he started to cry. When I laid my hand on his arm and asked him what was wrong he said, “It’s so beautiful. So beautiful,” and, through his tears, he began to sing with her.

I looked at that CD for a very long time, turning the case over and over in my hands. And then I very gently laid it back in the cardboard bin, looked at it for another few seconds, then placed my hands on my shopping cart and moved away. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. Maybe someday I can buy that CD and listen to it over and over and over, as I am prone to doing with any CD. But not now. Not today. Not yet. After three years it still hurts too much. It is still too soon for some things, including The Carpenters . . .

I wrote this post on December 22, 2012. My father had been dead for almost three years and one month, having taken his leave on November 23, 2009. Today it’s been a week or so beyond eleven years—and I still haven’t purchased any Carpenters CDs. I haven’t downloaded any of their music to my Amazon Music account or set up a Pandora station that would be Carpenterish. Because even now . . . eleven years and nine or ten days later . . . it’s still too soon . . .

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Not All Heroes Wear Capes

Tue, 24 Nov 2020 20:18:00 GMT

Since the normal blog-posting night is Wednesday . . . so it’s sitting there waiting for your arrival on Thursday . . . and since this Thursday is Thanksgiving . . . as usual, the blog goes up a day early. Just in case you’re wondering why things are suddenly different (or maybe not, since constant change seems to be the norm these days).

Despite the fact that life has been . . . how shall we say . . . different? this year, in review I’m finding a great deal for which I’m thankful. I don’t believe it’s because there are suddenly so many more things deserving of my gratitude; I’m just more aware of how thankful I really should be.

For example, shortages of the basic necessities of life (such as toilet paper . . . and bacon . . .) will make you appreciate them even more when they’re actually available. Having rampant cases of a mysterious virus surging everywhere should bring, in its wake, gratitude when it doesn’t afflict those closest to you. I’m grateful the majority of our employees have managed to avoid the current plague and those who haven’t only had mild cases. I’m extremely grateful that, although my mother-in-law and my grandson both had COVID, their symptoms were not disabling and both recovered without hospitalization. The rest of our family has survived relatively unscathed thus far. And I’m especially thankful for that.

I’m grateful for the teachers that I know are struggling right now, trying to do their best for the children who are depending on them, while also trying to keep them safe and well. I’m thankful for those who work in our profession—especially those who work with us—and their desire to find a way to continue serving the families who are suffering, even though that service may look quite different from days gone by—or even from last year. I could list dozens of occupations whose members have risen above the fray during these chaotic times and to whom we owe a debt of gratitude, but there is one group that I especially admire—one group for whom I am truly grateful—and that’s the medical professionals and the support staff that work with them.

I cannot imagine the stress and the frustration and the fear they have to face each and every day. Their facilities are overwhelmed, with several closing their doors to patients needing the care they offer, because there are no beds available. Many of them are facing shortages of the equipment they need to protect themselves and to minister to their patients—not to mention shortages of personnel—but they still get up and they still go and they still do the very best they can, only now they are being called upon to do so much more. They serve as counselors for their patients, trying to allay their fears and ease their mental and emotional pain as well as their physical. They are communication specialists, arranging for what is often a virtual visit between the patient and their family when it appears that time is growing short. And they are surrogate family members, sitting with the dying, holding their hands as they slip away, knowing they can never take the place of their loved ones. But knowing they have to at least try. Forced to watch helplessly as those in their care deteriorate, they know they are doing everything they can . . . and it still isn’t enough.

Fortunately, for every story of loss there are dozens with happier endings. But that doesn’t make it all right. It doesn’t ease the mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion they are battling. It doesn’t take away the fear—or the resignation—that they will be next. No matter how many precautions they may take, far too many of their number have fallen victim to a villain they cannot see. Far too many of them have paid the ultimate price for their dedication to their profession and to the people depending upon them to literally save their lives. And each time one of their number falls, it serves as a stark reminder of what their own future may hold. But they don’t stay home, closeted away from the world. They can’t. Their professionalism . . . their devotion . . . their selflessness . . . will not allow it.

Gratitude should always translate into action, even if that action is just a heartfelt “thank you”. But we have the opportunity to do far more for those who are risking their lives for us. We can protect them while protecting ourselves. We can acknowledge their sacrifices and take steps to try and ensure greater ones are not required of them.

You’ve heard it said not all heroes wear capes and that’s never been truer than right now. Today’s heroes come in all shapes and sizes and can be found in every walk of life, doing good at their own peril, helping make the world a better, safer place. And whether we realize it or not, a good many of them are dressed in scrubs and wearing masks . . . not to hide their identities, but so they can continue trying to save the world. I, for one, will be forever grateful for their efforts.

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When Things Are More Than Things

Wed, 18 Nov 2020 20:00:00 GMT

Alex Goldschmidt had managed to build a good life for his wife and children. Owning and operating a clothing store in pre-World War II Germany allowed them to have many of the finer things life had to offer, including a beautiful home that easily accommodated the family of six. But they were Jews, and the Germans had fallen prey to the leadership of the Nazis. Little by little, the Goldschmidts were forced to sell the sculptures, paintings, and other objects of art that graced their home—and eventually, in November of 1932, they were informed their house would also have to be sold. Being Jews, they were no longer allowed to own something so fine. Parting with it for far less than its true value, they moved from place to place, each one smaller than the last.

Six years after the Goldschmidts were forced to leave their home, thousands of Jewish owned shops and synagogues were destroyed throughout Nazi Germany, and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested in what would become known as Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass. Alex was among those taken into custody. A year later, he and his son Helmut managed to board the S.S. St. Louis, a ship bound for Cuba, hoping to find a safe haven for the remainder of his family. But Cuba turned the ship away, as did the United States and Canada. With no other recourse, they returned to Europe. Alex and Helmut would eventually die at Auschwitz. Alex’s wife Toni and his daughter Eva were killed in a forest outside of Riga, Latvia. Their other daughter managed to escape to England and their son Gunther made his way to America. Gunther had survived simply because he was a musician, playing in a company that was allowed to tour the country. Their existence was a form of Nazi propaganda, a means of showing the world the Jews were not being persecuted. It was during this time that Gunther met his future bride Rosemarie who was a violinist with the same group. The company was forced to disband in 1941, but Gunther and Rosemarie had already fled the country, escaping to safety just in time.

Upon arrival in the United States, they changed their last name to Goldsmith with Gunther Ludwig becoming George Gunther. He and Rosemarie raised their two sons in St. Louis . . . and rarely ever spoke of their days in Germany or their Jewish heritage.

Fast forward to the fall of 2020. The sole surviving descendent of Alex and Toni Goldschmidt, their grandson Martin Goldsmith, is anxiously waiting for a package—a package being sent to him by Marcus Kenzler, a researcher with the State Museum for Art and Cultural History in Oldenburg, Germany. His task? To determine the original ownership of objects stolen by the Nazis during the war, and return them to the families from whom they were taken. The museum’s catalogue of items indicated this particular one had been sold in November of 1934, for a fraction of its value as was customary in sales forced by the Nazis. Kenzler had traced this item to the Goldschmidt family . . . and then to Martin Goldsmith.

When the package arrived, Martin carefully removed the wrappings and opened the box. Inside he found a 16 ^th century kettle made of brass, bronze, and iron with two spouts; it would have been used primarily for the ceremonial washing of hands. But to Martin Goldsmith, it was so much more. This was the only tangible item left from the life his grandparents built. They had touched this very kettle, used it until the day they were forced to part with it. And now, after almost 86 years, it was in his hands. He was holding something his grandparents had held. Something precious to them was now his. And as he sat, carefully examining this ancient treasure, he wept.

There are times in this life when material objects embody far more than meets the eye . . . when they become a tangible connection to the past and its inhabitants. Through the generations, many of us have been blessedly overwhelmed with the things that occupied the daily lives of our parents . . . our grandparents . . . our great-grandparents and beyond. But when all of that is lost, whether by acts of Nature or acts of man, the return of even a single item will bring great joy—and sorrow. Joy because it has made its way back to those who will treasure it most. Sorrow because of all that may have led to its loss.

There are times when the things of this world are far more than just things.

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Thank You

Wed, 11 Nov 2020 20:59:00 GMT

Every year around this time, I try to write something that acknowledges our veterans and the sacrifices they have made in service to our country. And honestly, after a few years, I’ve begun to feel like I’m just saying the same things over and over. So I sat, laptop in lap, pondering this post, and as I pondered, it occurred to me why I was having such a difficult time finding the right words.

I don’t have a clue. And it’s hard to write about something you can’t really comprehend.

I don’t have a clue how hard it was for soldiers to leave their families, knowing it could be months . . . or years . . . before they would see them again. If they ever did. I don’t have a clue how hard it was to embrace the unknown, the only certainty being the uncertainty of it all. They had no idea where they would be stationed or what they would be doing. They had no idea if they would see combat and, if so, would they live to tell their children and their grandchildren? And given the horrors of war, would they even want to?

I don’t have a clue how hard it was for their families to watch them leave. Even in times of peace, there are no guarantees of a safe return. Even in times of peace, there are no guarantees that war is not lurking in the not so distant future. How hard it must have been . . . and must still be . . . to see your sons and daughters and spouses and siblings prepare to offer the ultimate sacrifice, knowing there is nothing you can do to protect them. That all you can do is wait.

When I look at the pictures that document the bravery and the courage of our veterans, and I try to imagine what those moments must have been like, I can’t. I just can’t. Granted, for some like my dad, military service proved safe and, as my mother always told us, some of the happiest years of their lives. But he was one of the lucky ones. Drafted during the Korean War, he was assigned stateside because he could type. And they needed a typist. There were so many others who were not equally blessed.

I try to imagine preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy on D-Day . . . and I realize how overwhelming the fear must have been. I try to imagine being in the jungles of Vietnam, at the mercy of an enemy you could not even see . . . and I realize how utterly helpless they must have felt. Time and again, our soldiers have offered themselves in sacrifice for something far greater, and time and again they have paid the price for their dedication. Those who survived the World Wars, the Korean War and many of the other conflicts in which we’ve fought, were welcomed home with honor and pride—unless that conflict was the Vietnam War. For some reason their service was deemed less than honorable and many in our country let them know that in no uncertain terms. I can’t imagine how devastating that must have been.

During World War II many of the nation’s youth volunteered for service, but the vast majority were compelled to serve, drafted into the military and literally sent around the world. According to research published by the World War II Museum in New Orleans, 38.8% of all U.S. servicemen and women volunteered for duty from 1942 through the end of the war in 1945. But 61.2%—or 11,535,000 young men—were drafted. Probably very few of those looked forward to the challenges and dangers their service would hold, but they still answered the call. And sadly, many of them never had the opportunity to wear the name “Veteran” because their service demanded the ultimate price.

Fortunately not every veteran has seen the violence of war, but those men and women still deserve our gratitude. Every man or woman who has served, whether as a draftee or a volunteer, has accepted that duty knowing the full consequences of their actions. And yet they still served. They still believed in country above self.

So today I’m going to say thank you. And I’ll do the same tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. As long as mankind exists, there will be a need for the sacrificial service of those in uniform—and as long as they willingly serve, there should be gratitude from the rest of us.

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Be In The Picture

Wed, 04 Nov 2020 19:38:00 GMT

I let my daughter take my picture the other night. It was Halloween and our little Malcolm was making the traditional visit to the grandparents so we could oooh and aaah over his costume (he was Max, King of the Wild Things from the book “Where the Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak) and gift him with useless tidbits that hopefully won’t promote tooth decay or turn into a million small pieces to be scattered about the house. I didn’t check my hair (it needed a good brushing . . . or taming . . .). I didn’t change my shirt (I was wearing flannel which always adds a few pounds in pictures . . . at least I can tell myself that). I didn’t stand up straight (I don’t know why not. That’s something I could easily have done . . . I just never think about it). My teeth weren’t shiny white because . . . well . . . coffee. All the coffee. And I didn’t hold my head up so my neck looked all wrinkly (which it probably should, given the length of time I’ve been around).

But I let my daughter take my picture the other night. Knowing it could very well end up on Facebook for the world to see (it did). Normally I would have hidden from the camera or at least made her sign a sworn statement promising not to show it to anyone else. Just hold it for my memorial video when I won’t be forced to look at myself. But I didn’t do that, either.

Whenever our family gathers, I’m usually the one behind the camera. There are two reasons for this. Number 1: I own the camera. Number 2: If I’m behind the camera I can’t be in front of it. Oh, there are plenty of pictures of everyone else in the family—that’s a nice fringe benefit of retaining photographic control. But because of that philosophy, very few pictures of me exist from the closing days of Miss Clara Hitt’s studio on Main Street until now (other than vintage school pictures, and we all know how those usually turned out).

I have recently realized this has to change.

Why? Because someday I won’t be here anymore. And my children will be left with memories (and an abundance of useless stuff) and that’s about it . . . and memories fade. The day will come when they’ll be looking for pictures of me but there won’t be any to find (other than the ones they thought they were sneaking . . .) because I selfishly hid from the one thing that could give those memories a boost.

The holiday season, strange as it may be, is upon us. There will be family gatherings (please be cautious) and celebrations (again, the caution thing) and someone running around trying to record it all for posterity. Be in those pictures. It won’t matter if you didn’t have a chance to brush your hair. It won’t matter if your clothes make you look fat or the position you’re in makes you look all wrinkly. Be in those pictures. You may hate it now and you may cringe when you see them later, but your children will thank you. Probably not today . . . probably not tomorrow . . . because they won’t understand the importance. But someday, when you’re no longer here, they’ll be glad you did.

I let my daughter take my picture the other night. And it really didn’t hurt. Much.

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The Haunting of Cora Thomas

Wed, 28 Oct 2020 20:25:00 GMT

In 2019 Halloween actually fell on a Thursday, the day on which these blogs normally post. Our family had just returned from a trip to Hot Springs and, given the “occurrences” of our last night there, this seemed like the perfect subject for the season. But the weekend before, our area was hit with violent storms resulting in the loss of a life and tremendous property damage, so instead the devastation became the focus. Ah, but now, as we await the coming of All Hallows Eve, the moment has finally arrived when I may tell the tale. Ladies and gentlemen, I present for your consideration . . . “The Haunting of Cora Thomas”.

It was a magnificent old house, an ancient Victorian that, despite having been renovated for the purpose of renting to travelers in need of a resting place, still whispered of its former life. The ceilings rose to 12 foot heights. The front stairway was beautiful with its hand-carved newel post and balustrades, turning and climbing a full 22 steps to the second floor; there was even a back set of stairs the servants would have used decades earlier to move from the kitchen to the second floor . . . and beyond to places forbidden to the traveler. With baseboards a full twelve inches high and massive trim work throughout the house, it spoke of a time long since past when such elegance was the standard of the day.

My son had been concerned about the quality of the mattresses upon which we would be sleeping; he had a less than desirable experience with the mattress quality of a previous rental and had suggested contacting the host regarding this issue. I, on the other hand, had only one question.

Is it haunted?

Given the age of the house and what I presumed to be its history, it seemed to be a logical assumption. As it turned out, it was a question we should have asked . . .

The first night was somewhat uneventful. Everyone chose their bedroom (there were two on the first floor and four on the second) with the oldest kids occupying one of the largest rooms; said room contained a double bed and two twin beds, each positioned in opposing corners. I admit, I was uneasy that first night. I would find myself glancing toward the foot of the bed, fully expecting to find some sort of apparition watching me. It did not help that this particular room was on the front of the house, with a door that once led to a second story porch but which now led to nowhere—and was secured in such a manner that it could not be opened. No specters appeared but, just as I was drifting off to sleep, there was a loud bang that echoed from the parlor below. It was followed by the usual sounds of an old house as the night cools down and the exterior boards begin to contract. At least that’s what I told myself.

Having survived the first night, I found it easier to sleep the second and on the third night I was so tired I’m not sure I even moved. But the fourth night . . . on the fourth night I was restless, constantly waking up each time the small air conditioner in the window would come on, trying to cool this room at the top of the stairs that seemed to have collected all the warmth from the gas heaters below. And my granddaughter Cora was beginning to show signs of illness. So there was whimpering and footsteps as she would go downstairs to her parents’ room, not once . . . not twice . . . not three times, but four. Every hour, on the hour.

The next morning my son asked if she had disturbed me, for each time she went downstairs she passed the room where I was sleeping. Yes, she woke me up, but it wasn’t a problem. Then he told me on her first trip she claimed her brothers kept pulling her covers off. She made the same statement on her second trip to their room. They managed to convince her Wilson and Anderson were not the culprits, so she trudged back up the stairs and climbed back into her bed. On her third trip down she told them “those people” were still pulling back her covers. And when they questioned who “those people” might be, she said “those teenagers”.

On her last trip down the stairs she told her parents she was afraid she was going to fall out of her bed. And when they asked her why, she said . . .

“because it won’t quit shaking . . .”

As Joseph recounted the story, his eyes grew slightly larger with each trip down the stairs. As he finished, he touched his temples with his finger tips and proposed that, perhaps, these were the feverish dreams of a child who, unbeknownst to us at the time, was coming down with strep throat and the flu. She did have a fever which could have made her hot and caused her to kick off her covers. She could have been shivering in her sickness, making her think the bed was shaking. She could have been . . .

Her mother had a different theory. It was a ghost who had enjoyed our company and was sad to see us leave. That was his or her way of bidding us farewell.

But I, with my Hitchcockian imagination spawned in the bowels of the theological nether regions, posited that perhaps it was indeed a ghost . . . a spirit that had never wanted us there to begin with. Knowing that revenge is a dish best served cold, he chose to bide his time . . . lulling us into a sense of complacency and security . . . And then, when we believed ourselves to be safe, he chose to terrorize the weakest among us who could still tell the tale of what had happened. My son assured me if that was the case, the ghost had chosen poorly. Had Cora known that one was responsible, she would have stood up in her bed and told him to stop.

So, there you have it my friends, a series of perfectly explainable events. Were they the product of an ailing child’s fever-driven dreams? Was it a friendly spirit bidding us farewell? Or was it truly a ghoul whose method and timing were meant to create the maximum amount of terror in the souls of innocent travelers? If you truly want my opinion . . .

It’s a good thing that was our last night.

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Hard Conversations Ahead

Wed, 21 Oct 2020 20:22:00 GMT

Today’s history lesson: How did Tennessee become known as “The Volunteer State”? And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with football.

Although there are folks who claim it harks back to the War of 1812, based on the important role volunteer soldiers played during that conflict, especially in the Battle of New Orleans, the most widely accepted version stems from President James K. Polk’s nationwide call for 2,600 volunteers to fight in the Mexican-American War (from 1846 to 1848). Tennessee sent 30,000 . . . many of whom lost their lives in the process.

Now, why would I choose today to remind you of something we all should have learned in American History? Because I looked at the coronavirus map on Bing Tuesday night. And I just shook my head.

Remember my assurances last week that I wasn’t writing about COVID-19 or wearing masks or social distancing? Well, that’s exactly where I’m headed now, and I hope you’ll bear with me and at least consider what I’m about to say. I know it’s getting old and I know we’re getting tired, but from my vantage point I’m afraid the battle has just begun for some of us.

When I first started checking the aforementioned map, Tennessee was settled in right about number 17. Over the weeks I’ve watched us gradually move upward . . . number 16 . . . number 11 . . . number 10 . . . number 9 . . . And then last night I clicked on the link to the map, clicked on the down arrow next to the numbers for the United States, and then slowly counted from the top down, my cursor hovering over the name of each state on the list, lest I lose my place and think us better or worse off than we actually are.

On Tuesday evening, Tennessee had moved up to number eight on that list. Number eight. Number. Eight. That puts us right up there with the COVID hotbeds of the country, those states that are struggling with containment. California. Texas. Florida. New York. Illinois. Georgia. North Carolina. Today Arizona managed to pass us and reclaim their previous spot, bumping us down to number nine again, but only by 343 positive cases, meaning we stand a good chance of passing them tomorrow and continuing our climb.

And now we’re approaching that time of year when the perfect storm begins to brew. It’s colder, so we stay inside more. There are holidays approaching, so we gather more. We’ve been at this so long we’re getting lax in our vigilance. Oh, and let’s not forget the flu . . .

For all of us there should be some hard conversations in the very near future. Remember the gentleman from last week? His dinner party included a total of six people, counting himself and his significant other. When the dust settled—and it hasn’t fully settled yet—14 people had been infected and two had died. All because of a quiet dinner party for six. So, this Thanksgiving, does everyone gather around the table for turkey and dressing? This Christmas, does all the family travel from around the country to celebrate as one? The risk isn’t so great when it’s your own household, but when you start adding extended family to the mix, you quickly lose control. And now the increasing numbers we’re seeing are often coming from just such gatherings, mainly because we feel a false sense of security with family, so the precautions that are normally taken aren’t. Do we choose to abstain in order to protect our most vulnerable loved ones . . . knowing this could be the last year we’ll be allowed to celebrate with them?

This isn’t to say we can’t gather and celebrate, or just go and do, whether it’s holiday parties or weddings or church services or funerals or a trip to the store. It is to say we must do it wisely and cautiously, giving serious consideration to the well-being of everyone with whom we come in contact.

We can stop this. We have the power to reverse our course and spare hundreds or even thousands of innocent victims the suffering and possible death this virus carries. But that means sacrifice on all our parts. It means the volunteer spirit that lived within our ancestors must be resurrected in this moment. Those volunteers rose to the challenge; the call went out and they answered without hesitation, putting the needs of others above their own. That’s the spirit that embodies the history of our great state— and that’s the spirit we should adopt today. If that means wearing a mask, then wear one. If that means staying six to nine feet away from people, then mentally measure that distance and do it. If that means a season of no hugging and handshakes then so be it. We can do this, but we have to work together. I personally take no pride in being eighth or ninth in the nation for the number of positive cases of what can be a deadly disease. So, I’m gonna do my part. And I’m gonna encourage my family to do theirs. And I’m gonna encourage you to do yours. After all, the lives we save may be our own. Better yet, it may be someone we love.

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The Guilt Just Sits

Wed, 14 Oct 2020 19:42:00 GMT

He was tired of being confined . . . cooped up in a house with only one other person . . . nowhere they could go . . . nothing they could do. So he thought he’d host a small dinner party. Things seemed to be getting better. Stores were reopening. No one he knew had been sick and they were all feeling fine. And so he did. It was just his parents and the parents of his significant other. They ate together and visited. No one wore a mask. No one practiced social distancing—and the next morning he woke up feeling sick. Before it was all over, 14 members of their families had tested positive, including the parents of a newborn, several had to be hospitalized for treatment due to the severity of their illness, and two died.

This post isn’t about COVID-19 or wearing a mask or practicing social distancing. It’s about what this man said when he realized the consequences of his actions. After almost dying himself, and still having family members who may not survive, he said, “The grief comes and goes, but that guilt just sits.”

That guilt just sits. It is his companion as he goes about his day. It lies with him at night. It has become a part of every aspect of his life. Granted, no one who was invited had to come. They all made the choice to attend and how to behave while they were there. But if he just hadn’t issued the invitations . . .

Would they have managed to escape unscathed? If he had encouraged caution and taken the virus seriously, would they have followed his example? The sad truth is he will never have the answers to those questions—or all the others that keep him awake at night.

There are so many people in this world who find themselves in the same situation. Some choice they’ve made or some action they’ve taken has resulted in pain and suffering for someone else. That’s hard to watch and impossible to accept, especially when Death is the final consequence. And it doesn’t have to be compliments of a pandemic. Did you expose your family to second-hand smoke, even after you realized how dangerous it could be? Were you driving while intoxicated and someone else paid the price? Were you speeding around a curve in the middle of the road when you met another car? Did you take your eyes off of your child for just a moment . . . only a moment . . . when a moment was all it took?

Those examples are extreme to say the least, and not nearly as innocent as a casual dinner with family. But those situations, along with so many others, have proven deadly time and again . . . and have brought in their wake unending grief and all-consuming guilt for the person directly responsible.

So how do you deal with such devastating circumstances? How do you work through the grief and banish the guilt? The answer is you can’t. Not until you find a way to forgive yourself. And that, my friends, is harder than watching the consequences of your actions as they unfold or accepting that you are responsible for someone else’s loss. It’s why we should always consider how our choices . . . our actions . . . will affect those around us, whether they are family or friends or random strangers. Because, as this one tormented soul so clearly stated, the grief comes and goes, but that guilt just sits.

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The Ultimate Expression

Wed, 07 Oct 2020 20:23:00 GMT

If you would please, stop reading for just a moment and look at your hands. If you didn’t know you, what could you tell by looking at them? Are they wrinkle-free with unblemished skin and fingers that actually work? Maybe they’re spotted with age, gnarled from years of suffering with arthritis or some other ailment. Are there calluses brought about by manual labor? Are they soft to the touch or coarse from decades of use? Would they speak of your struggles or proclaim the relative ease of your life?

After much thought and consideration, I’ve decided the most intimate part of our body is our hands. Think about it. In pre-pandemic days, when you met someone for the first time, what did you do? You shook hands. In the first few moments of your relationship, whatever that relationship might become, you intentionally placed skin against skin. As you prepared to part, did you do the same? One last handshake to seal a budding friendship or business deal . . . or simply as a farewell?

When someone is in anguish, whether it be mental, physical, or emotional—or all of the above—we reach for them with our hands. We pull them close and hold them there, trying to ease their pain and reassure them. We reach for our children when they are young, holding their hand as a way to protect them from the world. We reach for that special someone, gently touching them, caressing their skin or taking their hand in ours as a way of expressing our love and devotion.

For good or ill, our hands speak volumes. They connect us to the world around us, and especially to those who are dear to us. Maybe that’s why, when we sit beside the bed of someone we love as they are making their way from this world to the next, we reach for their hand. And we sit and we hold that hand and we wait, physically connecting one last time to someone whose life is ending. Perhaps that’s why you’ll often see pictures of two hands—one so gently holding the other—taken as someone quietly slips away. It is a tribute to a life well lived . . . a life that has deeply touched another.

Pause for a moment and look at your hands. Then close your eyes and picture those of your parents . . . your grandparents . . . your spouse . . . your children. Those hands and the service they have rendered, the joy they have given, are the ultimate expressions of love—and when joined with our own in the moment of death, they become the ultimate expression of grief.

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But I Need To . . .

Wed, 30 Sep 2020 20:19:00 GMT

I think we can all agree there’s a lot going on these days (and no, I’m not gonna start listing . . . it’s just way too depressing). However, in spite of my list aversion, I do think we should address one rather important issue that’s been an issue for several months now, yet still seems to need a bit of clarification, and that’s the definition of the word “quarantine”.

And why, you may ask, do I want to traipse down this road again? Haven’t we been beaten over the head with COVID and masks and social distancing and all the things enough already? On this point I will completely agree. We’ve had so many different sources of information over so many months that we should all be well-schooled in the ways of COVID—at least as they are today. Tomorrow we may wake up in a whole new world, as one of our office secretaries used to say when she couldn’t remember how to do something she’d done for years. But, as I mentioned in paragraph one, it’s not necessarily this pesky virus I want to discuss. It’s one of its consequences—the need to, when required, closet ourselves away from the rest of the world, i.e., engage in a period of quarantining.

I hate it when writers start a discussion by stating, “The word (fill in the blank) is defined as . . .” or “Webster defines (fill in the blank) as . . .” No offense to those who prefer this method of conveying information, but it doesn’t make me want to read much further. That’s why I waited until now to say, “The word quarantine is defined as ‘a state, period, or place of isolation in which people or animals that have arrived from elsewhere or been exposed to infectious or contagious disease are placed.’”

We understand why some folks who have tested positive for COVID-19 (or who have been instructed to quarantine due to contact with someone who has tested positive) might not want to exactly follow the rules, especially where Death is concerned. Honestly, it only comes once in every lifetime. It’s not like you can say “I’ll attend their next funeral”. And we understand it’s especially difficult when it’s one of your immediate family members . . . your spouse or child or sibling. You’re supposed to be able to be there. You’re supposed to be able to help make the arrangements and greet those who come to support you and attend the service. And being in the South, our traditions are important to us and we want to honor those traditions as fully as possible. If you don’t have symptoms or it just feels like a little cold, why shouldn’t you be able to do everything I just mentioned . . . and more?

Because you never know. You never know who else will be there. You never know with whom you’ll come in contact and how vulnerable they might be to something that affects you very little, if at all. What feels like a minor case of the sniffles to you can be a literal death sentence to someone else. How terrible would you feel if that was someone’s elderly father who had already survived World War II and three bouts with cancer . . . or their eight-year old grandson who, if actually attending school, could then expose his entire class, including the little girl who sits next to him and has type 1 diabetes . . . or an older brother who has already suffered two heart attacks? And if you’ve been instructed to quarantine, please understand, that doesn’t mean it’s all right to leave home as long as you wear a mask and stay six feet away from the rest of the world and empty the hand sanitizer bottle between your house and the funeral home. It doesn’t mean it’s all right to attend a graveside service because it’s outside or sit at the back of the chapel or church sanctuary. It means you stay home. Period. You don’t come to the arrangement conference. You don’t attend the visitation. You don’t attend the service. You. Stay. Home.

Believe me, we know how hard that is to contemplate. We understand the need to be there and the desperation that can come from being left out of something you can never experience again. But we also know . . . we deeply hope . . . that our communities are selfless enough to place the well-being of others above their own needs.

There are ways to address this issue that don’t involve putting others at risk. Arrangement conferences can be conducted by way of Zoom or Facetime. Many funeral homes have the capability to live stream services and will gladly do so if asked by the family. We are all more than willing to wait until your quarantine ends and you can safely take part in the planning and final goodbyes—and honestly, I’m being a bit selfish when I suggest these things. You see, if you come to us when you shouldn’t, you also put our employees at risk, and just like every other segment of the population, we have several with health issues that may make it harder for them to battle this virus and win.

So please, if you find yourself in this position, talk to us. Let us know what’s going on and we’ll work together to find the best possible solution that protects everyone involved. I promise, it doesn’t have to be either/or. You can really follow the rules and still honor the life of someone you’ve lost. And what better way to honor them than to protect the people who loved them most?

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No One Ever Told Me . . .

Wed, 23 Sep 2020 16:50:00 GMT

It always started in the pit of her stomach . . . that feeling like you really need or want to retch but you have no idea why. And then it flowed into her chest with a crushing force that took her breath away. Within seconds her heart was pounding, her cheeks felt as though they were on fire, and her head as though it would explode. All she wanted to do was hide—or seek the oblivion of sleep—until it was over . . . but all she could do was pace or clean or whatever she could manage to work off the nervous energy that alternated with the need to just sit and be consumed.

It happened at the most random times. She didn’t have to be thinking of him; she could be watching TV or working or gathering with friends. It could be the middle of the morning . . . or the middle of the night. Nothing seemed to serve as a trigger . . . nothing and everything. No matter how much she wanted to—no matter how hard she tried—to make it stop, these overwhelming physical responses to something continued to torment her. It was almost as though her life had turned into one long horror movie, the kind where there are scenes that promise you peace and safety before snatching it away and plunging you into the darkest place imaginable.

Desperate for something to fill her mind and soothe her soul when these moments came, she turned to Pinterest. A strange place, you may think, but she wanted something—some quote or picture or poem—that she could commit to memory and stick on the refrigerator door . . . and the bathroom mirror . . . and the door that led to the outside world. It would become her mantra, something she could turn to when the feelings became overwhelming. She searched for quotes on peace . . . and comfort . . . and strength . . . and then grief. It wasn’t the remedy she found there, but the explanation.

Following the tragic death of his beloved wife, C. S. Lewis observed “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.” It was this quote . . . written in white letters surrounded by black . . . that was a perfect summation of the state in which she found herself. No one had ever told her. No one had ever explained how much the two were related. No one had ever likened grief to endlessly waiting for something that will never be . . . but has already been.

Knowledge is a powerful thing but it is not the cure for all that ails us—and it was not the cure for her. But it did give her the weapon she needed to combat those moments. It gave her understanding, and with the understanding came strength and patience. This would not last forever—and then, again, perhaps it would. But the moments would grow farther apart and the panic would be less all-consuming. There might always be moments of grief, disguised as fear, but at least now she would see them for what they truly were. The end result of love.

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The Second Time Around

Wed, 16 Sep 2020 17:07:00 GMT

I know you don’t want to hear this (well . . . maybe some of you do . . .), but as of this writing, it’s exactly 100 days until Christmas. That means it’s also 71 days until Thanksgiving. Under normal circumstances (and since when have we had normal?) I’d glare at anyone who even remotely hinted at the length of time—or lack thereof—before the arrival of these two holidays. It’s not that I mind either of them. At my house, Thanksgiving isn’t quite as involved as Christmas. But Christmas? It fairly explodes. By the time I’m finished, it’s Christmas in every nook and cranny—and we have a lot of nooks and crannies.

So, if I’m that opposed to counting down the days, why would I mention this now?

Because I want you to be prepared.

“Prepared for what?” you may ask. Not the normal family gatherings, although being prepared for them is usually a good idea. I’m not talking about all the shopping or baking or decorating. I’m talking about the second year of family-oriented holidays when you’re missing someone from your family circle.

Most of those who are mourning the loss of someone dear to them absolutely dread the coming of Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s supposed to be a season of family and friends, and when there’s an empty chair at the table and an empty place in your heart, things simply are not the same, and they aren’t supposed to be. The pain seems to grow greater as the days get closer and many folks would just rather go into hibernation than face their grief. But then it’s December 26 ^th , and you realize you survived. A new year rolls in and you begin to breathe a bit easier. The anxiety fades, the knot in your stomach and the tightness in your chest relaxes ever so slightly, and you feel like you’ve cleared a major hurdle in the grieving process.

And you have. No one can diminish that, nor should they try. But what a good many don’t understand is, oftentimes, the second year is worse than the first.

“But,” you ask. “How can that be? I’m farther away from my loss. I’ve had more time to process my feelings and rearrange my world.” All of those statements are true. But consider this—you knew the first holiday season would be hard. You anticipated the pain and the chaos that could overwhelm you mentally and emotionally and you tried, as best you could, to prepare. That second year sneaks up on you because you believe it will be easier for all the reasons I just mentioned. So you don’t really get ready to jump the holiday hurdles. You don’t steel yourself for the sight of that empty chair, or finding their stocking in the bottom of the storage box, or seeing something while you’re browsing on-line and realizing how much they would enjoy it. All the moments you prepared to face in year one will resurface in year two. And because you didn’t anticipate the pain, they can hurt even more. It doesn’t help that those around you are thinking the same thing you did. This is the second time around. You’re farther away from your loss and you’ve had more time to process your feelings and rearrange your world. They don’t understand what’s happening and why it didn’t work out that way.

So . . . a heads up. Although it doesn’t happen to everyone, I’ve heard it too many times from too many folks. Just because you cleared that hurdle once doesn’t mean it isn’t going to pop up again in the future. But now you know. So hopefully, now you can be ready . . . instead of surprised.

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Hide and Seek

Wed, 09 Sep 2020 07:11:00 GMT

Years ago, but not too many, when three of my now four grandchildren still resided in Hardin County, we had a Sunday evening ritual. We’d all meet for supper at the local Mexican restaurant where the kids would have cheese quesadillas (with a side of chicken for Anderson) while I’d consume whatever the waiter thought I wanted that evening. We’d been there so much they basically knew what I wanted even if I didn’t. Then I’d load the kids up in my van and take them home. On the way, Hall of the Mountain King (composed by Edvard Grieg in 1875) and Moonshadow (as performed by Cat Stevens) were required listening. Unusual musical selections given the fact that the oldest two were like eight and six . . . or less. Once we arrived at our destination on Hard Rock Road, it was time for several rousing games of Hide and Seek.

My favorite hiding place was in the closet under the stairs. For some reason they never thought to open that door—and I’d always wait until they were looking in another part of the house before I stepped out so they could “find” me. All in all, those were wonderful times, brought to a temporary end by their move to Memphis in 2017.

But now, whenever they come to our house or the magical cabin, one of them—usually Anderson—will look at me and ask “Mona,” (‘cause my first name is Lisa so . . . Mona Lisa . . .) “can we play Hide and Seek?” And if I can possibly muster up the energy (which seems to be a scarce commodity these days), we will. I generally try to arrange it so I’m “It”, which means I don’t have to crawl under any beds or hide in any small, enclosed, poorly ventilated spaces. On one trip not long ago we were all at the cabin and, of course, Anderson asked about Hide and Seek and I said yes . . . if I got to be “It”. And so it began.

At this point I should probably mention that the cabin has two floors, an upper level with a den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and a lower level that consists of one large room with a bath, a smaller room and a decently sized storage closet—plus access to a garage that you can’t park anything in because, if you do, you can’t back out without ending up in the pond/lake. I know. You’d just have to see it. We had put two double beds in the large room that the stairs flowed into from above, and that was where the boys slept whenever they stayed the night.

As I mentioned two paragraphs ago, in this particular game, I had managed to claim the “It” position and everyone else had managed to hide somewhere inside the house. Hiding outside the house is strictly forbidden since I have no desire to play a game requiring search dogs and helicopters. I had managed to find Cora first (which is usually the case . . . that doesn’t mean she’s bad at hiding, just predictable), and then Wilson. But all my looking for Anderson was in vain. The child was nowhere to be found. I checked under all the beds, in all the closets, in every available nook and every conceivable cranny . . . and nothing. No Anderson. Anywhere. At least not anywhere I’d looked.

As I stood on the stairs, suspended between the first and second floors, pondering whether or not the child had found a cloak of invisibility, I remembered something I had seen—but not really seen—while searching downstairs. The pillows from one of the double beds were in the floor, shoved underneath said bed but not quite out of sight. But there were still pillows on the bed. At least there appeared to be pillows on the bed. That little mongoose had hurriedly thrown the pillows as far under the bed as he could and then used himself as a pillow substitute, complete with the quilt tucked underneath him like it is when you make the bed. It just hadn’t registered my first time through because I was looking for Anderson. Not out-of-place pillows. It was only when I took that clue and added it to the appearance of pillows on the bed that I knew where to find the little stinker.

I gave Anderson the title of Master of Hiding after that night. He had shown great creativity and ingenuity in his choice of hiding places . . . a hiding in plain sight kinda moment. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, there are others who could also qualify for inclusion into that lofty society, one group in particular being those who are grieving.

There are some folks who wear their emotions on their sleeve, so to speak. You will always know what’s going on in their lives because they don’t try to hide their sorrows or their joys or the chaos either can create. But there are many who are not so transparent, and there are a variety of reasons for that when Death is the culprit. Maybe they don’t want people to worry about them or to be a burden to anyone. Perhaps they are extremely private individuals and the thought of someone seeing their deepest emotions is, quite frankly, terrifying. And maybe, just maybe, they’ve been told often enough to get on with their lives that they’ve decided something must be wrong with them . . . or they understand the problem is with the other person and silence is simply their best offense.

Whatever their reason or reasons may be, there will still be those tell-tell signs that something is amiss . . . the pillows under the bed, if you will. There will be those moments when they grow quiet and their eyes look vacantly into the distance. There will be those moments when they lash out over something that is small and insignificant . . . to you. When they quietly cry or burst into tears with no apparent cause. Whatever their “tell” may be, if you are their friend, you will recognize it. And, if you are their friend, you will gently ask a question that can give them permission to open up about their grief. They may choose not to and that’s all right. It doesn’t mean you should never ask again. It doesn’t mean they won’t talk about it later. It does mean they know someone noticed and that someone cared enough to ask . . . and that can be the difference in overcoming instead of being overwhelmed.

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Pathways to Peace

Wed, 02 Sep 2020 08:26:00 GMT

I have always enjoyed being alliterate—as in using words that begin with the same letter and are placed closely together—like “rubber baby buggy bumpers” for instance (as opposed to being illiterate, which some folks may occasionally think I am, depending on the subject matter, like, say . . . technology).

But I digress . . . as I usually do, although this time it might actually be relevant. Lately I’ve been thinking a great deal about Life and the grieving process and how often we find ourselves mourning the loss of something, whether it’s our job or being able to gather in large groups, or even just our daily ruts. The loss doesn’t always have to be a person to generate grief. And it occurred to me, ‘midst all my pondering, that there are four Ps which are essential to navigating the grieving process. If we can focus on those there’s a good chance we’ll not only survive the transition but maybe even thrive in its aftermath.

The first P in my alliterate list is patience . When you’re trying to deal with loss . . . any kind of loss . . . there has to be patience. Patience with the people around us who may seem to lose their patience with us because we aren’t adhering to their timetable. Patience with the situation as a whole—whatever that situation might be—which will allow us to focus on something other than denial or anger. And patience with ourselves as we struggle to find our new footing.

But patience isn’t of much use if there isn’t also perseverance . In order to reach a goal there must actually be movement in that direction. And that’s hard work. That’s why patience and perseverance have to walk hand in hand. One doesn’t get to straggle along behind the other . . . well, maybe every once in a while. Life doesn’t allow us to be constantly in sync, but if we continue to press on we just might find that our patience begets perseverance (to use one of those good Old Testament words) and our continued perseverance will increase our patience. Isn’t it amazing how that works?

So, if we’re patient, and we persevere, what will be our reward? Progress . Will we continually move forward, or upward, or whatever our definition of progress might be? Goodness no. That’s like the impossible dream. No one is blessed with an obstacle-free path through Life, and it seems the harder the path, the larger and more frequent are the obstacles—which is what makes the path so much more difficult. That’s why we have to be patient. It’s why we have to persevere and not give up. Oh, there are times you can give up just a little; you can take a break and breathe deeply and gather your wits. But never give up completely. That’s the fastest, surest way into despair. And that’s not a P word so it isn’t allowed on our list.

Now, suppose we’ve been patient and we’ve persevered, and we’ve made progress . . . is there an ultimate reward? An ultimate goal for which we’ve been striving all along? Yes. Yes, there is. It’s called peace .

In today’s world, peace is probably one of the most precious—and elusive—of all treasures, especially in times of grief. The anxiety can be overwhelming. The all-consuming sadness can literally make it difficult to even breathe. But somewhere along that road of loss, there can be peace—not peace in the world that surrounds us, but peace within ourselves. After all, that’s the only place we can really control and the only place that really matters. It may not be a constant peace. There may be moments when it seems just out of reach or so far beyond our grasp as to be unattainable. But when we are patient and we persevere and we strive to make progress in our journey through loss and grief, we will eventually find peace.

Patience. Perseverance. Progress. Peace. The four Ps of navigating loss and the grief that follows. Each of the first three, standing alone, is a powerful tool—but without all three working in harmony, you’ll never reach the ultimate goal. Peace with the past. Peace with your new future. Peace with what cannot be changed.

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Five More Minutes

Wed, 26 Aug 2020 07:15:00 GMT

“I just want five more minutes to sit and talk with you again, to look into your eyes and hear the sound of your voice. It would be the most beautiful five minutes of my life.”

A Saturday or two ago, that was the chosen quote for our Facebook page. In case you haven’t noticed, unless there’s some major moment that demands attention, Saturdays are devoted to quotes that acknowledge Grief with all her difficulties. When I first read it, I was struck by how appropriate it seemed. After all, how many people would give almost anything for just five more minutes with someone they’ve loved and lost to Death?

But then I started thinking, something I am prone to doing far too much of, according to at least one of my children. And my first thought was . . . would I really want five more minutes? Just five more minutes?

My mother once told me how hard it was when I would come home from college. Just about the time she’d get used to me being gone, I’d show back up. And just about the time she’d get used to having me home, I’d disappear again. Surely a one-time return from the dead, no matter how brief, would be even more heart-wrenching. Would I find when it was over, that it really wasn’t what I wanted at all — that it only made it harder to accept they were gone? When my five minutes ended, would I feel as though they had died all over again?

And what would we talk about? If it was my grandfather on my dad’s side, I’m pretty sure I’d start off by asking where the first funeral home in Savannah was. I’ve kicked myself I don’t know how many times for not asking when I had the chance. And then my second question would probably be did my great-grandparents buy the beautiful white frame Victorian on the corner of Church and Main to be their personal residence—a plan that changed with my great-grandfather’s untimely demise—or was turning it into the brick-clad funeral home the plan all along? Beyond that, I’d probably apologize for never having read Lorna Doone and tell him I was the lucky recipient of Charlie Weaver’s Letters from Mama .

But I have a feeling that’s not the kind of five minutes the author had in mind, although it could be, if that was what you wanted or needed. I have a feeling those five minutes are meant to be spent with your spouse . . . or your child . . . or one of your parents . . . or maybe even a dearly loved sibling. If that was the case, how would you spend five short minutes? Would you cling to that person, hoping you could somehow manage to keep them with you forever? Would you sit and hold their hand and stare into their eyes while telling them how hard it has been without them? Or would you just beg them to talk to you so you could hear the sweet sound of their voice with no distractions . . . no answering text messages or phone calls or checking your email or Facebook or Twitter? Knowing your time together was limited, would there be anything on earth more important than that one person?

Five minutes. It seems so very short. Until it’s all you can have. And then, as a friend of mine is so fond of reminding me, anything is better than nothing when nothing is all you have.

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Wanting To Remember

Wed, 19 Aug 2020 23:50:00 GMT

Please be advised, the following story is both beautiful and heart-breaking. If you have recently suffered the loss of your spouse or significant other, it may be difficult for you to read . . .

His death had not come suddenly, so there was time to prepare—as best one can for losing your soulmate. They’d tried all the treatments and consulted a multitude of professionals, but without success. When they realized the inevitable was inevitable, he told her they should stop. They should enjoy what time they had left, without doctors’ offices and hospitals. And so they did. But now that time was drawing to a close.

When he was still up and about she had watched him. She wanted to remember every little quirk, every habit and mannerism he had. She wanted to see the twinkle in his eyes and memorize every line and freckle. There were moments she would caress his face with her hand and stare into his eyes. He thought she was just being sweet. But she was storing away the feel of his freshly shaved skin, the strong curve of his jaw, the depth of the eyes looking back at her.

On that particular night, she knew. She didn’t know how she knew—she just did. The hospice nurse had come and offered to stay, but she said no. They’d never had any children. It had always been just the two of them. And on this night, she wanted it to be as it had always been.

He was resting comfortably. As comfortably as one can when preparing to leave one world for another. The pain medication had done its job and his restlessness had settled into a peaceful stillness. As she sat beside the hospital bed that now occupied their spare room, she gently stroked his hand . . . thinking . . . wishing . . . hoping for a miracle and one more day. Knowing that probably would not be the case.

As the night wore on she grew tired of feeling so far away from him, so she gently slipped into the bed, nestling beside him, moving his arm so it encircled her, the way they always slept. A twin bed would have suited them fine (but she had insisted on at least a queen), and one pillow was all they ever needed. They had rarely spent a night apart, and that wasn’t just referring to being in different beds in different locations.

All through the night she talked to him, because she believed as every sense failed him, he would still be able to hear her until the very last moment. She talked about their first date and their first kiss. She talked to him about their wedding and how his “friends” hid their car (with his dad’s help) so when they came running out of the church they had no place to go. She talked about the trips they’d made, their first and only house and how they’d agonized over the decision before finally taking the leap of faith. On and on, throughout the night, she recounted their happiest memories. And every few minutes she told him how much she loved him, how much she would miss him . . . but that she would be okay. It would be hard, but it was all right for him to go.

She listened to the slow and steady sound of his breathing. Placing her hand on his chest she felt his heart as it beat beneath her fingers. She wanted to remember. She had to remember. How it felt to lie beside him, how their nights had always been. She wanted to be able to close her eyes and feel him with her . . . beside her . . . wrapping his arm around her as they drifted off to sleep.

She spent the night there, watching his face, listening as his breathing slowed, the span of time between each breath growing longer. Each time she waited anxiously, praying for just one more breath, just one more minute. But as the dawn crept into the darkness, his chest rose and fell once more. And she waited. And waited. And then she cried, still nestled beside him. Still wanting to remember. Still so afraid she would forget.

Several years had passed since she shared the details of that night with me. I saw her not long ago and we took some time to visit. When the opportunity presented itself I asked if she could still remember. I didn’t specify what because I knew she would understand. She smiled and slowly nodded. There were some days it was harder and she would have to focus more. But she could still see his face when she closed her eyes, every line and every freckle. She could still feel his freshly shaved skin and the firm curve of his jaw. She could still see his soul as she looked into his eyes, and she could still remember the sound of his breathing as he slept . . . the beating of his heart beneath her hand . . . the peace that was hers when they were together. And then, before I could ask if I might tell her story, she asked me if I would . . . because she knew there are so many others who, just like her, want so desperately to remember. There are those who need to know they aren’t alone, even though it may feel like it when night falls and the world grows quiet.

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But . . . I Have This Paper . . .

Wed, 12 Aug 2020 08:34:00 GMT

Ok, people. Listen up. Today we’re going to have a class on death-related documents. Notice: If your family is sane and functional and everyone gets along then you probably can spend the next few minutes doing something besides reading this. However, if there is even the remotest possibility that at some point in the future you may be unwillingly and/or unknowingly dragged into someone else’ s pre- and post-death drama—or you just want to know something a lot of other people don’t—you may want to continue. Notice again: The following information is Tennessee specific.

There are a few documents that everyone should have if there is any question whatsoever as to who gets to be in charge of what when . . . and sometimes even if there’s no question at all. Those documents are a Durable Power of Attorney, a Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare, and a Living Will. Please note, all three of these documents serve very different purposes and one will never substitute for another. Unfortunately, most of the general public has very little understanding as to what they’ll need in order to legally care for someone else’s financial matters and after death wishes. Visiting an attorney is helpful, but if the client doesn’t fully and adequately express their desired results, the attorney may focus on helping them with Life matters. Death matters may be overlooked unless you’re drafting a will. And even a will won’t get you very far in making funeral arrangements. The administrator of your estate is number 9 on a list of 12 concerning who has the right to “dispose of your remains” . . . meaning there can be a whole slew of people ahead of them.

Let’s take a look at these documents and see just exactly why they’re so important—and we’ll start with the Durable Power of Attorney. For sake of citation, the law regarding this important document can be found in the Tennessee Code Annotated 34-6-101 and following. Basically, this Power of Attorney (POA for short) allows someone else to conduct business on your behalf. They can buy and sell your property. They can write checks on your bank accounts and enter into business dealings on your behalf. They can prearrange and pre-pay for your funeral. Kindly note the “pre” part of that power.

There is a whole list of actions your POA can take or perform on your behalf—23 are listed in the code and within each of those 23 are several associated actions. But there are also several things they can’t do, most of which could harm the person for whom they are acting, usually in a financial sense . . . and even though a POA possesses great powers, those powers must always be used for good . . . as in the best interests of the person who granted them.

Now, if you have life insurance, pay very close attention to this paragraph. According to Tennessee law, your POA cannot change the beneficiaries on your life insurance. And that’s a good thing, right? Maybe. But if your beneficiary has died and you never named a new one and now you’re no longer mentally competent, guess what? Somebody’s gonna have a convoluted mess on their hands when you die. We’ll have a class on that at a later date. But in the meantime, you might wanna check the beneficiaries on your life insurance and/or retirement accounts.

Now, guess what else? Once that person dies this document is worthless . The POA under a Durable Power of Attorney loses all powers the moment Death claims the person for whom they are acting. So guess what? Again? Just because you’re the POA in life doesn’t mean you get to make their funeral arrangements in death. That’s where the Power of Attorney for Healthcare comes in . . .

The POA for Healthcare, which is covered in Tennessee Code Annotated 34-6-201 and following, literally grants someone the power of life and death over an individual because it allows them to legally act as their healthcare agent—in other words, the person responsible for making their healthcare decisions. This is why a Living Will is so important. That document allows you to express your wishes regarding the artificial prolonging of life, as well as stating whether or not you would like to be an organ donor. If you haven’t completed a Living Will then your POA for Healthcare has full say over what medical treatments you do and do not receive. It’s a powerful position to occupy, which is why the document is required to include a dire warning addressed to the person for whom it is drawn.

But this is also a magical document. Unlike the Durable Power of Attorney, which dies when you do, the Power of Attorney for Healthcare has three limited areas where it is still in effect after death occurs. The POA for Healthcare can authorize an autopsy, agree to organ donation— and arrange for the disposition of the person’s body . In other words, they can make your funeral arrangements, but unless you’ve provided some means of funding, your POA for Healthcare will have no way to cover the bill. Remember? If they also served as your Durable Power of Attorney, their access to your money died when you did. Unless, of course, they’re a joint owner of your checking account. And that’s a whole ‘nother discussion.

Now, why would I bore you with all this legalese? Because lately we’ve had a multitude of people present us with paperwork they believe allows them to function in areas they cannot. And we get to be the ones to tell them . . . after it’s too late to do anything about it. It doesn’t matter if you’re the administrator of the estate if there’s a spouse that hasn’t been seen in 20 years. In Tennessee, that spouse still exists and is still the legal next of kin. It doesn’t matter if you’re the person who’ll be footing the funeral bill. The only one who gets to consider that is a judge if the matter lands in court because the majority of the next of kin can’t agree.

Fortunately, most families will never need these documents—with the possible exception of a Living Will—but if, as implied in the first paragraph, your family is dysfunctional or, sadly, doesn’t even exist because you’ve outlived everyone, then you’re going to need all three . . . and someone you trust who will accept the responsibilities they carry.

Class dismissed. For now.

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Of Roots and Trees

Wed, 05 Aug 2020 09:14:00 GMT

Catty-cornered behind the funeral home in Savannah, across one back yard and into the front of another, there stands an oak tree. A Post Oak, to be exact. It is a massively beautiful tree, gnarled and scarred from years of living and sheltering and withstanding all that has afflicted it. You can see where over time it has yielded briefly to the storms, attempting to pacify Mother Nature with the offer of a branch when she might have been demanding so much more. And now from those ancient scars new life is sprouting, the smallest of stems reaching toward the sun. The roots supporting it make it difficult to actually reach the trunk, so great is their size—and given the expanse of the canopy, I can only begin to imagine the breadth and depth of the roots I cannot see that nourish this giant.

Over the years I had noted all of the above, but until this week I’d never given much thought as to the history of this magnificent specimen. It was a tree. It had been there for as long as I could remember . . . which in the overall scheme of things isn’t very long. But on Monday someone brought this ancient tree to my attention, and asked how old I thought it might be.

It’s an excellent question, and I only knew one way to definitively answer it. Cut the tree and count the rings—which is a terrible idea if it’s only meant to satisfy one’s curiosity. So we measured the circumference of the trunk and armed with that information I asked Google to expound upon calculating the age of a tree . . . without destroying it in the process.

It seems there is a way, after all, to estimate a tree’s age without exposing the growth rings. For those who might be interested, I shall outline the process. For those who are not, you can just skip the next paragraph and continue on.

To estimate a tree’s age, you take the circumference in inches (the distance around the trunk at about four and a half feet up) and divide it by pi (as in 3.14). This gives you the diameter (or the distance through the center) of the tree. Then you look up the growth factor for the particular species (which can be located on any number of websites on forestry—and which also means you have to actually know what kind of tree you have), then multiply the diameter by the growth factor to get the age of the tree in years. The circumference of the tree in question was over thirteen feet (think about that for just a minute . . .), so to be conservative I used an even thirteen, which is 156 inches. Divide that by 3.14 and you get a never-ending number which I rounded to 49.6815. Per the worldwide interweb, the growth factor for a Post Oak is 5. So, 5 times 49.6815 = 248.4075.

This tree is approximately 248 years old. To put that in perspective, when the North and the South were battling it out at Shiloh in 1862, this tree was already 90 years old. It started life as a single acorn . . . four years before our nation declared her independence in 1776.

It has endured storms and strife. It has survived the bitter cold of winter and the blistering heat of our southern summers. I’m sure in its earlier days children swung from its branches . . . and families still depend on it to provide shade and shelter for the house that now stands beneath its boughs. Through it all, this tree has stood, silently making the world a better place while asking nothing in return . . . except to be left alone so it might continue.

So what does any of that have to do with Death? Absolutely nothing, unless you understand that Loss and Grief are two of the most difficult adversaries we will ever be called upon to face, and as difficult as it will be, we can survive both. But there must be a willingness to bend when the storm becomes too great. We should be willing to entertain moments of happiness when we can and to give of ourselves when we encounter someone whose path is more difficult than our own. And we should always remember that even the coldest winter will give way to the awakening that comes with spring. Through it all, the depth of our roots will be the single greatest factor in how well we survive in this world. Maybe not in the quantity of our years, but most definitely in the quality.

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A Stricter Standard

Wed, 29 Jul 2020 18:31:00 GMT

He slowly walked into our office, his worn cap nervously twisting in his hands—hands that were equally worn from long years of hard work. He was hesitant, and when he finally spoke, I understood why. Our secretary had approached the counter and asked if she could help him and, after a moment of silence, he looked up from his cap and spoke.

“Do you have . . . ?” and he mentioned a particular young man by name.

All morning we had fielded variations of that question. “Do you have my friend? Do you have my student? Do you have my employee?” If anyone was unaccounted for or unreachable in that time before cell phones, we were being called . . . because the night before three young men had died in a tragic accident, and we had been instructed by the powers that be not to release any names until all their families were notified. That had proven to be a challenge since the work day had already begun when they were discovered. It wasn’t as simple as going to the addresses on their drivers’ licenses.

But something stopped her from giving him the automated response. Looking at the grief etched across his face and filling his eyes, she asked “Who are you, sir?” to which he replied “I’m his daddy . . .”

She answered his question. And the answer was yes.

He looked down at the floor for that eternity that hangs in the air when you don’t know what else to say. Or do. Then he thanked her, turned, and left, his hat still twisting in his gnarled fingers.

I don’t know what he did after he got in his truck and drove away. He may have cried. He may have screamed. He may have done both. Or he may have driven silently for miles and miles, trying to process the loss of his son, pulling himself back together so he could face the rest of his family.

If his story sounds familiar, it’s because I’ve told it before, but this time I wanted to look at his pain through a different lens. When a child dies, whether before birth or at the age of 40 or anywhere in between, there are generally, but not always, two parents left to grieve the loss—a father and a mother. Unfortunately, based on centuries of tradition, we tend to hold the father to a much stricter standard than we do the mother. Fathers are supposed to be the pillar of strength, the physical, mental, and emotional support system that serves as an anchor for the rest of the family. Stoic in the face of grief, they should be strong enough to hide their own pain while trying to carry the heartache of those around them. While we understand and accept the grief of a mother for her child—to the point that we consider it unnatural if that grief is not on display for the world to see—we seem to expect the exact opposite of the father.

But the bond between a father and his son, or a father and his daughter, is as unique and special as the bond between a mother and her child. Sometimes even more so. And when we don’t allow them to grieve . . . when we don’t encourage them to express their sorrow and give voice to their loss, whether through words or tears or both . . . we make adjusting to that loss an impossible task. You cannot work through something that you are not allowed to acknowledge. You cannot learn to live without someone if you are never allowed to publicly grieve. So when you have the opportunity to speak with a man who’s lost the heir to his legacy, ask him how he is. Ask him how he’s adjusting to this new life he never wanted. Encourage him to acknowledge how much he truly did lose. And then listen. Really, really listen. Give him permission to grieve.

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Soooooo . . .

Wed, 22 Jul 2020 07:08:00 GMT

Soooooo . . . I have a question. Actually, maybe two or three or ten . . . or more . . . Side note, if my cousin was present and I started a sentence that way, she’d jump in with “a button on it!” Just in case you’re ever around her and start a sentence that way. Now you know what to expect. But I digress. As I so often do . . .

Soooooo . . . I have a question, and it’s a tough one, so get ready.

Would you want to know the exact moment you were going to die?

Not necessarily how the event would occur, just when. Down to the second. I can see all kinds of pros and cons to such knowledge. For example—would I react positively by ceasing to procrastinate and starting to prepare in all the usual ways . . . or would it paralyze me with fear so I wasn’t able to enjoy—or at least make the most of—the time I had left? Knowing the exact moment I was scheduled to leave the planet would probably be the ultimate double-edged sword—the blessing and the curse so often referred to by that great fictional TV detective, Adrian Monk.

Which brings me to another question . . . if you did know, what would you do? Let’s say you have a year . . . 365 days from today and then poof! You’re gone. What would you do? Would you say, “I’m going to keep working for the next so many months and then I’m gonna quit and enjoy what’s left?” I’m bettin’ that’s a big ol’ nope. Would you begin telling the people around you all the things you should have said (the nice things) over the years but just always assumed they knew? Are there folks you’d find and give an earful because they’ve been such terrible human beings (in your considered opinion) but no one ever had the nerve to tell them? If it was me, I’d certainly sit down with an attorney and make sure all my stuff was in order. I’d probably bid farewell to the home, although I’m pretty sure there are people who are desperately hoping I’d clean off my desk first and share all the secrets of my job with someone else. I would definitely start making sure my family knew how much I loved them . . . and I’d have to start writing letters to my kids and grandkids so they’d have my wonderful words of wisdom for all eternity. In writing. So they can never forget. There are probably other folks I’d put on the mailing list as well, not for words of wisdom but for words of gratitude. It’s always nice to let people know they’ve actually made a difference somewhere along the way.

But what if you just had a month? Does the length of time change your plans? Would there be a sense of panic because the to-do list was so long and the time so short? Would it motivate you to hurry up and try all the things you’d always wanted to but never had the nerve . . . like sky-diving for instance? Another side note, even my upcoming demise would not get me to jump out of a plane unless it’s sitting on the ground.

All of which brings about yet another question . . . what if the person with the expiration date isn’t you but someone you love? How does that change your plans? Would you try to spend as much time with them as you could? Would there be deep conversations about life and hopes and dreams and the coming end to it all? Or would you try your best to distract them from their future—or lack thereof—and encourage them to fully enjoy what time they had left? What would you say to them? What would you do for them? And the really hard one . . . would their pending departure make you so uncomfortable you would choose to walk away instead of walking the path with them?

Fortunately . . . maybe . . . for most of us our date of departure is a great mystery. We can live in blissful ignorance with the belief there will always be another day—until there isn’t. Of course, we can’t all quit our jobs and go skydiving . . . and it’s probably best if we don’t start sharing our real feelings with everyone we’ve ever disliked. But those other things . . . the nice things . . . the helpful things. We can do those now. We can make certain our financial affairs are in order. We can have the documents in place that will make our passing easier—or at least not any harder—on those we leave behind. And we can realize that the special people in our lives are deserving of our time and our attention. They deserve to know how much they mean to us and what a difference they’ve made.

There is so much to be done and so much good we can accomplish . . . if we’ll just quit betting on tomorrow.

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Perry

Wed, 15 Jul 2020 09:03:00 GMT

He was my neighbor up the hill, a spot he had carefully chosen and purchased in 2018. It was .36 acres, neatly settled size-wise between a quarter and a half. And it was his . . . and only his. No one financed it. No one bought it for him. He saved until he could afford it because he was an independent soul who didn’t want to owe anyone for anything.

That’s why his first residence there was a pup tent. He had moved from out-of-state with all his worldly belongings in his van . . . and his beloved Indian motorcycle trailered behind it. Little by little—as he could—he began building what would be his home for the next few years. He designed the one room cabin, planned its construction, and did it himself, with a bit of help from a neighbor down the road and the occasional consultation with a carpenter who’d drop by for a visit. He might not actually take his advice, but he at least would ask . . . sometimes.

We often talked about his family, especially his ancestors. Family was important to him, whether still living or long since dead, and he wanted to learn as much as he could about his history. At one point he gave me an assignment (one I gladly accepted)—to locate a few family burial sites. He’d been researching for a while but had never been successful. I didn’t fare much better, but we texted back and forth for several days, me relaying what I’d found and him adding to the story I was slowly weaving. I did figure out one of his ancestors was buried on their home place in the Counce area. The only problem was that no one knew where the “home place” was.

One day he sent me a picture of the back end of a fully loaded truck, telling me “Well Lisa this didn’t get dumped on your property . . . they turned right around and left.” He was always looking after the land . . . his road . . . my little spot . . . and he didn’t tolerate people who weren’t respectful of others or of what God created. They didn’t necessarily have to be nice to him, but they better not mess with anyone else.

That cabin I mentioned? He eventually managed to set up a kitchen in its confines, complete with a microwave and a hot plate, so he could cook instead of having to forage for food. There were provisions for bathing and other bathroomly functions on the lot, but the original cabin construction hadn’t included an actual bathroom; the money simply hadn’t been available at the time—and he wasn’t about to let anyone help him with the cost. That was going to change though; he’d bought most of the necessary materials and made most of the necessary arrangements so he could add a shower and toilet to the interior of his home. It was something he had worked toward . . . something most of us cannot imagine doing without . . . but for him it was a goal. And he was willing to wait for that goal to become a reality. He had a plan. And he knew the value of patiently following it.

He’d never really had a bed the whole time he was living there—just a twin mattress on the floor. It wasn’t that it was uncomfortable (even though it kinda was) but getting up off of it was just plain hard. That had changed maybe two weeks ago when he bought an actual full-sized bed—one he could just roll out of in the mornings. He was so pleased with his purchase; it was one more step forward . . . one more goal achieved. The walls of his home had been insulated with foam board, but never sealed, and he’d finally been able to start that process. But the work was getting harder because he was getting weaker, his health declining due to a faulty heart and a failing liver. Still he pushed; still he worked as much as he could. There were things he wanted to finish before he had to surrender his independence and move away from his little paradise and closer to his brother.

His work came to a close on July 9 ^th , just one day shy of his 63 ^rd birthday. Not having a shower yet, he would visit the bath house at Pickwick each morning. That was where one of the park visitors found him. That was where the ambulance came that was summoned by the ranger who responded, but it was too late. True to his nature, he’d never told his brother how sick he was or that his time on earth was drawing to an end. He didn’t want to be fussed over like a mother hen fusses over her chicks. He didn’t want anyone’s life disrupted because of him. When his brother came to make his arrangements, I was the one who met with him. I asked if I could tell you about this remarkable human being . . . and without hesitation, he said yes.

In a day and a time when many people are focused on the material things of this world, Perry Guyton was a walking lesson on how to live. He was a good man . . . a character, most definitely . . . but a man who thought far more of everyone else than he ever did of himself. If you needed something he had, it was yours whether he could really spare it or not. If there was anything he could ever do to help you, it was done, even if you never asked. Just seeing the need was enough for Perry. And you shouldn’t anticipate ever being able to return the favor. He never expected or wanted anything back; the opportunity to make a difference was his reward.

I’m sure there are a lot of people just like him in this world . . . people who make it their mission to take care of those around them, who work hard as long as they can, and who have learned to be content with what Life affords them. I’m equally certain the world could use more of them. I would never say he was a simple man—far from it—but his needs were simple and his wants were few. Perry managed to bless the lives of a lot of folks in his almost 63 years on this planet—and I was lucky enough to be one of them.

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Grief By Degrees

Wed, 08 Jul 2020 18:43:00 GMT

I tend to live under a rock, a rock that the world generally insists upon turning over so I’m forced into the sunlight. Or as is usually the case in our neck of the woods, into the rain. Meaning I don’t always know what’s going on around me as far as news is concerned. It’s a nice place to be, even if I only get to visit occasionally.

That’s probably why I didn’t have a clue who Nick Cordero was—not until Robin Meade via HLN introduced us one morning as I was making my traditional oatmeal. For those whose knowledge is equivalent to mine, he’s a Broadway performer who contracted COVID-19 and then suffered possibly every setback known to the medical profession. It began with pneumonia, morphed into septic shock, brought about several mini-strokes and blood clots . . . and the amputation of one leg . . . and eventually required the use of a pacemaker and a ventilator. Throughout it all—all 90 plus days he spent in ICU—his wife Amanda Kloots kept the world apprised of his condition . . . and begged for prayers of healing and comfort with a faith that was amazing. There were improvements followed by setbacks followed by improvements followed by more setbacks, until the final one took his life on July 5 ^th . He was 41 years old.

I had never met him . . . never seen him perform . . . didn’t even know he existed until three months ago. But his wife chose to share their battle with the world, providing updates and encouragement and inviting everyone to walk with them on their journey. I did to some extent—and because of her openness to all, I find myself saddened by the death of someone I don’t even know.

His death was closely followed by that of Charlie Daniels, country/rock legend and headliner at the first concert I saw when I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee at Martin. It was either January or February of ’75. My then boyfriend now husband and I drove to the fieldhouse and enjoyed an evening of his music. Then we came outside and pushed the car out of the parking lot, compliments of the six inches of snow that had fallen while we were inside. And it took us over an hour just to be able to move it. I didn’t know Charlie Daniels personally but I’d enjoyed his music for years (a particular favorite being “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”—the unedited version), and when someone dies who helped make good memories in your youth, it’s hard not to be affected by their departure even when you’re decades older.

Cue death number three—J. W. Holt from our own little town of Savannah. Again, I didn’t know Mr. Holt personally, but every morning on my way to work and every evening on my way home, I drove by his house. And any time I passed by and he was out, he waved. And I waved back. Mr. Holt was retired Army, spending 23 years in service to his country—service that included combat duty in Korea and Vietnam. Having been promoted to the rank of Master Sergeant, he was entrusted with training the new recruits—a task in which he took great pride. His service continued when he returned to Savannah; he worked with the Savannah Police Department for six years, followed by employment with the Hardin County Sheriff’s Department for another 19. This man retired three times, but only the last one stuck. He was a fixture of our community . . . a servant to all . . . and a man who will be greatly missed, even by those of us who never knew him personally. I know I will when, every morning and every evening, I pass his house with the knowledge he is no longer there.

The three deaths I’ve just recounted represent what I like to call “long-distance loss”. I knew of them. My interactions with them ranged from limited to nonexistent. But each one had an impact on my life—which meant their death did as well.

My last “death of the week” was far more personal. As a child of a funeral service family with a father who was extremely active in all the professional associations, I attended probably more than my fair share of state and national conventions (yes, even funeral directors have conventions . . .), and met more than my fair share of directors and sales people from across the state. I grew up with good people like Paul and Ruby Alexander, Marvin and Teedie Rogers, Wayne and Margaret Solomon, Jim and Sonya Andrews, Ellis and Chris Galyon, and so many others. And then there was Bubba and Kay Woodfin from Murfreesboro. As a child I couldn’t figure out why anyone would name their son “Bubba” and, although I eventually figured out it was a nickname, I’m not sure I actually knew he was John Benton until I read his obituary. Scattered throughout my childhood convention memories are his infectious grin with his twinkling eyes—and honestly, I always thought he was kinda handsome. He even came to our rescue one year when the state convention was held in Gatlinburg in whatever that round hotel is (or was?) that’s perched on the side of a mountain. We ended up with a flat tire on Dad’s Barracuda (I’m not sure how we got the four of us and all the luggage in it, but we did) and in the summer heat Bubba was out there helping Dad change the tire. And now one more connection to my childhood . . . and my parents . . . is gone.

Four different people. Four different lives. Four different relationships. And four different types of grief at their departures. In case you’ve never thought about it I’ll tell you now—grief comes in degrees, and the lack of a deeply personal connection to someone is no guarantee their death isn’t going to hurt. Maybe not as much. Maybe not as long. But it still does.

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And the Rains Came . . .

Wed, 01 Jul 2020 17:15:00 GMT

It had been a terrible night, filled with blowing rain and howling winds and skies illuminated by fingers of lightning that stretched from the heavens to the earth below . . . and thunder. ALL the thunder, continuously rumbling like a freight train parked outside the bedroom window. At one point I was trying to count the seconds between the lightning flash and the clap that followed, until I realized it had never grown quiet since the flash before. That was when I remembered survivors of tornadoes describing the horrible roar, like the aforementioned freight train bearing down on them . . . and I began to wonder if it sounded just like this. But there had been no storm sirens . . . no dogs howling in the yard as they tend to do when the sirens wail. And no warning that the world was on the verge of ending.

But eventually the darkness gave way to overcast skies with glimpses of sunlight. And the storm calmed. And Wednesday morning I was listening to the birds singing as I got ready for work. It was then my cell phone rang. I can’t remember the exact words my brother used after I said hello, but it had something to do with an “unmitigated disaster” at the funeral home in Selmer. And from those fateful words, the story began to unfold.

The torrential rains of the night before had created the perfect storm (literally), generating conditions that led to a flash flood and the eventual devastation of downtown Selmer. Between 20 inches and two feet of water had entered the lower level of the building, flooding the arrangement and selection rooms, the lounge and preparation room, some offices, and the garage. The newest hearse was parked in that garage . . . in two feet of water. The second hearse was parked in the back lot . . . in two feet of water. The vault storage building at the edge of the asphalt was flooded. The metal caskets in the selection room were floating. The wood caskets sank.

I drove over to document the devastation for posterity—and Facebook. You’ll see more pictures tomorrow night—with explanations, so please don’t get ahead of me. And while I was standing on the next to the last step of the stairs that lead from the foyer to the lower level (on that particular step because the first one was still under water) a tiny little fish swam over, skirted the wood tread, and scurried back out into the murky depths. There’s no tellin’ what they’ll find when the water finally does recede.

Funeral homes are just like every other building in the world. They can burn. They can flood. They can be destroyed by tornadoes and hurricanes. And every bit of that has happened to funeral facilities all across the state and the nation at one time or another. Sometimes, the destruction is so great the directors can no longer serve the families who might call on them. And sometimes, like now, the damage is a terrible inconvenience, but it’s an inconvenience that’s manageable.

Fortunately, within a 30 minute drive, the Selmer staff has access to three preparation rooms and several hearses that can be shared. Fortunately, our primary casket supplier has electronic methods through which caskets can be chosen by families, and a warehouse close by that serves our firms plus much of west Tennessee, north Alabama, and north Mississippi. And fortunately, there are good people who are ready and willing to help with the clean-up . . . and patient families who understand the circumstances. So, although it will not be as easily done, the employees in Selmer will be able to continue serving the families of that community.

And now, we wait. We wait for the rain to stop. We wait for the water to recede. We wait for the clean-up professionals to do their thing and the nice repair people to do theirs. In the meantime, in spite of Mother Nature’s best efforts, we’re still here. The good people of McNairy County have supported us throughout the years and that support . . . and those friendships . . . are what make times like these bearable—and us even more determined to be there for them.

But we had such high hopes for July . . .

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What Are You the Most Scaredest Of?

Wed, 24 Jun 2020 23:52:00 GMT

It promised to be a busy weekend—something I usually despise. I am fond of my ruts and the scheduled events and required preparations were most definitely going to drag me out of them. Between Thursday night and Sunday evening, there were two batches of homemade ice cream to freeze (one strawberry and one chocolate), a birthday cake to make, two houses to halfway clean (‘cause I did have to actually work sometime), a joint birthday party to host at the magical cabin, an egg hunt to hold (meaning a plethora of eggs to hide . . . ‘cause the normal egg hunt had to be postponed compliments of a pesky pandemic), and Father’s Day to celebrate. But I was the culprit who suggested every bit of it, and I really was looking forward to seeing everyone.

According to my calculations, by Saturday night I was three-fourths of the way through my rutless weekend—and tired. So while everyone visited inside, I settled into the swing on the back porch, coffee cup in hand, and stared quietly at the pond/lake. I say pond/lake because it seems too big to be a pond but perhaps too small to be a lake. Wilson, the eleven year old that’s going on eighty, soon joined me as did his five year old sister, Cora. Anderson (who turned nine in October) went inside to get a lighter and returned to light the citronella candles—not in a futile attempt to banish the mosquitoes but because he enjoys fire. One of those candles was brand new, purchased just for the occasion; it was a three wicker, in a metal pail with a handle. Anderson picked up that particular candle, walked over to the swing, and settled in on the opposite side from his siblings, carefully placing the candle in his lap. And we all sat and listened to the owls and the crickets and the splashing of the fish in the pond/lake, until Anderson broke the stillness of the evening.

Anderson: Let’s tell scary stories.

Me: No.

Anderson: Why not?

Me: I don’t like them.

Anderson: But why not? It’s just “The Hook”.

Me: NO! (At this moment every scary story I’d ever heard replayed in my brain, pausing on the one that ends with “Humans can lick, too . . .” I HATE that story.)

Anderson: But why not? It’s not scary. (Then why did you say it was?)

Me: Yes it is . . . and I don’t like scary stories.

Anderson: Why not?

Me: Because I don’t like being scared.

Anderson: Why not? (Can you tell he’s nine?)

Me: I just don’t like the way it feels. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be happy. And peaceful.

Anderson sat for a few minutes, staring at the tiny flames of the candle in his lap, their glow lighting his face as he pondered my statement. Then he looked up at me and asked, “Mona, what are you the most scaredest of?”

I almost said the dark, because it’s my stock answer and the absolute truth. I have hated the dark since I was a child, probably compliments of my mother who used to threaten my brother and me with it if we didn’t settle down and go to sleep. We shared a room in our younger years, because my parents built a two bedroom house, having been told they would never be able to have children.

Surprise.

Her punishment if we continued misbehaving instead of sleeping was to turn the night light off and shut the door, leaving us in total darkness. So . . . if total darkness is punishment, then it must be bad. Right? I’m fairly certain her intention wasn’t to warp me but to ensure a quiet bedtime. Unfortunately, she got both.

But for some reason, this time those words hung on my lips, refusing to come out. I looked down at this adorable, imaginative nine year old with his tousled reddish blonde hair that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in months, and I knew my answer.

“I’m afraid of something bad happening to someone I love.”

That’s this adult’s way of telling a nine year old I don’t want you to die. Or even get hurt. I don’t want anyone I love to die. Ever. And honestly, my motives are purely selfish. I don’t want the loss and the pain and the grief. I don’t want to know there are memories that will never be made. And I don’t want memories to be all I have left. Yes, I’ve lost folks to Death before . . . my grandparents . . . my parents . . . and although those losses hurt, they were to be expected. They were the generations before me and, when Life and Death play nicely together, they should leave before I do. But there are definitely a fair number of people in my world that I never want to be without. And I’m pretty certain the day will come when I’ll have to do just that, unless I’m lucky enough to go first.

We sat for a while longer, and then Wilson asked where the deck of cards was so he and his Papaw and Papa Joe could play “War”. Anderson and Cora joined them around the wrought iron table in the dusky darkness while I stayed in the swing, holding my coffee that had grown cold and thinking about the people I love and how hard . . . how terrible it would be to have to live without even one of them.

And then I remembered that humans can lick, too . . . and insane serial killers with steel hooks for hands can have them ripped off by cars that speed away just as they plan to yank the door open.

For various reasons, there might have been a brighter night light than usual come bedtime.

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One Special Day

Thu, 18 Jun 2020 01:15:00 GMT

“I have lived longer without him than with him.”

I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook several months ago when these words magically appeared on the screen and demanded my attention. They were a part of a friend’s status and I thought to myself how hauntingly poignant they were. The “him” in her post was her father, and she had finally reached a point in her life where she had spent more time on this earth without him than she had been allowed to share with him.

There are many in this world who could echo her words, many who lost their fathers to Death at a very early age . . . on both their parts. In the natural order of things, children should always bury their parents, but you don’t expect that to come when your dad is in his twenties . . . or thirties . . . or forties . . .

Fathers are supposed to be invincible. They’re never supposed to be sick. They’re always supposed to be here when we need them and be able to solve all our problems. At least those are the things we believe as children—and sometimes as adults. And they really aren’t supposed to die, at least not until they’re a hundred and ten or so. We take for granted they’ll follow the rules and be here forever . . . and nothing ever really prepares us for that last day, no matter how much warning we’ve had or how much time we’ve been given to say good-bye.

Real fathers are truly special creatures—and when I say real I’m not just speaking biologically. There’s a lot more to being a great father than a moment of creation. The good ones sacrifice themselves and never ask for much in return. They work hard to provide for those they love and struggle to protect them from the evils of this world. Their lessons often come through their actions, teaching by example how to survive in life while always putting the needs of others first. And they worry. And they fret. You just may not always see it. And they love without measure. You just may not always hear it—at least not if you’re waiting for the words. But if you watch their actions you’ll never have a doubt.

Their special day is just around the corner, that day when we acknowledge the importance of fathers and honor them with ties and socks and cards and such. At least some of us will get to. Many of us will not because, for whatever reason, our dads are no longer here. Death seems to be the biggest culprit although there are times and circumstances when their absence is permanent by choice rather than by chance . . . ‘cause nobody’s perfect, and that includes fathers. But if you are fortunate enough to still have yours around, may I suggest that you don’t wait for one special day to honor them? I’m sure most of you aren’t guilty of that, but it’s so easy to do when Life gets in the way, presenting us with our own families and jobs and chaos. While we’re busy growing up and doing all the adult stuff, they’re slowly growing older, and someday we’ll look around and they won’t be here anymore. If we’re lucky and we paid attention, they’ll leave a legacy of wisdom and example that will never be equaled. So how ‘bout instead of waiting for Father’s Day to roll around, we get started now? Make the phone call and make it every day. Stop by just to say hi, if stopping by is an option. Remember their patience with you when you were young and return that favor now. Make them a habit that will be so hard to break when you no longer can. Because good habits lead to wonderful memories, and someday that’s all you’ll have.

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A Remarkable Life

Thu, 11 Jun 2020 01:30:00 GMT

Most of you are familiar with our memorial videos—the ones that contain X number of pictures that usually have a nice, appropriate-to-the-person background accompanied by some lovely, non-copyrighted music. They’re usually played during the visitation, sometimes during the service, and hopefully for years afterward in someone’s home.

What you may not know is, at least in Savannah, we watch that video before it’s ever played for the family and friends. We try to watch for duplicate pictures. We try to be certain all of them are turned correctly. And we certainly try to be sure they are all family-friendly. That last one isn’t usually a problem, but you just never know when it might be.

This past Sunday I was in the front office working on accounts receivable when the nice folks who compile the videos for us delivered one. Since I was the only employee not doing my best impersonation of a chicken with its head cut off, I sat back down at the computer, opened the disc drive, inserted the DVD, and managed to click on all the right spots. The music started to play, the title screen came up, and I began my journey through someone else’s life.

Some families will meticulously arrange their pictures chronologically while others will bring them to us in no particular order. These folks were the latter of the two, so color pictures from more recent years were occasionally interrupted by the black and white and gray tones of a bygone era. She had been a striking young woman with dark hair and darker eyes, tall and slender . . . but like a lot of the rest of us, the passing years had lightened her hair and added weight to her frame. But you could still see the young girl in her eyes as she played with her grandchildren, as she posed for the wedding photos and tolerated the candid shots of her in the middle of something she loved. Even as she greeted those who came to spend time with her in the nursing home, the smile would be there, shining through her eyes.

As I sat, watching the pictures glide from scene to scene, I was particularly drawn to one. She and her husband were sitting side by side in a swing, his arm draped around her shoulders, her hand gently resting on his knee. That one photo spoke volumes about the closeness between them . . . of the comfort and ease they found in each other’s presence. It seemed so natural that I believe reaching for one another had been a constant throughout their time together. That time stretched just a few months beyond 39 years. Then Death separated them for almost another 28.

When the video ends we always watch for just a minute more, to be certain it will loop and begin again. I did . . . and it did . . . so I reached for the mouse to stop the story, and pushed the button on the drive so the door would pop open and release its prisoner. And then I sat, quietly looking at the monitor, thinking about this woman I’d never met. Her relatively normal existence on this planet seemed quite remarkable to me. Through all of those pictures, representing all of those years, her time here seemed to have been filled with love and laughter, with family and friends, with hard work and good times and serving those around her . . . a remarkable life lived by a remarkable woman.

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Outside The Storm, Looking In

Thu, 04 Jun 2020 01:59:00 GMT

It was Saturday, October 26, 2019, between the hours of noon and 1:30 PM. I was in a cabin in Shiloh, Tennessee, listening intently as the wind roared through the woods, toppling trees, blocking the drive out in five different places and both ends of the road that might have led to safety. But I wasn’t foolish enough to try and leave. The better part of valor was not retreat but staying put, even though a massive oak missed the front of the house by mere inches.

I didn’t realize the extent of the devastation until the storm subsided and I emerged from what had proven to be my safe haven. Only when I began walking up the drive and onto the road did I understand how horrific the storm had been. Once the drive was cleared and the roads made passable, I gained an even greater insight into Mother Nature’s wrath. One life had been taken. Millions of dollars in property damage had occurred. But I didn’t know the extent of the storm . . . or the extent of the damage . . . until long after the storm had passed. Because I was caught in the midst of the storm.

Today I feel like we’re weathering a whole series of storms, whether actual or metaphorical. We’ve certainly had tornados and floods and severe thunderstorms that have taken lives and destroyed property. And we have metaphorical storms with real life consequences, like pandemics and protests, both peaceful and otherwise. This time I find myself outside the storm, looking in.

I cannot begin to comprehend—because I have not experienced—the emotions and actions brought about by either of these metaphorical storms. In my Small Town, USA, we’ve been relatively untouched by COVID-19, although that can always change. As I type, we’re up to 22 confirmed cases, far fewer than the metropolitan areas surrounding us. But businesses have suffered as have those who were employed by them or who once walked through their doors as customers. As for the protests, again, our county has remained relatively untouched—and again, that can quickly change. But the lack of an active, organized effort does not mean there is no work to be done. Whatever the circumstances, there will always be room for improvement.

As I stand outside the storms, looking in, I see the heartache and the loss, the devastation and the destruction . . . not just of property but, more importantly, of people. Even if their lives are spared, their dreams and their ambitions and their hard work can all disappear in a heartbeat, taken by circumstances and events far beyond their control. That holds true for pandemics and protests and any other situation that brings about the storm.

When an actual storm bears down on a community or a country, bringing death and destruction in its wake, there is grief . . . grief on an individual level . . . grief on a community level . . . and oftentimes, grief on a national or even global level. As humans we are often touched by the struggles of people we’ve never met and will never know. It’s a blessing to be able to share their pain . . . and a curse when that pain cuts so deeply. The same holds true for the other storms of this life. As we watched communities shut down in an effort to protect their citizens from a viral enemy, as we watch communities struggle under the weight of inequalities and injustices, no matter their origins, there has been and will continue to be grief. Even though we may not know those who are directly affected, we grieve with them and for them as individuals . . . and communities . . . and as a nation or even the world. Peter Schickele may have said it best when he penned the lyrics for Joan Baez’s hit “No Man Is an Island”. . .

“No man is an island. No man stands alone. Each man’s joy is joy to me. Each man’s grief is my own . . .”

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Habits Born of Love

Wed, 27 May 2020 23:18:00 GMT

I was seated at my desk in bookkeeping on Sunday afternoon, mired up to my eyeballs in paper, trying to pull together the financial information for our board meeting which was scheduled for later in the week. I’m assuming the sky grew dark and threatening, based on the amount of rumbling I heard outside, but with the blinds drawn I had no real knowledge of the weather; only assumptions I drew from the thunder.

A few weeks before, the power had gone out for several hours. Again, it was a Sunday. Again, I was at work. There isn’t a lot I can do with no electricity, so I curled up in one of the chairs in the lounge and accidentally took a nap while waiting. Everyone should be in a dark, quiet funeral home when the power comes back on and they’re asleep. Just once. I may have made mention of that before.

But this past Sunday the electricity held steady and the lightning didn’t run in on the conduit that courses throughout the building, so my computer and/or monitor didn’t explode as I sat inches away from them. However, the electronic devices and the dog lights at home didn’t fare as well.

Not long after the storm subsided, my husband called to say not a television in the house was working. Each one exhibited a different symptom, from weird light patterns on the cable box to a completely blank screen or, worse yet, that annoyingly loud static, but the end result for each was the same. Nothing. When I got home that night and discovered the dog lights were off, I assumed Joe had unplugged them . . . until Wednesday morning when I realized they were still plugged in. But both bulbs were blown.

The Blu-ray player kept spitting the discs out, proclaiming to anyone who could read that it couldn’t. It didn’t matter if it was a Dean Martin roast or the original Family Feud, nothing appeared to be appetizing enough for the equipment to actually ingest its content. And my phone silently declared no WiFi was available. So data it was.

Of course, the next day was a holiday, and when Joe called the number for our cable/internet provider, the lovely little automated person suggested all manner and kinds of possible fixes, all of which he should try and then, if none proved successful, he should call back. But when you call back, all you get is the lovely little automated person suggesting all manner and kinds of possible fixes. And thus is born the vicious circle.

Wednesday morning he actually had time to go by the local cable office and set up an appointment for a service tech to drop by. But from Sunday night until Wednesday evening (between the hours of 5:00 and 6:00 PM), it’s been very quiet at our house. Very. Quiet.

My old habits have proven hard to break. Usually when I get home at night, I turn on the TV in the kitchen while I feed the cats and occasionally indulge in a small chocolate something. My go-to station is channel 95, Hallmark Mysteries and Movies (or is it Movies and Mysteries?) so I can catch a few minutes of “Murder, She Wrote”. Their Christmas movies and romances are of no interest to me whatsoever, but give me Jessica Fletcher or even Monk or Columbo and I’m hooked. But when I turned the TV on Sunday night, the jolt of annoyingly loud static scared me half to death.

Monday morning, as I prepared to head for the home, I once again reached for the TV remote and hit the system on button so Robin Meade and I could commune over the day’s news, only to be assaulted by the same static as the night before. And when I reached for my laptop that evening so I could review the Tribute Wall posts for the website, guess what I couldn’t review?

Did I mention that old habits do not die easily?

Of all the habits in this world, the ones that are the hardest to break are those that revolve around a relationship with someone else, especially when that relationship changes compliments of Death. How long does your cell phone ring and you reach for it, expecting to see the name of someone you’ve loved and lost pop up on the caller i.d.? How many times do you walk into a room, fully expecting to see them in their favorite chair or to find the TV tuned to their favorite channel? What happened today that made you think “I should call and tell them . . .”? How many places do you go . . . how many sounds do you hear . . . how many scents drift through the air that make you think of them? How many times do the dreams seem so real . . .?

In the overall scheme of life, it’s easy to do without cable and internet for a few days. I didn’t grieve over their loss. I didn’t have to accept that these things would never be mine again and, even if that was the case, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I just had to turn off my auto-pilot and remember they weren’t working. But people . . . when we lose the people we love there is no substitute for their presence. You can’t read a good book or take a walk or bake something to otherwise occupy your time. When Death takes someone we love, the habits that revolved around them take a while to die, too. Most of the time, they never completely do—and that’s okay. Those habits were born of love . . . and true love never really dies.

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Lest We Forget

Wed, 20 May 2020 23:56:00 GMT

William Cecil Rose was already married and a father when he enlisted in the United States Army on October 8, 1943. At the ripe old age of 19, he was going to war, the terms of his enlistment being “Enlistment for the duration of the War or other emergency, plus six months, subject to the discretion of the President or otherwise according to law.” But on December 1, 1944, roughly one year and one month after entering the service, he was struck by two bullets while fighting in Germany. Despite medical treatment, he died—a death that was noted with one line in the local newspaper a month afterwards. The notice simply stated “Pvt. William C. Rose killed December 1 ^st in Germany” and was listed along with S/Sgt. Max Briley and Pvt. Francis N. Heathcock, both of whom were also wounded in Germany, Pvt. James R. Wright of Morris Chapel who was wounded in France, Cpl. Gordon Majors who was killed in action in France, Pvt. James W. Majors who perished in Germany, and Pfc. Joel McMullen who was listed as missing in action, also in Germany. Today, in the sacred ground of Graham Cemetery, this eternally 19 year old rests beside his son, W. C. Rose, Jr., who was born in 1942 and died 10 years after his father at the age of 12.

Cazmo Nicholoff was born in Macedonia, Greece. According to his monument the date was July 23, 1895; according to his military and citizenship records, it was January 1 of that year or perhaps 1893. On May 5, 1912—when he was not quite 17—he entered the United States through the port of New York. His dream of citizenship became a reality on July 3, 1918, a petition that was granted fully two years after he enlisted in the United States Army during World War I. He was assigned to Troop M of the 16 ^th Cavalry and was eventually transferred to Troop L of the 17 ^th . The task given these troops was to patrol the neutralized border between the United States and Mexico, but things did not go well. He was honorably discharged on January 26, ^, 1920 with a Surgeon’s Certificate of Disability due to having developed pulmonary tuberculosis. Despite the fact that most of his family had settled up north, he somehow met Effie Harris of McNairy County, Tennessee. On April 5, 1925 they applied for a marriage license with the ceremony being performed by J. T. Martin the following day. Sadly, his condition worsened, bringing about his death on February 11, 1928 at the Veterans’ Hospital in Outwood, Kentucky. They had been married less than three years; he was 25. The condition he contracted during his military service had brought about his death. As his loving wife had engraved upon his monument in Mars Hill Cemetery “An American Soldier whom our country called. He fought for her and in the end did fall.”

Riley Byron Harrison was 22 years old when he enlisted in the United States Naval Reserve Force on July 22, 1918. World War I was nearing an end and he found himself in Great Lakes, Illinois, serving as a landsman for a machinist’s mate. Unfortunately, while there he contracted the flu and died in the Naval hospital on September 28th – only 68 days after enlisting and only 44 days before the end of the war. His body was returned to his home town and laid to rest in Savannah Cemetery, where his monument notes his service to his country. His grief-stricken parents chose an inscription expressing their hope of a reunion in the hereafter, “Weep not father and mother for me, For I’m waiting in glory for thee.”

Parker Fondren must have had a terrifying vision of what the future held when he received his draft notice during World War II. He told his family he’d never come back . . . a statement that was only partially true. Parker died in battle north of Rome, just three days after the liberation of the city, and was buried in the military cemetery in Nettuno, Italy. His personal belongings, including an Eversharp pen, his wallet, and a sewing kit, were packed up and sent to his widow, Willie. In March of 1947, she received a form from the Army requesting instructions for Parker’s final burial. Of the over 115 countries involved in World War II, the United States was the only country willing to repatriate her dead—Parker was finally coming home. It took another year for the plans to be finalized . . . and a change of location due to Willie’s remarriage before the return of Parker’s body. At that time the right of disposition moved to his parents and they chose to have their son buried in the hallowed grounds of the cemetery at Shiloh National Military Park. And so it was done on August 3, 1948. Years later, through the efforts of his extended family, Parker’s daughter Phyllis Lee was located. She still had her daddy’s Purple Heart and his wallet. She still remembers the story of his tank being disabled and him running for cover when he died. But stories and pictures are all she really has to remember.

These four men died as a result of their service to our country. Some more violently than others. Some as a direct result of war. Some as an indirect consequence. But each one paid the ultimate price for the freedom we enjoy today. It is that sacrifice that Memorial Day honors. Unlike Veterans Day, which recognizes all for their service, Memorial Day specifically honors those who died as a result. Sadly, it is a meaning we have lost over the years. The somber observances of generations past have become celebrations of the beginning of summer, made possible via a three-day weekend created by moving the holiday from the traditional May 30 ^th to the last Monday of the month.

I want you to look at the pictures included here. I want you to remember these were people . . . people with hopes and dreams and plans for the future. People who left behind shattered families and grieving loved ones when they died. And these are just four of the many from our communities. Multiply that by thousands if you choose to include those buried at Shiloh as a result of the battle there. Multiply that by hundreds of thousands . . . and you may be touching the tip of the total of those men and women who have given their lives so we can live ours. This coming Monday I hope you’ll take a moment . . . or more . . . and give thanks for them all.

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A Different Kind Of Day

Thu, 14 May 2020 01:55:00 GMT

Things have been a bit . . . how shall I say it? . . . different? this year. And I know that sentence is far from being punctuated correctly, but different times call for different methods of expression, especially if you’re writing rather than speaking.

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day and I know for the vast majority of the population, it was unlike any Mother’s Day that has come before. Mine has been that way since May 1, 2008 when my mother died. Now I buy one card instead of two. There is only one order placed with the florist. Only one home to visit. Except this year; visiting homes has been discouraged as have so many other things we normally do to celebrate special occasions.

Folks put on their thinking caps and came up with all kinds of creative solutions that allowed them to honor their mothers . . . from a safe distance. But it’s just not the same. It’s impossible for a phone call to replace speaking face to face. It’s hard for a banner or a card to really tell someone how much you love them and appreciate all they have done and continue to do. And hugs are simply irreplaceable. There is no substitute for a mother’s embrace.

Many of you may have shushed that disgruntled little voice in the back of your noggin’ by telling it things will be better soon. In the near future, you’ll be able to celebrate together. And surely by this time next year, life will have settled into its new normal and we’ll be able to gather without too much fear and anxiety. And hopefully, that’s an accurate assessment of what life will become. But what happens if we do find that new normal and the people whose lives we want to celebrate are no longer here to join us?

This is, quite honestly, a question I wrestle with on a daily basis—and I’m not referring to the arrival of my new normal, but the absence of someone I love. Occasionally that realization makes me bite my tongue to keep from saying something I know I’ll regret later . . . when I may not be able to ask forgiveness because the person I need it from won’t be here to grant it. And if I didn’t bite hard enough, then I’ll have to live with whatever was last said, because there will be no making it right. It makes me go and do when I don’t necessarily feel like either one, because I know I may never have that opportunity again.

But those moments are moments where I’m allowed to choose, where I’m not bound by federal or state mandates or fear of what I may bring to those I love. How am I supposed to respond if someone I love dies and I wasn’t able to be with them to celebrate one last Mother’s Day, one last birthday . . . one last moment of Life that now has been lost to Death . . . because I wasn’t allowed to? There are numerous reasons that could happen, including but certainly not limited to a rampant virus, but the end result is still the same. I wasn’t allowed to. I would have if I could. But I couldn’t. How do I accept that I will never be able to again?

I have just raised a question that I can’t answer for anyone but myself. Everyone will respond differently to those lost opportunities and the grief that takes their place. But I can tell you what you shouldn’t feel. Guilt. Responsibility. Shame.

There will always be times when Life moves beyond our control and decisions we would normally make will be made by someone else. We need to remember, if we aren’t allowed to shoulder the responsibility then we shouldn’t try to shoulder the blame. I know; that’s easier said than done and it’s a lesson I need to learn just as much as anyone else. But if we learn to treat each encounter as though it was our last, then when that day finally comes—whether it’s brought about by pandemics or distance or Death—we’ll know we did all we could. And that knowledge comes bearing comfort . . . and forgiveness . . . and peace.

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Love Beyond Words

Wed, 06 May 2020 22:40:00 GMT

It was 1967 when they married. August the 12 ^th , to be exact. She was a beautiful 20 year old, kind and loving with a heart big enough to encompass everyone she met. And he was a man who knew how lucky he was. It was something he never forgot in their almost 53 years of marriage.

They were not blessed with children, but they had each other and that was what truly mattered. At least it was until the dementia began to rear its ugly head. He tried to care for her at home, but over time the job . . . no, it wasn’t a job. It was a labor of love, and that labor became more than he could manage.

She weighed 93 pounds when she was admitted to the nursing home and he made it his mission to change that. Every day he visited. Every day he would stay and feed her, making certain she ate. Making certain she was cared for as if he was her sole provider.

Slowly her physical condition improved. She gained 20 pounds thanks to his constant care. But mentally she continued to decline until she no longer knew who he was. But that didn’t matter. He still knew her. And he still loved her beyond words.

Then the pandemic struck. He was no longer allowed to visit his beloved wife. He was no longer allowed to be there for her meals, to gently, tenderly encourage her to eat. It was the only thing he could do for her, and now he couldn’t even do that.

She died just a few weeks ago. They had moved her to a hospital room from the nursing home, making it possible for him to be by her side. He was holding her when she died, telling her how much her loved her. He could feel her slowly slip away. He could feel his angel leaving him . . . and his heart breaking.

The arrangement conference was lengthy but not because he didn’t have the necessary information. Not because he couldn’t make decisions. He needed to talk. He wanted to tell whoever would listen about her . . . about their life together . . . about how much he’d lost. And he cried. Oh, how he cried. Even though she had slowly left him over the last ten years, he could still see her and touch her and tell her how much he loved her. But not anymore . . . not anymore.

It was a private graveside service. COVID-19 saw to that, but he really preferred it that way. They had spent their entire lives together; it wouldn’t have seemed right if a crowd had been there to watch him say good-bye. He hadn’t wanted to leave during his time with her at the funeral home. It was difficult to tear himself away from her so they could make the trip to the cemetery. As long as he could he stood beside the casket, tears streaming down his cheeks as he stroked her face, telling her over and over how much he loved his baby. At the cemetery the casket was opened again, remaining that way during the service. When it was over and those few in attendance had started to leave, he wanted just a few more minutes. One more chance to say good-bye. One more chance to gently stroke her cheek and tell her he loved her.

We often see husbands burying their wives . . . or wives burying their husbands, but rarely ever do we see someone whose love and devotion are so pure and so amazing in their depth. He laid bare his soul in his love for her and blessed us by allowing us to see that love. And he graciously gave me permission to share their story with you. I don’t know about their early life together; only that she was an excellent seamstress, a real estate agent and a tax preparer. She enjoyed her yard work and her flowers and her heart was enormous in her love for others. He knew how lucky he was. And I have a feeling she felt the same way about him.

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An Interesting Turn of Events

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 01:45:00 GMT

It happened very quietly . . . no fanfare . . . no public pronouncement . . . no press conference. One minute traditional funerals were banned . . . and the next minute they weren’t. That minute came at 12:01 AM on April 29 ^th —the effective date and time of Executive Order 30, signed into existence by Tennessee Governor Bill Lee on April 28 ^th .

Now, as I proceed through this missive, I want you to understand that, for the most part, the information I am relaying is factual stuff, based on the exact wording of the Governor’s Order. That being said, any opinions that might be thrown in free of charge are mine and mine alone. Just like any other opinions that I may put forth in any other blog. In case you might not recognize them, today’s opinions will be brought to you during comparisons with Mork and Mindy .

The Order addresses a multitude of issues over the course of eight and one half pages, including but not limited to which businesses must still remain closed, which “Health Guidelines” should still be followed (hint—it’s all of them, including the 6 foot rule, work from home if you can, and don’t go places if you’re sick), and that “social gatherings of ten (10) or more remain prohibited”. (Please note the quotation marks which indicate I have used the exact wording of the Order.) However, the very next paragraph states “Religious services, rites, or gatherings, weddings, and funerals are not social gatherings under Paragraph 2 and nothing in this Order mandates closure of a place of worship, or prohibits weddings or funerals as a matter of law.”

Hmmmm . . . an interesting turn of events. But the Governor continues. “However, places of worship are strongly encouraged to continue to utilize virtual or online services and gatherings and strongly encouraged to follow Guidelines to be issued by the Governor’s Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives regarding any in-person services that can be conducted safely.” (As of this writing, said guidelines have not been issued.)

Well, okay, but what about funerals and who all can come and . . . Patience. I’m getting there.

“Further, it is strongly encouraged that the public celebration component of weddings and funerals be postponed or attended only by close family members.”

Sooooo . . . what does all that mean? Basically (and I’m only going to address the funeral side of the issue . . . ‘cause that’s kinda why I’m here . . .), if you want a traditional visitation and funeral where everyone can come, you can have it. But he wishes you wouldn’t. In other words, what the Governor gives with one hand, he encourages you not to take with the other. And what does that mean for us—and for you? The family can now choose how publicly they will celebrate their loved one’s life. If you still feel a need to exercise caution, we will accommodate that need by limiting the number of people present, based on your specifications. If you want us to throw the doors wide open and let the world come in, we will accommodate that request as well. But distancing is still a thing and personal responsibility for your health and safety and that of those around you is still very much a thing. And kindly keep in mind, this Order only applies to 89 of the 95 counties in Tennessee. The others operate their own health departments and are therefore being allowed to set their own pace for reopening their respective worlds, so the rules in Davidson, Hamilton, Knox, Madison, Shelby, and Sullivan Counties will be different from ours.

And now for that pesky opinion part. All of this reminds me of an episode of the TV sitcom Mork and Mindy . For those unfamiliar with the premise of the show, Mork is an alien from the planet Ork where spacecrafts look like oversized eggs and children are hatched as full-grown adults with the mentality of an infant. Mork (amazingly portrayed by a very young and unknown Robin Williams) arrives on Earth in just such a ship and is taken in by a sweet and extremely patient young lady named Mindy (played by Pam Dawber). In this particular episode, Mork discovers a bowl of eggs tucked away in Mindy’s fridge. Noting that it’s a violation of intergalactic law to eat your fellow space travelers, he takes one egg and tosses it into the air with the exhortation, “Fly! Be free!”

Three guesses what happens. First two don’t count. If the word “splat” came to mind, you win.

Basically, the Governor has told us we can fly and be free where certain gatherings are concerned, but has asked us not to and to exercise caution if we do. That caution may result in limiting the numbers but not so drastically that ten is the max. It may be that the line at a visitation stretches for a greater distance because there’s six feet of space between each person. It should definitely mean there’s still no hugging or handshaking because touching everyone can give them a lot more than moral support. But whatever that looks like, now the family gets to decide. Protecting yourself and everyone with whom you come in contact is still of the utmost importance, and we will do everything within our power to assist the families we serve in doing just that—on their terms—while celebrating the life of their loved one. We have permission to fly; let’s just be certain that’s what we’re meant to do. After all, going splat isn’t a very good option.

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Vivian’s Gift

Thu, 23 Apr 2020 00:07:00 GMT

There are times when one of our Facebook posts from prior years will be resurrected, a part of someone’s Facebook memories, brought to mind by a Facebook notification, and shared by that someone because, for whatever reason, it spoke to them again. Occasionally, that old post will take on a new life—as is currently the case with the heartbreaking, heartwarming story of Vivian May Allison.

At the time of her death, Vivian was the only child of Horace Dean and Carrie Hulda Young Allison. Seven years after losing little Vivian, they had another child—a second daughter they named Lovell. Life was somewhat kinder to her; she married in 1928 but never blessed Horace and Carrie with grandchildren. Eighty-nine years after her birth she was laid to rest in Tavares Cemetery in Tavares, Florida.

It was October 28, 1899 when Vivian fell ill. For two days their family doctor tended to her in every possible manner, but on October 30 ^th –at the tender age of 5—she succumbed to the cerebro-spinal fever that her death certificate says claimed her life. At the time her father had been building a doll house for her. It was to be her Christmas present, a surprise for his little girl . . . a labor of love that now had no one to receive it. But Horace decided to continue his work, so while he finished the house itself, Vivian’s mother began the task of making it a true home, sewing curtains and bedspreads and crafting rugs to warm the floors. When their masterpiece was finally completed they placed it at their daughter’s grave, filled it with the toys and trinkets she had loved in life, and cared for it for almost 70 years.

Vivian’s mother died in 1969; Horace had died 23 years before. She was buried next to her husband who had been buried next to Vivian, and care of the house was entrusted to Lovell. She tended to it for as long as she could, but age and distance and, eventually, Death interfered. So the house fell into disrepair, a sad testament to a family line that had drawn to a close.

But the people of Connersville, Indiana—people who never knew the Allison family—loved that little house, just as Horace and Carrie had loved it. They realized it was far more than a tourist-generating curiosity (although it was that) . . . it was a monument to a child lost too soon, the symbol of a mother and father’s love . . . and of their grief. So the people of Connersville repaired the house, stripping away years of dirt and paint, returning it to the original clean, crisp white (that had, over the years, been gray or purple or blue or white with hunter green trim), preserving the original nails, woodwork, and tin roof, and watching over it as though it was their own.

You can still see the house today, nestled beside the monument that marks the graves of Carrie, Horace, and Vivian. The toys and the trinkets are still inside, as is a miniature portrait of Vivian that graces the wall—hanging close to the bed that sits in front of a large glass window—lovingly placed there over 120 years ago as the final touch to Vivian’s gift.

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Too Much . . .

Thu, 16 Apr 2020 01:45:00 GMT

I know you’ve seen it on Facebook. You know, the question, “Anyone else feel like life is being written by a 4 ^th grader right now?” Then they follow that up with the 4 ^th grader’s script:

“And there was this virus and everyone was scared. And then the world ran out of toilet paper yeah, and then there was no school for like a month and then it snowed!!”

Well, I’m here to tell you, that’s simply not true. I’m pretty sure life is currently being directed by a 3 ^rd grader named Anderson Hall Thomas, my adorable, highly creative, nine year old grandson. I actually have three adorable grandsons—Wilson, Anderson, and Malcolm—and one adorable granddaughter, Cora. But Anderson is the storyteller of the bunch. He is constantly drawing villains and monsters and superheros then bringing them to life in tales that could only come from his wonderfully weird little noggin’. I can just hear his version of life right now, narrated in his raspy little Anderson voice (complete with ALL the hand motions) . . .

“First there was this hurricanador that came and ripped up all the trees and threw them on the houses and in the roads and all over everybody’s yards and then there was a really big flood and all these people had to leave home and go everywhere in boats and then a tornado came and destroyed lots of buildings and stuff and then this evil virus showed up and started killing everybody and then another tornado came but it was just a little tornado, not like the hurricanador or the one that destroyed all the buildings and stuff and now all the schools and restaurants are closed . . .”

When you start with last October and string it all together, it gets a bit overwhelming, doesn’t it? Ok. Let’s get real. It’s a lot overwhelming. And as we continue to exist under Executive Orders and watch as the river begins to creep from its banks—again—and the weatherpeople speak of more rain and thunderstorms, it’s only natural to wonder when it will stop. When will we have a moment . . . just a moment . . . of normal again?

Unfortunately, the answer is probably never. At least not the normal we once knew and took for granted. Too much has changed. Too much has been lost for life to return to what it was just a few short months ago. There will be a new normal, better in some ways, far worse in others, but we will adapt and grow stronger for having survived. And you know what that sounds like? It sounds a lot like the loss that Death comes bearing and the grief that follows.

Grief is as much a part of life right now as it is when Death calls, because there is still loss, it’s just a different kind. Consider the list of things that are no longer things . . . the freedom to go and do as you please, the opportunity to continue your education, whether or not you have access to computers or parents who can serve as substitute teachers, the ability to buy at least the basic necessities of life, the luxury of planning for the future . . . the companionship of extended family and friends. And what has taken their place? Loneliness, greed, fear, depression . . . but also ingenuity, creativity, selflessness, and a true appreciation for the things that matter in this world—gathering with the people we love, the touch of another human being, celebrating the milestones of life with those who mean the most to us.

And how do we survive loss on such an all-encompassing scale? The same way we do when Life surrenders to Death. Talk with your friends . . . just not in person right now. Find that playlist that lifts your spirits and brings peace to your soul. Create that bucket list of things you want to do before the stay at home orders expire . . . like cleaning out your closets, reading that book you’ve been meaning to, doing the yard work that never seems to get done . . . anything that keeps your mind and body occupied by something other than what is missing. Stay busy in the service of others; many times our own problems grow smaller and our gratitude greater when we help someone else who is struggling—and yes, you can do that even under these conditions. Oh, and one other, very important thing . . . cry when you need to.

I have often said only a fool refuses to learn the lesson because he doesn’t like the teacher—and right now this evil virus is just the latest in a string of unwelcome educators. As difficult as these days are and as fearful as they may be, there are still some valuable lessons to be learned—and some good to be found. Look for both. Learn from both. Remember.Both. It’s been too costly a process not to.

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Lessons Learned

Thu, 09 Apr 2020 02:35:00 GMT

I have learned an enormous amount of stuff in the last few weeks, including, but not limited to, the following:

Most of those points are written tongue-in-cheek (with the exception of number 10), although I really don’t stand in line very well (because . . . people) and dogs are truly, on occasion, more well-behaved than some of the rest of us. But my greatest lesson, and probably the hardest to accept, is that the daily activities of life are no longer that. Things we took for granted like going to church or eating in a restaurant . . . coffee with a friend and a parting hug . . . visiting family members in nursing homes or the hospital, are all currently things of the past. And as annoying as that is to someone who delights in the ruts of this world, there is a bright side. At least I’m still alive. And presently unscathed.

Would you like some good news? When we last spoke, the great state of Tennessee was number fifteen on the COVID-19 chart of confirmed U.S. cases. Today, at this very moment, we’ve dropped to 18 ^th . Either we’re doing something right or three other states aren’t. But that doesn’t mean we get to slack up. There’ll be no celebratory parties or gatherings of greater than 10. Not yet. But someday. Hopefully, someday soon.

In the meantime, please try to remember that a cough doesn’t necessarily mean COVID-19. Some of us are allergic to the world and this spring has produced an exceptional amount of pollen. Just because you see a group of people doesn’t mean they’re in violation of anything. They may have practiced social distancing. They may be a family that all resides in the same home. They may be like the poor souls that gathered in the hospital parking lot, unable to be with the one who came by ambulance because of the hospital’s safe guards. As they stood, waiting for any word, any news at all, someone drove by, filming with their phone, then flipped them off and drove away. Their loved one died with them anxiously waiting outside, and someone with no clue and obviously no heart chose to make matters worse.

I need you to remember one other thing—when you find yourself struggling against all the rules and all the regulations—there are so many others whose struggles are so much greater. Our area has been relatively untouched by the chaos that has engulfed most of the world. If we can continue making the small sacrifices for a short time we will be able to claim victory in the long run.

There are many areas that have not been so blessed and I hear from those who are on the front lines almost daily. I say the front lines, but the truth is they are bringing up the rear. They are the funeral directors that are working day and night in those places, only to find it isn’t enough—and if that kind of effort is required of them I cannot imagine what the first responders and medical professionals are enduring. In one particular email thread a director mentioned he lost both his parents to COVID-19 within less than a week’s time. They are to be buried together, but he doesn’t have time to grieve. There are too many others who need help. Another wrote in desperation. I could see it in his words as he tried to express his helplessness in the face of the mounting deaths. In four days they had received almost as many calls as they do in a month and his exhausted staff simply could not keep up. He ended with a plea for help from anyone who could and would come . . . anyone at all. I sat in silence for a very long time after reading his post; there are no words to describe the anguish I felt for him—or the gratitude I had because his words are not also mine.

We have no clue what’s going on in our world, no clue how devastating this disease truly is. And I hope we never do. I hope we have enough sense and enough sacrificial spirit that we can win this war with a limited number of casualties. But it will take all of us playing by the rules—the real rules—to make a difference. When it comes to Death and his minions . . . like viruses and such . . . there are no exceptions. And we must never make the mistake of believing there are.

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Do Your Part

Thu, 02 Apr 2020 02:52:00 GMT

This is about the umpty-leventh time I’ve started this. I keep having to delete everything and start again because the longer I write, the angrier I get—and I don’t want to end up yelling at you or blaming you for the world as we currently know it.

I hate asking our directors to tell families they are limited in what they can do to honor the life of someone they love. I hate having to tell families this magnificent idea they had that would allow them to work around the rules will put everyone at risk . . . not to mention the fact that it’s illegal. It isn’t fair that their loved one’s life can’t be celebrated by all of their family and all of their friends. They deserve more than what they are currently allowed, and oh, how I wish we could give it to them. How I wish we could let the world come in and mourn together. But instead our doors remain locked. If your name isn’t on the list then you’re turned away. It doesn’t matter where the service is held. We have our orders from the Governor of our great state and those governmental offices that oversee our profession. And we understand why it has to be this way.

Did you know that New York City has now moved mobile morgues to each public and private hospital in the city? The COVID-19 deaths have overwhelmed their healthcare system and funeral homes; they are struggling to treat the living and to bury or cremate the dead. New York may top the list of states as far as the numbers are concerned, but did you know Tennessee now ranks 15 ^th in the nation for confirmed cases? That’s up two slots from two days ago. If we were talking about the Billboard Charts that would be great . . . but we aren’t . . . and it isn’t.

Like it or not, we are currently at war, fighting an invisible enemy whose movements we barely understand. Manufacturers are ceasing production of their normal products so they can convert to making life-saving ventilators, hand sanitizer, and masks as well as other types of personal protective equipment. Our troops have marched into battle, but instead of wearing uniforms they’re clothed in scrubs. Medical professionals have left their homes and their families in order to care for those who have contracted the virus . . . and to protect those they love most in this world. It reminds me of the stories I often heard of the sacrifices made and the courage exhibited by our country during World War II. It took everyone to win the war. And everyone looked for what they could do—and then willingly made the commitment to do it.

But today? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m afraid those who aren’t on the front lines don’t realize the war is being waged. We don’t see first-hand the struggles of our healthcare professionals, the suffering of those who are ill . . . the death toll that is steadily rising . . . because it isn’t here. Yet. But it’s coming. And by the time we realize it is, it will be too late.

That’s why it’s so important to stay home. Don’t get out. Don’t go to Wal-Mart just because you’re bored. Parents, make your teenagers stay put. You may not realize it, but there are still gatherings in parking lots and whatever they pick up there, they’ll bring home to you. When we tell your family there is a ten person limit for the funeral service you’re planning, please understand the folks who made that decision are trying their best to save you from yourself. Did you read about the funeral in Albany, Georgia that was attended by over 200 folks? It took place before anyone realized what was happening, before a pandemic was declared . . . but not before the enemy had landed. Within days, six of the nine remaining siblings were sick. Dozens of others fell ill. A niece of the deceased died. And between the funeral and the onset, hundreds of others were exposed. They are a rural county, 40 miles from the nearest interstate (sound familiar?) and because of that one funeral and possibly one other, they have one of the highest rates of confirmed cases—and deaths—in Georgia.

You see, funerals are prime places for the virus to spread. Our natural instinct is to reach out in comfort and support, to embrace each other as we grieve. Now those very actions can be a literal death sentence for someone with a compromised immune system. So if you aren’t one of the “chosen few” who will be able to attend a service, please don’t just show up. The life you save may be your own . . . or a family member of the deceased . . . or one of our employees.

I’ve often preached that young people tend to believe they wear a cloak of immortality. They seem to think they can take chances and death-defying risks and survive because “it won’t happen to them”. Well, now I’m gonna preach it to the parents and everyone else who doesn’t seem to understand the danger. You are not immortal. You are not invincible. If you don’t take the precautions recommended then you’re taking a death-defying risk, and not just for yourself. Everyone who comes in contact with you will also be taking that risk. They just won’t realize it. Think about your children. Think about your parents. Think about your spouse. How much do you love them? Is there a limit as to what you would do to protect them? If not, then stay home. It’s as simple as that. Just. Stay. Home.

Please.

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Treading Water

Thu, 26 Mar 2020 01:48:00 GMT

I don’t know if any of you have ever had to tread water for an extended period of time, but I did when I was getting my life saving certification at Girl Scout Camp Hazelwood, approximately a hundred years ago. With no life jacket, I was told to swim out into the lake, stop an appropriate distance from the shore, and suspend myself in the murky depths for 30 minutes. At least I think it was 30 minutes, although when I finished it seemed like it had been a whole lot longer.

By the time the test was over (and it included much more than 30 minutes of swimming in place), I was physically and mentally drained. The water front director hadn’t made it easy—and she was the one I had to “rescue”. Honestly, there was a certain amount of satisfaction when I dug into the pressure point in her arm pit as she fought against my efforts to save her life.

These days, I feel like I’m treading water, and I’m pretty sure most of those in the medical profession and funeral service feel the same way. It’s like we aren’t making any progress—just trying desperately to keep our heads above water. Our board met on Friday night to hash out how we would approach services as the dreaded virus began to spread. We came up with what we thought might be a fairly decent plan, one that would protect those who were concerned but would still allow for visitations and services . . . to some extent. So we wrote it up and made it all official and put it on our Facebook page . . . and the next morning the Governor issued Executive Order 17—and everything we had worked so diligently to pull together rapidly unraveled. We deleted our Facebook post and went back to the drawing board—or cell phones in this instance.

We spent Sunday morning texting back and forth, trying to decide what this meant for us as funeral directors. The news media said the Order was effective at midnight March 23 ^rd . Was that Sunday or Monday? March 23 ^rd was bookended by a midnight on each side of the 24 hour clock, so we had to hunt down the actual Order for clarification. Social gatherings were limited to ten people—except the order said avoid social gatherings of ten or more. Did that mean we were limited to nine? Did that include the minister? What about the funeral staff . . . and the pallbearers . . . and any musicians . . . and active military or veterans providing military honors? Did the limit only apply for services at the funeral home? What if a church was willing to allow a family to use their facility and violate the mandated number? What if the family wanted a graveside service? That’s out in the open. Under the bright blue sky (or more likely thunder clouds and rain). Was that an acceptable space for more than ten to gather? Our list of questions bordered on endless, and we weren’t alone.

On Monday the Executive Director of the Tennessee State Board of Funeral Directors and Embalmers issued a statement that answered many of our questions. It gave us direction—and definite boundaries we should not be trying to cross. As families filtered in we had to tell them business as usual was no longer that. They would be very limited in who could attend whatever they chose to have. One granddaughter cried. One family somewhat jokingly started looking for loopholes. One family had a visitation scheduled for Sunday night and a service on Monday. When they learned that only ten of them would be allowed to return the following day, they changed course in mid-stream. The funeral was held at 7:00 Sunday evening.

We’re trying through every possible means to offer families as many opportunities to honor their loved ones as we can manage without violating the spirit and the letter of the Order. That Order carries the same weight as law, not to mention failure to abide by its guidelines puts everyone at risk of, quite frankly, suffering and death. You can tell me all day long that the majority of the people who contract COVID-19 will recover. And you would be right. You just can’t tell me which ones will and which ones won’t. And any preventable death that occurs is one too many.

Currently we are limiting attendance at services, no matter the location, to nine people and the speaker or minister. If a member of the family fills that role, then ten family members can be present. We’re letting families know we will gladly assist them with a public memorial service at a later, safer date, at no additional charge to them. We will arrange for visitations where family members can rotate in and out so there are never more than ten of them in the building at any given time, so each and every one of them has a few minutes to say their final good-byes. Presently our Savannah location is ready to begin live-streaming funeral services if those services are held in our chapel. In theory the equipment and the process are working great. We don’t know about in practice and won’t until we have the opportunity to do a reality check. Our other locations are working diligently to follow suit as quickly as possible.

If you check our website in the coming days, you’ll see a new program called Hugs from Home . That program will give those who aren’t allowed to attend the opportunity to express their condolences in a meaningful way. The messages sent through our website will be printed and attached to helium-filled balloons which will be weighted and placed at the service location. When the family arrives, they will see these representations of their friends and extended family who could not come but are with them in spirit and love.

It goes against everything we believe to deny families the opportunity to honor their loved ones and share their grief. It goes against everything we believe to deny them the public support that a visitation and funeral service offer. But as should always be the case, what benefits the majority outweighs what benefits a few. If we are diligent, if we make the personal sacrifices now on all fronts, perhaps lives will be saved. And who knows? One of those lives might be yours . . . or someone you love.

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Something Evil Is Among Us

Thu, 19 Mar 2020 02:31:00 GMT

There’s no time like the present. And I don’t mean that in the usual sense. My inbox is full of emails from every CEO of every company I’ve ever ordered anything from, plus those professional organizations and entities with whom I am affiliated. Everyone wants me to know what they’re doing to protect me from the latest coronavirus while still meeting my needs—even though they are several thousand miles away. National and state funeral service organizations are constantly updating their suggestions and offering guidance in what is proving to be an ever-changing situation. One forum allows me to hear from directors all across the country as they struggle to find that balance between “don’t let anyone in your building” and “strive to assist the families with what they need in their time of loss”. There does’t seem to be any happy medium here. That initial no-more-than-50-people guideline rapidly dropped to 10. Rhode Island has imposed a mandatory 25 person limit so directors across the state had to start canceling visitations and requiring guest lists for services. It was the only way they could insure compliance while allowing the families the maximum attendance. Think about your family. If it’s a large one, which 25 people would you invite to a funeral? And who gets the privilege of calling everyone else and telling them to stay home?

Those in some of the hardest hit areas have begun conducting arrangement conferences by phone, email, or video conference. If a family has to come to their building, they are limiting the number making arrangements to no more than two. And there are no visitations, only graveside services. The hope in these areas is that families will take advantage of offers to hold public memorial services at a later date—at no additional cost to them—so the life of their loved one can be appropriately honored without fear of infecting the world. Still another option offered by some is a private family visitation followed by a private family service, again with a more public service held later. And webcasting and live-streaming are now the buzz words of the profession. But even those options have obstacles, mainly in the legalities of using copyrighted music.

I’ve learned way more stuff in the last few days than I ever thought I would need or want to know.

It’s hard for those of us in presently unaffected areas to fathom how we’ve landed where we are. It’s hard for us to comprehend the severity of this health crisis because we aren’t seeing it where we live. But we will, and the only way to lessen the consequences of the illness is to lessen its opportunities to spread.

I know there are folks who believe this is a hoax. I know there are folks who firmly believe this is a plot by the Democrats to rule the world . . . or at least the government of the United States. I know there are folks who think some rogue country has unleashed a biochemical weapon on all the rest of us—that this is a man-made disaster . . . like any of that makes the end result of this mess any different. The fact of the matter is, something evil is among us, in this particular instance, the evil being a new and unfamiliar strain of the coronavirus.

And with this evil comes change. For the high school seniors, it means no prom and possibly no graduation ceremony. For college students, it means end of the year events have been canceled and students have been told to pack up what they need and go home. Church services and other congregational gatherings have been canceled. Sporting events are no longer being held and leagues are canceling entire seasons so the fans will stay at home . . . or at least away. Weddings and vacations are being postponed because venues are being closed so people will not gather. Concerts, Broadway shows, local performances . . . you name it and if it’s a gathering of any size, it isn’t anymore.

Through all the trials and tribulations I hope you’ll remember a few important points—listed in no particular order:

We’re all in this together, and together is the only way we’ll get out.

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Sawyer’s Song

Wed, 11 Mar 2020 23:07:00 GMT

It was his favorite song and he loved to “lead “it anytime he had the chance. Granted, sometimes it was hard to tell exactly what the words were, because he was only two, but it wasn’t difficult to see the joy in his face or to hear it in his voice.

That precious voice was silenced in the early hours of Tuesday morning, March 3 ^rd . Only through memories and the magic of technology will any of his family ever experience his boundless joy again. But thanks to a request . . . a simple request sent out on Facebook by a family friend . . . and shared countless times, Sawyer Kimberlin’s legacy will live forever.

“Holy, Holy, Holy” . . . it was Sawyer’s favorite song. The request? To sing Sawyer’s Song during Sunday worship services, and to film it and post it on Facebook. Friends planned to compile the videos and present them to the family as a gift from the world, given in their grief. I don’t know what they expected, but the response was overwhelming.

All across our country—literally across the world—congregations came together, raising their voices in that beautiful melody. Music directors and song leaders told the story of Sawyer and his family, of all those who died on that day, and as the music began and the cameras would slowly scan those in attendance, you could see parents pull their children a little closer. Couples would reach for each other’s hands. Grown men would struggle—and often fail—to maintain their composure while women gently wiped the tears from their eyes, never looking away from the one who was leading their efforts.

There were congregations of obvious wealth with great numbers and those who met in much smaller buildings with fewer members. There were people from all walks of life, scattered across the globe, who took time to honor a child and his love of music and the Master.

As those who were so devastatingly affected by the storms of March 3 ^rd try to rebuild their lives, often without people they love, I’m sure there are many who wonder why this had to happen. It speaks to the age old question—why do bad things happen to good people? I’m one of those who wonders, and I will never in a million years attempt to provide a response. But I do know this, a pure and innocent child who otherwise led a normal, probably unremarkable life, brought our divided world together through his death. Maybe just for a few minutes, but for those few minutes, we sang Sawyer’s Song as one.

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The Wrath Of The Storm

Wed, 04 Mar 2020 23:47:00 GMT

I started trying to write this last night, but the words wouldn’t come. Actually, that isn’t quite true; they came, but as incomplete thoughts from a brain that was basically numb . . . or overwhelmed . . . or perhaps both.

For me it began that morning as I stood at the kitchen sink, preparing to prepare my daily indulgence—oatmeal. Real oatmeal with real butter and real sugar. It’s breakfast every single day of the world and I look forward to it. But as I stood at the sink, with HLN mindlessly playing in the background, I caught the words, “A tornado touched down in Nashville . . .” and my head snapped around as I moved toward the television. With cup and spoon in hand, I stood and watched in horror as picture after picture revealed the devastation from a storm that stayed on the ground for an hour, devouring everything in its path.

As the day wore on, so did the news. The death toll climbed with each update, as did the number still missing. And people on Facebook were reminding everyone it wasn’t just Nashville. Hermitage, Mt. Juliet, Cookeville—they all suffered in the wrath of the storm. Then the pictures began appearing . . . smiling faces of happy families, holding their children close as they posed for the camera—never dreaming that picture would be the one that would accompany the announcement of their personal tragedies.

One family lost their precious four year old daughter, a beautiful child with sparkling eyes and an infectious smile. Another family died together . . . but not really. Although they perished at the hands of the same storm, they were not together when they were found, leading to momentary hope that at least someone had survived—a hope that was snatched away within a few eternally long hours. Their son was only two. In total, five children died that day, victims of Nature’s unpredictability. For at least four of those, their parents will feel overwhelming guilt, wondering why they couldn’t save their child. Why their child had to die while they lived. For the fifth one, there is no one left to ask those questions.

There seems to have been little to no warning of the storm’s approach, so many were caught by surprise. Even if they had known, when you look at the pictures of houses that were literally leveled, leaving no visible clue as to what they once were, you have to wonder how anyone could have survived. If there is a silver lining, it’s that this happened when most everyone was at home, so churches and schools and places of business that were hardest hit did not also add to the loss of life.

When I went to bed last night, the number of missing in Putnam County was 77. Today, at last check, it had dropped to 22 without a corresponding increase in deaths. At the same time, the media outlets had swung their attention to Super Tuesday, a sad reminder that Life does not stop for Death; often it doesn’t even bother to slow down. I’m pretty sure the people in the hardest hit areas could not have cared less about politics at that moment. I’m pretty sure the people who lost family members and friends will be hard-pressed to passionately care about much for a long time to come.

Now they have to learn to sleep again. Now they must learn to deal with the fear each time the wind blows or a thunderstorm strikes. They must learn to live without the tangible memories that Nature destroyed . . . they must learn to live without the people she so violently ripped from their lives.

At this point, I’m going to speak personally because, at this point, I don’t know any other way to speak. I will never understand. I will never understand how, with all of the technology we have, people can still be unaware of such imminent danger. I will never understand why innocent people must lose everything they own . . . or die . . . in such a horrific manner. I will never understand why the most innocent of victims—the children—are forced to endure the all-consuming terror that must have been theirs in those last moments, or why their lives must be sacrificed to an unfeeling demon wrapped in a funnel cloud. But those are the same kinds of questions I ask at every natural disaster, or mass shooting, or terrible, life-altering accident. Just like so many who have been affected by this tragedy, whether directly or by extension, I am saddened . . . and angry . . . and helpless in the face of it all.

We’re called the Volunteer State for a reason, and we’ll be there for each other as we seek to recover and rebuild, because the people of Tennessee are strong in character and resilience—but that doesn’t mean we’re invincible. For many it will be months if not years before life approaches some semblance of normal. For others, it will never be the same. The scars on the land will mirror the wounds so deeply carved into their minds and hearts. And those are the kinds of wounds that never heal.

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Waiting For A Miracle

Wed, 26 Feb 2020 23:21:00 GMT

As I sit writing this it is early Wednesday morning—as in just a hair after midnight on Tuesday. In Obion County, Tennessee two families and hundreds of friends are waiting. Waiting . . . and hoping . . . . and praying. For those of you who may not know, the Obion County High School’s fishing club was participating in a tournament on Pickwick Lake over the weekend. One team experienced trouble with their motor before the competition began . . . and it was believed they had loaded up and returned home . . . until they didn’t. Their boat has been located on the opposite side of the dam 14 miles away from where they started . . . and there are only a few ways that can happen . . . none of which are good unless you trailer your boat and drive to the other side or lock through. And they did neither. Now a rescue operation has turned into a recovery mission for the two fifteen year olds and one of their fathers who was serving as a chaperon.

For those of us who have seen the dam and its spillways, who know what these waters can do, it is difficult to believe in a potential miracle, even though they have occurred in the past. But those in the midst of the anguish have to believe. Even if they accept the loss of their loved ones—the end result of a day that should have been filled with fun instead of fear—there will always be hope that they are wrong—until the recovery mission is successfully completed.

Years ago we received a call from a woman in a nearby community. Her daughter, whom she had not seen for years, had been located. Unfortunately, it was someone from the coroner’s office who delivered the news. Her child had made it to New Orleans and had died there, identified but with no known family. The employees of that office had done all they knew to do, hoping to locate someone . . . anyone . . . but without success—until the day before her body was to be buried in a pauper’s field. There was one more phone number, one more opportunity, and when that one persistent person called it, her mother answered.

We brought her daughter home, to a woman who always believed she would return—but not in the manner she had hoped.

It is hard—unbearably hard—to sit and wait, not knowing the outcome of your vigil. And there are always two voices whispering in your ear . . . like the devil and the angel you often see perched on some poor soul’s shoulders. The big question in this instance is which one is whispering what? Is it better to cling to a logically unrealistic hope or to accept that Death is the verdict when you only have circumstantial evidence as proof?

There are those who say knowing provides closure. When the ultimate proof is offered, you can quit waiting and begin healing. Those people are the ones who’ve never found themselves in that position. If you have to wait years . . . or a lifetime . . . to know whether someone you love is dead or alive, you will still grieve, but it will be gently tempered by hope for a miracle. When you finally know , the grief changes, but it is still grief; it was grief from the moment they disappeared and it will continue for the rest of your life. It’s just that now it’s grief compounded by knowledge. Sadly, the only thing that closes when Death is the final answer to the mystery of the missing is the door to Hope—because once you know, you no longer have the option of believing in miracles.

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In Anticipation

Wed, 19 Feb 2020 23:50:00 GMT

Slightly less than a year ago, in February of 2019, the Tennessee River laid claim to Hardin County. Families lost their homes and everything they owned and the devastation to our area was beyond description.

Now, less than a year later, Mother Nature is at it again. Homes are underwater, cherished possessions are damaged beyond repair . . . and now a section of one of our county roads is impassable—not because it’s submerged but because it simply isn’t there anymore, its foundation having been washed away. Just down from that missing patch of asphalt, two houses collapsed for the same reason. Fortunately, at this point, no lives have been lost and the flooding has not been as widespread as it was in 2019. But Mother Nature isn’t finished yet—there is still more rain to come.

On October 26 ^th of last year, the eye wall of a tropical storm gifted us with equal but different devastation, uprooting thousands of trees that were decades old, damaging homes and other property and, in one instance, ending a life. We still have not recovered completely from its aftermath, and the land will be forever changed because of it.

What do each of these events have to do with the other? For the events themselves, very little, save for the amount of destruction involved. But for the people afflicted? For them, these events are forever linked.

I’m sure as those affected by last year’s flooding watched the river rising again, their hearts sank. They knew. They knew what was coming. And they knew there was absolutely nothing they could do to prevent it. They would take what they could, move from the river’s reach, and wait. All they could do was wait . . . and grieve over the coming loss.

On October 26 ^th , I was in a cabin listening to the wind howl and the trees fall around me. I had never been afraid in a storm before—and I wasn’t then because I didn’t have a clue as to how severe the storm was . . . or how dangerous. But now? Now when the wind picks up and the trees begin to bend with each gust, anxiety rears its ugly head. I remember that day months earlier. I remember the before and the after and how we’re still cleaning up the mess. And I’m not the only one who remembers . . . or whose heart beats a little faster or whose stomach begins to churn when a storm settles in. Those who lost their homes wonder what they will lose this time. Those who lost someone they loved will be taken back to that terrible day—a day that began so beautifully and ended so tragically.

We often take the term grief and confine its use to loss brought about by Death. And we look at anticipatory grief—grief brought about by fear of the coming loss, rather than the actual loss—and again link its existence to Death. But loss is loss and any type of loss or the anticipation of that loss can open the door to grief. True, there are degrees of loss and degrees of grief, and the loss of a human life far outweighs the loss of material possessions. But no matter the type, there is still grief and there must still be coping and adjustment—but probably not recovery. You see, it’s almost impossible to recover from any kind of loss when the world keeps reminding us it can always happen again.

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Fear v. Hope

Wed, 12 Feb 2020 22:19:00 GMT

Despite my every attempt to shop incognito, she spotted me at Wal-Mart, but in her instance I didn’t mind. I hadn’t heard from her lately, and I wanted to know how she was doing. More specifically, I wanted to know how her husband was doing. There had been some recent issues . . . health issues on his part . . . and I knew she had to be struggling under the weight of waiting.

She seemed more than willing to talk, I’m sure, in part, because I was more than willing to listen. There had been testing . . . all the testing . . . and results that could mean this . . . or maybe that. This was something that could be rather easily corrected. That could be a death sentence. And the fear of losing him had reached the point of being unbearable.

It was then she decided to learn everything she could about his symptoms, everything she could about every possible scenario that came out of his doctor’s mouth. She spent hours each night, scanning the internet, reading the reputable websites, the ones she knew she could trust. She printed reams of paper, marking things that seemed important, things that seemed to point in the right direction. She poured over his medical records, looking for patterns that might have been years in the making. And as she scanned and read and printed and marked and poured, she began to better understand what could be happening to the man she loved.

She went to his next appointment armed with knowledge and an abundance of paper, just hoping the doctor would be open-minded enough to listen to what she had to say. She realized that nothing she had learned would change the eventual diagnosis. He had whatever he had and no amount of research in the world would ever change that. But what if she could point them in the right direction? What if the one person who knew her husband better than anyone else could speed up the process so they could move forward with treatment, if treatment was truly needed? What if her research forced the medical professionals to think outside their medical box?

Do you see what she did? She took fear and turned it into a powerful tool, a driving force that propelled her through her mission. She could have let that same fear completely disable her; she could have let it paralyze her and drive her to the brink of insanity. But she didn’t. She took her fear and used it to create hope. And hope is fear’s greatest enemy.

Their story has a happy ending. It turned out to be this rather than that, and her research was what put them on the right path. Is it always going to end so beautifully? No. But whatever the circumstances may be, you have a choice. Fear can be your greatest weapon or your worst enemy, and only you can decide which. When you give in to fear, when you allow it to take control, you have already lost the battle. But within fear you will always find hope—as long as you’re willing to look for it.

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FORO

Wed, 05 Feb 2020 22:52:00 GMT

I am, as I have noted in the past, a creature of habit. I enjoy my ruts and become terribly distressed when said ruts are diverted. Please keep that fact in mind as we proceed.

Over the course of the last decade or so I’ve been visiting one of our local retailers who shall remain nameless, but who is incredibly large and with whom I spend a ridiculous amount of time and money. But lately items I’ve been accustomed to purchasing with absolutely no problem have disappeared from their shelves. I understand businesses run out of things and have to wait for those things to be delivered so they can go back into inventory, but after several weeks of empty shelves I asked the cashier what was happening. She didn’t have a clue and referred me to an 800 number that would get me to corporate so I could ask them the same question.

I’ve always contended they pay people to watch what I buy so they can discontinue it, a theory that probably greatly overestimates my status as a customer. But for the last month I haven’t been able to buy my handy, dandy, and somewhat more hygienically safe, Equate non-drip nose spray (which is bad since I enjoy breathing). Nor have I been able to find my Nature Made Sam-e (which is also bad since killing people is not nice—not to mention illegal). And now? Now I can’t even buy my usual coffee creamer—which must also remain nameless lest some of you decide to try it and then like it, thereby increasing the already devastating shortage.

For those who do not know me, I will tell you this is an unmitigated disaster. Three cups of coffee a day (all right, maybe four . . . or five) and at least one cup of hot tea require the addition of this creamer. Actually, they DEMAND the addition of this creamer. But can I find it? No. Not at any of the grocery stores I checked and barely on line. I did find a retailer on Amazon who had five cases of six bottles each on hand—with no indication there would be more. I resisted the urge to order all thirty bottles. You know that “fun fact” we posted on our Facebook page about the loss of your cell phone generating panic equal to that of a near death experience? Well, loss of this anonymous creamer is equally panic-inducing. At least for me.

I suppose all of this makes me a real-life example of FORO—the Fear Of Running Out as seen on the International Delight commercials. But I guarantee you, I’m not alone. There are a few more of us in this building who love the stuff. They may not eat it with a spoon (as I have been known to do on occasion) (don’t judge me), but for them it makes the perfect cup of coffee—which is why we try to keep a generous supply in the fridge in the garage.

Before you rightfully decide I’m obsessing over inconsequential things, let me assure you, I know there are probably acceptable substitutes out there . . . somewhere . . . except maybe for the creamer. And, if these items are never to be had again, I will seek out those substitutes and make do with the best ones I can find.

But there are a few things in this life that can never be replaced. These are the people we love for whom there can never be an acceptable substitute . . . good friends . . . parents . . . spouses and children . . . adorable grandchildren. When they leave you there is no trying a dozen different variations of similar people and then settling for the one that’s closest. They. Cannot. Be. Replaced. There’s just a big hole left in your heart that will never completely close . . . one that will never truly heal. Sadly, sometimes well-meaning individuals seem to imply otherwise. “You’re still young . . . you’ll find someone else” or perhaps “At least you have/ can have more children”, or the ever popular “They lived a good, full life; at least you had them for XX years”, like any of that could ever remove the pain.

If my nose spray and my Sam-e and my creamer disappear forever, I’ll survive. And I’ll find something else, and I’ll make do. I’ll just be mad for a while. But the mere thought of losing someone I love, never to see them again until eternity rolls around, fills me with a fear I never knew was possible. FORO is real, folks—but only when we talk about time with the ones we love.

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Some People Belong to the World

Wed, 29 Jan 2020 23:36:00 GMT

When the news of Kobe Bryant’s death hit every media outlet known to man I, like a million other people, began reading every news article that popped up. We all seem to have an insatiable curiosity when it comes to death, especially the death of someone that well known. So we soak up every tidbit of information until, at least for me, it becomes too much. Too much information, too much sadness, too much reflection . . . simply too much.

In all of that reading, one fact stood out above all the rest. Everyone who responded publicly was grieving. And everyone was grieving differently . So many were honoring his memory and each memorial was different, determined by their relationship with him.

NBA teams scheduled to play that night traded 24 second shot clock penalties or 8 second backcourt penalties, each number representing the jerseys Bryant wore during his storied career. There were standing ovations as the teams honored him and moments of respectful, grief-filled silence. Many wrote “R.I.P. Kobe” on their tennis shoes, briefly wore jerseys sporting one of his two numbers, or openly wept as they tried to cope with the devastating news. Yet still they played. They played to honor his legacy. They played because Life does not stop for Death.

The fans donned their Bryant jerseys and left offerings at impromptu memorials. Many gathered at the Staples Center, home to the Los Angeles Lakers, the team for which he played for his entire 20 year career in the NBA. It had become known as “the house that Kobe built” and that day the Jumbotron outside bore his picture and the words “In Loving Memory”. Many people, whether fans of the game or not, posted on Facebook and shared their feelings on Twitter and Instagram as they tried to understand how his life could end this way.

The very night of his death the Staples Center was set to host the Grammy Awards. As the news began to spread and rumors became truth, the officials at the center started planning their tribute. While the stars rehearsed their music for the evening, the maintenance crews moved Bryant’s number 8 and number 24 jerseys so they hung side by side, draping all others so only his were visible. Normally, the jerseys that hang in the arena are not illuminated during non-sporting events, but on that night, those two remained in the spotlight for the entire evening. The performers acknowledged his loss, remembering his greatness and his impact, and throughout the night silent reminders filled the event . . . his jersey draped across a chair, his number on a guitar. But perhaps the most profound observation was offered by Lizzo as she accepted her first award of the evening . . .

“This whole week I was lost in my problems, stressed out, and then in an instant all of that can go away and your priorities really shift. Today, all of my little problems that I thought were big as the world were gone, and I realized that there are people hurting right now.”

As I read the tributes and scanned the news releases, there was one that touched me more than any of the others. It came from a father—a father who looked at this tragedy through a different lens. He didn’t see Kobe Bryant the basketball superstar. He didn’t see Kobe Bryant the humanitarian. He saw Kobe Bryant the father. How terrible it would have been if he understood what was happening and knew his daughter was about to die. How hard it would have been to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right . . . knowing it was not.

Throughout the coverage of this tragedy, several have made a point to remind us that eight other people lost their lives that Sunday morning. Eight other people who were equally loved by those who knew them . . . who together had touched hundreds if not thousands of lives . . . whose deaths left great voids and great grief. Just because their lives were not lived as publicly as Kobe Bryant’s does not mean their loss is not as great. They will simply be mourned in a more private setting, by the people who knew and loved them. Some people belong to their family and their friends and those are the ones who will grieve their loss. Some people belong to the world . . . and it is the world that will grieve for them. Kobe Bryant was one of those people.

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Wake-Up Calls

Thu, 23 Jan 2020 00:00:00 GMT

Long, long ago . . . in a galaxy far, far away . . . there were no cell phones. So when you traveled out-of-town and spent the night in a hotel, you were required to trust the resident alarm clock that was often provided as one of the amenities—if, that is, there was a specific time at which you needed to be alert and functional the following morning. Many times, these alarm clocks were miracles of modern technology—meaning they had all the bells and whistles and no way known to mankind that someone unfamiliar with them could accurately set one without an engineering degree. So, what did you do so as not to miss your appointed time of functionality?

You rang the front desk and asked for a wake-up call.

For those of you who post-date the invention of cell phones, this was a service offered by most hotels whereby the clerk on duty in the morning (and in later years, the automated system) would ring your room at the appointed hour to be certain you were awake. You were on your own for the functional part.

The up-side to this was that you could wake up without being solely dependent on a strange alarm clock. The down-side was there was no snooze button . . . and you had to trust another human being to feel as strongly about waking you up as you did about being awakened.

I was thinking about this the other morning, as I was hitting the snooze button for the third or fourth time, and in that fogginess that dwells between being fully awake and drifting back to sleep, I realized wake-up calls don’t always involve hotel clerks and landlines.

Sometimes, it’s a near miss in an accident.

Sometimes, it’s a serious illness.

Sometimes, it’s a misunderstanding blown out of proportion.

Sometimes, it’s the death of someone you love.

Any event that comes bringing awareness and positively changes your life can serve as a wake-up call—a notice that your behavior or thought processes are due for an overhaul. Whether that event affects you personally or someone close to you, the end result is usually the same. Change. Change for the better.

But that change can come with a hefty price tag. The near miss can still result in severe injuries. The serious illness can still result in a lengthy recovery. The misunderstanding can cause hurt feelings that will never truly heal. And death? Death brings a lifetime of grief and often, regret.

If I was ever traveling and missed an appointment because I failed to answer my wake-up call, that was on me. I had no one to blame but myself if the system functioned and I didn’t. The same goes for the wake-up calls Life serves up. If we don’t pay attention and make the changes, that’s a wake-up call wasted. Fortunately, these lessons aren’t a part of day-to-day living; although it may seem as though they do, normally accidents and illnesses and misunderstandings and death do not constantly afflict us—which is all the more reason we should pay close attention to their lessons when they do.

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Never Enough Time

Wed, 15 Jan 2020 23:05:00 GMT

Please note the picture of the large toe that occupies someone’s right foot (that someone being yours truly—as you can probably tell, pedicures are not my thing). Also, please note the malformation of the toenail attached to said toe. That crease that runs from side to side is the point to which it has grown out since I injured it. What some of you may think is dirt is actually bruising that looks SO much better than it did originally. Immediately after the aforementioned injury, the entire nail turned lovely, mingledy shades of blue, purple, black and brown. Now at least the bulk of the discoloration has faded.

And how, you might ask, did I manage to do such damage?

Hiking. I went hiking.

It was supposed to be a three mile hike through the mountains of Sedona, Arizona. That was probably accurate . . . if you only counted one way. Within a few days of traversing the West Fork Trail, my toenail was all shades of everything. My friend Google informed me this type of injury can happen to hikers or runners when the force of the shoe presses down repeatedly on the nail. Evidently, my right shoe was angrier about the trek than my left.

So now I’m to the point you see in the picture. The nail is somewhat normally colored and has grown out as far as the ridge that crosses it. Someday, perhaps in the next several months, the ridge will move on up the nail and into oblivion.

And when, you might ask, did this injury occur?

In November. November of 2018.

That’s right. It has taken 14 months to get to what you see. Which is still kinda gross but such an improvement over where I started.

There are so many things in this life that require time and patience for recovery and adjustment and for which we are willing to wait. If someone has open heart surgery, we fully expect an extended period for healing. If someone is diagnosed with cancer, we understand treatment can take months or years or even a lifetime. And in any health related event we know there is always the possibility of a relapse or recurrence after recovery or remission.

But if you lose a part of your soul? If your metaphorical heart is shattered because someone you loved died and left you here alone? You’ve got three months, tops. Maybe four. If the folks around you are generous—and patient—you might get a year to recover and move on with your life.

The folks who attempt to impose these time limits have never lost someone they loved deeply; someone so important in their life that a part of them died when that person did. This giant, black hole opens up, swallowing everything around it, and no surgical procedure or medical professional in the world can close it. Only Time. And even Time cannot affect healing. It simply allows for adjustment; for scars to form that will dull the pain and protect the wound.

These are painful injuries that are often hidden from the world. These are wounds that pierce our souls while leaving our bodies intact and outwardly whole. If you are the one grieving, don’t allow others to impose their time tables on your life. And if you are the friend or family member, don’t allow yourself to be fooled by appearances or the passage of Time. Neither is a reliable indicator that Grief has taken its permanent leave or that the one left behind has healed . . . because chances are, neither will ever truly come to pass.

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It’s Not Your Angel

Wed, 08 Jan 2020 23:37:00 GMT

I’m constantly scanning Pinterest, searching for interesting monuments or unusual methods of transportation for the deceased (aka hearses), or perhaps inspirational quotes or those that attempt to put grief into words. Not long ago I found one that falls into that last category; one that spoke so strongly to me I knew I had to do more than simply post it on our Facebook page. And yet, at the same time, I knew I would probably embarrass a few folks for no other reason than because, at some point, they have spoken these words. Please believe me, that is not my intent.

The observation came from Angela Miller, an author and speaker on all things grief related. Her son Noah died tragically at the age of two, an event that led her to utter the following words:

“Easy for you to say ‘God needed another angel’ since God didn’t ask you for yours.”

When I first read this it took my breath away because I know sometimes we speak without fully understanding the depth of meaning held in our words. She’s right, it’s easy to say God needed another angel . . . if you’re a believer it paints a beautiful picture of what has transpired and where and with whom your child is . . . something that should serve as a source of comfort and strength . . . as long as we aren’t the one who is suffering. We aren’t the one of whom God required the sacrifice.

Before I continue, let me assure you I am aware this isn’t how angels work. First of all, Biblically speaking, angels don’t come into existence each time someone dies. Second, God doesn’t need anything from us, most certainly not our children. I think most of us realize these things but we use the term angel to lovingly refer to the one who has died, especially when it’s a child.

But have you ever thought that angels come in different shapes and sizes and ages? In all probability, everyone who dies is someone’s “angel” and to look at the person who is grieving and tell them God needed their loved one more than they did is a slap to God and of no comfort to the bereaved.

Remember my question about different shapes and sizes and ages? What about the police officer that dies in the line of duty? Should we rightfully say he or she knew that could happen when they chose that profession? How would we feel if it was our husband or wife or child that died in that manner and someone looked at us and spoke those very words?

And now, with the turmoil in our world . . . what about our servicemen and women . . . especially those who have been recently deployed? Let me state right now—and pay very close attention to my words—I am neither condoning nor condemning the events currently underway which involve our military. But those events have sent many of their number overseas onto foreign soil—and left behind their spouses and children and parents and siblings. And should that person die during any conflict, knowing they died defending their country will not make up for the devastating loss to their family. To tell them they should be proud of the sacrifice demanded of them shows little respect for the pain they are enduring.

“God needed another angel”. The next time you’re tempted to use that phrase regarding anyone who has died, please think again. If it was your angel, could you so easily utter those words?

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A Christmas Miracle

Thu, 02 Jan 2020 05:38:00 GMT

This time of year you’ll often hear people refer to a “Christmas miracle”, usually in jest over some random event that’s easily explained but also just happened to work out for the best, in spite of the odds. Normally for me, just surviving Christmas is the miracle . . . but this year . . . this year was different. I am generally a skeptic by nature, but this year I really did experience that rarest of events—what to me was a true Christmas miracle—and with your indulgence, and my brother-in-law’s permission, I’d like to share my story with you.

Those of you who read this blog on a fairly regular basis may remember me mentioning that my brother-in-law’s wife died in early December. I can’t just say my sister-in-law because if you climb the wrong family tree, that can also mean my brother’s wife. So to avoid confusion, I’ll simply use their names. This particular brother-in-law is Don. His wife’s name is Nancy.

Nancy had battled several serious health issues over the past year or so but the last one was more than her body and her spirit could overcome. She had always been a fighter, one of the sweetest yet strongest women I have ever known, but even that strength could not prevail this time.

I had decided a few weeks earlier to order everyone in my husband’s family a Christmas ornament with his grandmother’s name (Emma Dickson Beckham) and dates of birth and death engraved on it. They were the same type we give to each of the families we serve, and when Nancy died, I ordered one more, one with her name and the appropriate dates. On Christmas day, as the chaos of the gift giving subsided, I passed out the “Miss” Emma ornaments, saving Don’s until last . . . and when I handed him his I told him he got two, and gave him Nancy’s as well. He looked at it for a minute then, realizing what he had, pressed his lips tightly together and took a deep breath.

Later that night, when everyone had departed for their respective abodes, I pulled out my laptop to check the funeral homes’ Facebook page, and Messenger announced that someone was attempting to communicate with me. Clicking on the icon, I found a note from Don, thanking me for Nancy’s ornament. It had come several hours before, but he was still on-line so I responded, telling him how much I had missed Nancy that day. She had occupied my thoughts as I was preparing for everyone’s arrival; I knew she would have commented on how cute the red striped cups were that I had out for coffee or how much the kids had grown or how sorry she was that Malcolm was quarantined with RSV and Kathryne with the flu. The words I will never hear again had echoed in the stillness of the house that morning.

Don and I messaged back and forth for a bit, talking about Nancy and her absence from our lives, then the conversation drew to an end. I closed my laptop and pulled myself up out of the floor where I’d been sitting, but as I got ready to leave the room, what appeared to be a slip of paper caught my eye.

Now before I go any further I should probably explain where exactly I was and how exactly that room is arranged. There is a bedroom off our den and that’s where my laptop lives, perpetually plugged in (so I’ve fried the battery) and ready at a moment’s notice. At the foot of the bed is my great-grandfather’s trunk, piled high with quilts and books and stuffed animals. Beneath the bed are all the usual things most of us are guilty of storing there; in my case, several boxes of I’m not really sure what. So anything that falls behind the trunk to the floor is going to remain upright, wedged between the back of the trunk and the boxes under the bed. And so it was with whatever I was seeing.

I got down on my hands and knees, reaching as far behind the trunk as I could until I grasped the paper. Pulling it out I found that I was holding a plain white envelope. There was no address or postmark on the outside, but it had, at some point, been torn open. Inside was a Christmas card—the one you see in the picture accompanying this story. I opened the card and read the message:

“Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.”

And it was signed “Nancy”.

I stood there . . . looking at the envelope . . . looking at the card . . . trying to wrap my mind around what was happening. Nancy had always mailed us a Christmas card and she always signed just her name, not hers and Don’s. But this card had never been mailed. Evidently it had been hand-delivered, but I had no idea when. Nor did I have a clue how it came to be behind the trunk, how long it might have been there, or why at that very moment, I would see it. And then I smiled.

Now, I don’t know what any of you may be thinking about all of this, but I’ll tell you what I firmly believe. Nancy made sure I found that card. She wanted me to remember that she’s still with us, and what better way to remind me than to send a message from the past during a season she loved—a message from happier times when she was with us in more than spirit? And she knew I’d tell Don. And I’m pretty sure she knew I’d tell the world if he was okay with that—and there was absolutely no hesitation in his voice when I asked his permission.

So, that was my Christmas miracle, a quiet nudging from beyond, meant to offer comfort and reassurance. I happily accepted both and learned some valuable lessons in the process, not the least of which is to always pay attention when some seemingly insignificant object happens to catch my eye.

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It’s Not What’s Under The Tree . . .

Thu, 26 Dec 2019 04:15:00 GMT

I was ready for it this year. Christmas was not going to catch me unprepared. Not again. Last year was, in my perfection driven brain, a disaster. I couldn’t get the house decorated, shopping wasn’t happening, I hadn’t managed to find the cute, personal odds and ends with which I like surprising my family, and nothing was wrapped. NOTHING. For a person who makes her own bows and delights in cloaking each present in just the right paper, resorting to bags and kinda cute boxes from Wal-Mart just didn’t seem right. I felt like I was cheating. That doesn’t mean there is a bloomin’ thing wrong with bags and unwrapped boxes and for those of you who use them, I am certainly not judging. I’m just saying it’s not me. And when I don’t do me, I feel like I’ve failed. Miserably.

But not this year. This year was gonna be different if it killed me. I broke my hard and fast rule about decorating pre-Thanksgiving since there was like an hour between that holiday and December 1. I ordered everything and it all came to me (because I am, after all, an aspiring hermit, and we don’t do Christmas crowds. Ever.) and I even managed to wrap everything as it arrived. It was glorious to see the presents encircling the tree, knowing I had fun stuff my kids would enjoy (if you don’t, please pretend) and surprises they wouldn’t expect but for which they had actually asked months ago.

Yep. I nailed it this year.

And then I got the flu.

Type B, to be exact. I went in to Urgent Care for a sinus cocktail and came out with a mask and a prescription for Xofluza. Fortunately, the timing was such and the medication so effective that my Christmas plans barely hiccuped. Unfortunately, I gave my daughter an early Christmas present. Flu. Type B. They diagnosed her at Urgent Care on Christmas Eve and sent her away with a mask and a prescription for Tamiflu because she’s still the main food source for their seven month old who is currently recovering from RSV. Although the government says Xofluza is safe for rats who are nursing their young, they aren’t so certain about feeding it to tiny humans. And since Malcolm is a tiny human rather than a rat, Tamiflu it was.

Now, as I sit in the glow of the Christmas lights, having successfully navigated one family gathering and waiting for the next one, I’m pondering what I’ve known all along. All the things I could control fell neatly into place . . . because I could control them. But the really important things—having all of my family with me, hoping Malcolm will be all right and not get the flu on top of RSV, hoping my little Kathryne doesn’t feel like garbage (her assessment Wednesday morning when I asked), hoping Dennis, who is now the sole caregiver in that house, won’t get sick—I have absolutely no say over whatsoever. I have no magic wand or super powers or anything that can make it all better. Even my Mary Poppins purse that holds one of everything doesn’t have anything that will remotely touch this.

There are so many things that can suck the joy right out of the most joyful soul at Christmas. Sadly, last year I let things that, in the overall scheme of life, didn’t really matter do just that. This year, although being prepared and on top of my to-do list was nice, it just wasn’t that important when Christmas Day rolled in with only half my children. Oh, it was still a lovely Christmas and I was so glad my Bartlett bunch could be here, but knowing how miserable my little one was, and how serious the risk was to our newest grandchild, brought home the lesson I seem destined to need time and again. Things. Don’t. Matter. Decorations are nice. Christmas presents are nice (and I’d probably have some explaining to do if the tree was bare when the grandkids arrived). But family—that’s the true joy of Christmas and when that circle is broken, whether by illness or Death, it simply is not the same. And when the circle remains broken, nothing is ever the same again.

So as we prepare to enter the coming year, packing away the twinkling lights, the gifts received, and all things Christmas, may we (as in I) remember what is truly important and where our focus should always be. As some wise soul once said, “It’s not what’s under the tree that matters. It’s who’s around it.”

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Never A Doubt

Wed, 18 Dec 2019 22:49:00 GMT

I have a friend (surprising, I know . . .) that I don’t get to see very often, and when I do it’s usually because of my work, not his, which doesn’t make for the best of circumstances. We’ll spend as much time as possible catching up and comparing notes on kids and grandkids and such, and when the time comes for us to part, he always hugs me and tells me he loves me. And I return the favor.

The last time we were together, and we had gone through our usual parting ritual, he asked me if I knew why he always told me he loved me. That caught me by surprise; I guess I just always thought he told me because he did, but before I could really respond, he answered it for me. “So if anything ever happens to me, you’ll never doubt it.”

I’m sure my nose turned a dozen shades of red (just like it’s doing right now) as I struggled to keep the tears at bay. I’m old and tired and cry more easily these days, but he said so much in that one, short sentence. The thought of losing a friend, no matter how often I may or may not see them, is difficult to fathom, especially since true friends are hard to come by. And the thought that I would ever doubt his friendship is even more so, not because he tells me, but because he shows me.

As I was thinking about this week’s blog I kept thinking it should be something about the magic of the season . . . how spark’ly and wonderful it is and how warm and kindhearted and nostalgic it can make us feel. But as wonderful as this season can be—or not be for those who are grieving—the gifts it brings are nothing compared to the gift of friendship. That’s one that is freely given without expectation and is more precious than the most expensive item sold in any store. True friendship cannot be bought . . . and it can never be replaced. Is it any wonder that losing a friend to Death can generate grief equal to that of losing a family member—sometimes even more?

So as Christmas rapidly approaches, closely followed by the coming new year, please take a moment to be thankful for the gift that truly keeps on giving, not just for a day or a month or a year, but for a lifetime . . . and beyond. And please be certain you express that gratitude through your words and your deeds so, as my friend so aptly put it, if something should happen to you, they will never doubt your love for them.

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We Never Know

Thu, 12 Dec 2019 05:02:00 GMT

It’s been a busy week . . . but that’s to be expected, you say. ‘Tis the holiday season and the blank spaces on most everyone’s calendars tend to rapidly disappear. There are work parties and church parties and friend parties and family parties and all the parties, one right after the other. There are good deeds to be done and gifts to be bought. There are houses to be decorated and presents to be wrapped and before you know it, Christmas is here and you don’t even know how that happened when all you did was blink.

My daughter and I have a Christmas tradition that I actually began when my children were very small—we bake cookies . . . all kinds of cookies. And then we give them all away. Well, at least the ones we don’t eat . . . or burn . . . or underbake. Those last ones usually do double duty by also falling into the eat column. When they were young, it was just me and I would bake for a few days then prepare my cookie plates and send them to their new homes. As my daughter grew, she began to help, and today that cookie baking tradition has turned into a cookiethon—three days of continuous baking from sun-up (ok, maybe more like 10ish) to sundown and way beyond. We usually put in 12 hour days and we usually have a blast doing it. We post our antics on Facebook and allow the world to watch as we frolic through three days of a baking marathon, fueled by coffee, sugar, and sparkling Martinelli’s cider.

This year was very different, though. Oh, it started off normally enough. Shopping on Saturday night. Making the dough that has to be refrigerated on Sunday. Revving up the ovens that evening and again the following morning. But Monday evening . . . Monday evening our cookiethon took an unexpected turn.

I say unexpected, but I don’t really suppose it was. My sister-in-law—the wife of my husband’s older brother—had been experiencing health issues for a while. Last week she had collapsed and the prognosis was not good. Monday evening she died.

I don’t believe there was a sweeter person in this world and she and my brother-in-law were a perfect match. I won’t go into their life histories because, honestly, it’s nobody’s business but theirs. I’ll just say it was a blessing they found each other . . . and a blessing to the rest of us that they decided to make it permanent.

Now he finds himself alone again. Soon we’ll be traveling to Germantown for her service—and then we’ll face Christmas without her.

That, my friends, is what Life and Death are all about. It is this dance between the two of them, and you never know how long Death will allow Life to lead. At the moment when you least expect it, Death will claim that position and it does not matter that Christmas is coming, or it’s almost their birthday, or the two of you have plans for your life together. It is all meaningless in the eyes of Death.

There are so many people suffering this time of year, so many people who are trying to figure out how to navigate loss, and it doesn’t even have to be recent loss. Years may have passed but the memories have not. And thank goodness, they never will. Despite the pain they hold, what in the world would we do without them? So I ask this holiday season that we all tread lightly with those around us. We never know how much they may be longing for the past. We never know how much they may be hurting over recent loss. We never know if they will be here tomorrow. We never know. And we should always remember that.

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So Much To Lose

Wed, 04 Dec 2019 22:57:00 GMT

I had the misfortune of needing to make a trip to Wal-Mart on Thanksgiving morning to pick up some items I thought I needed. I say “misfortune” because . . . Wal-Mart. And Thanksgiving. I say “thought I needed” because it turned out I actually had no need for them whatsoever, which was just a bit annoying since I made the effort in vain. But it wasn’t nearly as crowded as I believed it would be, so the time consumed was minimal.

As I wheeled through the grocery aisles, dodging the pallets of Black Friday deals that were still wrapped in plastic and weaving around the shelves that had been strategically placed to block my customary route from one aisle to the next, I began to notice a recurring scene. Throughout that section of the store were men . . . pushing buggies . . . holding cell phones . . . and asking ALL the questions.

“Where is it I’m supposed to find that? . . . Well, it isn’t there. Where else would they put it? . . . Are you sure you really need that?”

“Why didn’t you get it yesterday? . . . I know you were cooking but I thought you came here, too . . . Well, I can’t find it . . . Oh! Wait! . . . . . . Nope . . . never mind . . .”

But my favorite had to be the very confused gentleman standing in the aisle where you find plastic bags and aluminum foil and all that good stuff. I was close enough that I could hear both sides of the conversation, not intentionally, but the volume was really up on his phone so unless I stuck my fingers in my ears and started singing “La-la-la-la” I was going to be privy to the conversation.

Him: “What’s it called? Clutch wrap?” Her: “It’s plastic wrap. You know . . . plastic . . . wrap.” Him: “Clutch wrap?” Her: “No. It’s plastic wrap. You know . . . it’s clear . . . and stretchy . . .”

I knew he wanted Cling Wrap. And I knew he was standing right there in front of it. But I didn’t know how to be helpful without revealing that I was also accidentally eavesdropping. So I kinda hung out around the twist tie baggies until he found his Clutch Wrap and moved on.

Do you see what was happening? Wives were at home, toiling away in the kitchen and finding all the things they had forgotten they would need. So the husbands, who may or may not have been engrossed in other, equally worthwhile activities, were sent to the store with a list that meant little or nothing to them because they don’t do the grocery shopping, so they haven’t the foggiest notion as to where anything might be. Either that or they normally frequent other establishments which, because it was Thanksgiving, had the good sense to be closed.

But one of these days, that scene isn’t going to play out anymore. One of those two will no longer be present for the holidays. Either the wife will have to run her own errands or be certain her original shopping list is complete because the husband won’t be there to pick up the last minute necessities—or the husband will be visiting someone else’s home because the chief cook will no longer be cooking—unless, of course, he also happens to cook.

You don’t always realize how much you lose when Death comes to call. When you’re sitting in the arrangement conference or greeting folks at the visitation, you aren’t thinking about the chores you’ll have to tackle alone. Who’ll get the Christmas tree out of the attic . . . or decorate it? Who’ll take the garbage out before the truck runs each week? Who’ll get the oil changed in the car? Who’ll prepare the Thanksgiving meal . . . or make the last minute grocery run? So many routine tasks that we take for granted will be handled will have to be reassigned . . . or left undone.

So the next time you send your spouse to Wal-Mart to pick up what you left behind (or you happen to be the sendee), think about how wonderful that is. The next time the Thanksgiving meal magically appears so the family can gather around the table and enjoy the day, understand what a blessing that is. The day will come when all the little things we take for granted will disappear. Don’t let that be the moment you realize how much they meant.

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Those Who Came Before

Wed, 27 Nov 2019 00:46:00 GMT

There was a gentle breeze which was nice, given that the day was warmer than usual for a November afternoon. I had traveled as part of the small procession, across town, through the hills and hollers, and onto a small country road, lined with trees so close I believe I could have touched them had I simply rolled down my window.

The road ended in a clearing, a quiet place surrounded by woods and a drive that encircled the cemetery. We parked and exited our vehicles, walking cautiously across the uneven ground toward the tent and chairs that sat awaiting our arrival.

I was friend rather than family, so I moved to the back for the brief service. It was truly a beautiful day, one of the few we had remaining before the rains set in again. It was why that day had been chosen. No one likes slogging through a cemetery for a service and Nature had, for once in her life, managed to grant a family’s wish. As I stood, listening to the music, listening as the minister read the obituary and began his remarks, my eyes scanned my surroundings. It’s what I do in cemeteries . . . looking for the old . . . looking for the unusual . . .

But today there was more to see than the monuments that were neatly scattered about. To one side sat an old brush arbor with benches stretching from side to side—the kind of shelter used by those who would come to honor their loved ones on Decoration Day—its ancient timbers hand cut and pieced together, forming a place of refuge from the blazing heat of the sun or the driving rain. When the circumstances allowed, I wandered from grave to grave, reading the names and the dates of birth and death that were all too often closely aligned. Several of the rows held multiple members of the same family, children laid to rest beside their parents—who rested beside their parents—generation after generation, their lineage proclaimed by the names and dates on their monuments.

I’m not sure I can find the words to explain how moments like this affect me. There is a peace to be found among the dead and as I moved from grave to grave, I was well aware of the sacred ground upon which I walked. Each monument represented a life—a life often filled with struggles and heartaches, but I’m sure, also moments of joy. The abundance of flowers spoke of the love and longing that were still evident, even, in some instances, after decades. Resting beneath my feet were people who changed the world around them—people whose passing was still being grieved and whose lives were still being honored.

In this time of thanksgiving, when the world as we know it tends to focus on that for which we are grateful, I would like to state that I will be forever indebted to those who have come before me—and not just those of my family. For everyone who struggled in life so others did not have to . . . for everyone who lived with honesty and integrity, who made a life through hard work and simple pleasures . . . for themselves and their children and their children’s children . . . I am grateful. I may not have known them personally, but I can know their stories, passed down through the generations, and those stories inspire me—and humble me when I think about how truly blessed I am compared to the hardships they often endured. And as strange as it may seem, I am grateful for their places of rest, for those places speak of their lives when all else falls silent, telling the world that they lived . . . and that to someone, somewhere, they made a difference.

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But I (Don’t) Want To

Wed, 20 Nov 2019 22:03:00 GMT

Say kids, what time is it? For those of you old enough to remember, I’ll tell you right now, “it’s Howdy Doody time” is not the correct answer.

IT’S THE HOLIDAY SEASON!!!

Are you surprised?

Truth be known, probably not. If you get catalogs by mail, then you’ve been overrun with the things for at least the last month. If you shop on-line and forgot to uncheck the sneaky little box that proclaims your interest in receiving emails from the company, then your inbox has been flooded with offers and discounts and promotions and all sorts of temptation. And if you’ve gone anywhere then you know half the world is already festively glittered and beribboned and glowing with a million little twinkly lights. Halloween and Thanksgiving didn’t stand a chance.

None of which has anything to do with today’s topic, other than announcing the onslaught of events that produces anxiety for a great number of the population . . . not because they hate the holidays . . . not because they despise the hustle and bustle and rushing from one thing to the next while trying to maintain some semblance of sanity. It’s because they’re grieving. They are suffering from loss in whatever form it may have arrived—and with that arrival, most all the joy of the season packed its bags and left.

The remarkable thing about Grief is that it consistently overstays its welcome—especially since it was never truly welcome to begin with. Just because you’ve survived the first holiday season doesn’t mean the second one will be any easier. Most likely it will actually be harder, I think largely because we’re prepared for the difficulty of dealing with all the firsts that follow a loss. We understand the first birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, anniversary of their departure will be terrible. But we mistakenly believe the rest will be better. More time will have passed—more time to adjust to the absence and the new normal with which we have been afflicted. And then the second birthday and Thanksgiving and Christmas and anniversary roll around and hit us like a Mack truck. We had not steeled ourselves for their arrival. We were not prepared to face them because we believed preparation was unnecessary. And we were wrong.

So what does one do during a season that is mired up to its eyeballs in traditions—traditions that are a double-edged sword? On the one hand, the honoring of those traditions can bring a sense that perhaps not everything in the world has gone awry. These are rituals that can remain unchanged, that will continue from generation to generation. But on the other hand, every tradition is steeped in memories and those memories can be overwhelmingly painful, no matter how long it’s been since life was so drastically altered.

You want to know another remarkable thing about Grief? It affects everyone differently. Whatever their reasons may be, some need those traditions to survive this time of year. Their rituals come bearing comfort and peace. They want to . . . they need to engage in the activities they have celebrated for years. Those celebrations offer them stability in a very unstable time and a connection to those they have lost as well as to those who remain. But others? For others, being forced to observe traditions that are laden with memories is only going to devastate them. They don’t want to . . . they can’t involve themselves in these activities without losing what little grip they still have on their own sanity. So new traditions evolve, traditions that still honor the season but offer a refuge from the overwhelming nature of Grief.

And you know what? Either path is fine. It’s why you can read the title to this post either way, depending upon whether or not you use that little word in the parentheses. If you need the traditions, then keep them. If you need the change, then change. There is no law that dictates one above the other.

Sometimes, it’s all about survival.

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Is It Really Enough?

Wed, 13 Nov 2019 23:41:00 GMT

In case you missed it—and I don’t see how you could—this past Monday was Veterans Day. It’s one of the few holidays we’ve left alone, not moving it around so we can have another long weekend, although this year it cooperated with the premise by falling on a Monday.

As is the custom, the majority of Facebook world posted pictures of the veterans in their family, myself included. It might be a spouse or a parent, a child or a sibling. It might even have been a picture of themselves, but many folks took a moment to honor the veterans in their family and often to tell the stories of their service.

As I scrolled through all the pictures, many of which were World War II era, I started wondering what they must have thought as they posed for these photographs. How many of them had been drafted? How many had voluntarily enlisted out of a sense of patriotism and duty? How many of them realized they might never return . . . how many of them never did?

Of the pictures posted on Facebook, most were privileged to come home, alive and well but changed forever. You cannot go through what they did without it leaving its mark. Even if you didn’t see combat, your friends might, and there was always the chance you would. Even if you were safely encamped state side, there was always the possibility you would be called into action. And with that call came the distinct possibility of death, or at the very least, wounds which would never truly heal.

My father was one of the lucky ones. As his unit prepared to ship out during the Korean War, an officer came to their barracks asking if anyone could type. He was the only one who could, and that skill kept him at Fort Bragg in North Carolina for the remainder of his service.

Jim Garey was one of those who voluntarily enlisted during World War II. He was only 17 meaning his parents had to sign the consent forms allowing him to do so; to the Army’s credit, he was not sworn in to active duty until his 18 ^th birthday had passed. Jim was trained in radio communications and assigned to an amphibious unit that was charged with making assault landings on islands held by the Japanese. That assignment almost cost him his life in October of 1943. It was then they were alerted to the approach of a Japanese bomber—one that came in so low he could hear the doors of the bay open and the bomb as it fell. The communications officer died. The radio operator sustained a severe head injury. And Jim was buried alive under tons of dirt, sand bags, and logs. His only salvation was his steel helmet which fell over his face, giving him a few minutes of air before the supply was depleted and he passed out. He regained consciousness as he was being carried to the medical tent. Only then did he realize he hadn’t died. Four weeks later he returned to active duty. In later years he would come close to tears as he spoke of those days, not from the memories of war, but in recalling the tears his father shed when Jim finally came home for good on December 21, 1945.

His story is multiplied thousands of times, over scores of wars and conflicts—and for many there was no happy ending. Parker Fondren was one of those who gave his life in service to our country during the same war that spared Jim Garey. Parker was there during the liberation of Rome on June 5, 1944 . . . and died in battle three days later, 45 miles from the city. Buried in Nettuno, Italy at the time, he was later moved to the national cemetery at Shiloh. Although he was finally home, it was probably very little comfort to his wife and infant daughter.

How many times did families open the door to find military personnel or their representatives bearing bad news? How many times did telegrams arrive announcing the death of someone they loved? And how many nights did families go to bed, grateful that today was not that day . . . knowing that tomorrow could be?

In all of those pictures that graced Facebook this weekend and Monday, I believed I saw a certain sadness hiding behind the smiles. Perhaps it was my reflecting that put it there, but I’m sure every person in uniform . . . and everyone who loved them . . . understood what their future might hold. I’m glad we have a day set aside to honor their service. I just hope we don’t forget that many of them gave years of their lives . . . and some of them paid the ultimate price. Maybe one day isn’t really enough.

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Voices From The Past

Wed, 06 Nov 2019 23:15:00 GMT

There are folks in this world who adamantly refuse to relinquish their hold on anything, be it newspapers . . . plastic bags . . . the clothes they had in high school that they’ll never be able to button again . . . for a variety of reasons, these items must remain with them forever. Technically, ‘til death do them part. I’m not quite that bad (at this point my family should just be quiet), but there are two things that I do refuse to eliminate—voicemails and text messages. If you have ever left or sent me either—and my phone didn’t arbitrarily decide to delete them as it once did with voicemails that were over 30 days old—then I still have it. Even the one I received on November 2, 2017 at 3:41 PM from Michael Anderson in Kingston, Surrey County, Jamaica. He was calling to inform me that I’d won $2.9 million dollars in the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. I didn’t return his call. Worst. Mistake. Ever.

My main reason for keeping both is business related. This policy has served me well in the past, like when the sprinkler system at our Collinwood facility flooded the building for the second time after we had reported numerous problems, and then the company tried to blame us for the issues. The fact that I could quote date, time, and actual message for each notification served us well, resulting in them taking full responsibility and making all repairs to the system and the building at their expense. Fortunately, we don’t have many building floods that require such detailed reporting . . . but if we ever do again, I’m ready.

You know how it is. A text will come in and you can clearly see what it says without actually opening it. So you don’t. And the little counter next to the icon on your home screen bumps up by one. Or a voicemail will hit your phone but you’ve already spoken with that person because you called back while they were leaving it, so you don’t listen. And the little counter next to the icon on your home screen bumps up by one.

Well, my little icons had bumped up considerably. I had 82 voicemails and even more text messages that I’d never opened. And last week I decided I would just clean all that up so I didn’t have giant numbers screaming at me every time I pulled out my phone.

Some of those text messages would qualify as vintage, but I went through and marked them all as “read”, then tackled the voicemails. I flew down to the bottom of the screen (date: February 17, 2012) and started working my way up, thinking I had to swipe every one of them . . . meaning I heard snippets of each message as I was removing their blue dot. I was a few years into the process when I came across a message from Sharon Rachels. I had assisted Sharon when her husband died in April of last year; I tapped the little “play” triangle and she opened with her traditional, “Lisa, this is Sharon again. I’m sick of this stuff . . .” and then she trailed off, laughing and apologizing. It was an insurance related rant, based on one company’s response to her husband’s death and the claim paperwork that had been filed. Sharon died July 24 ^th of this year, and hearing her voice again, so full of life and ready to take care of business, generated an avalanche of memories.

Moving on up the list, I found another one that made me pause and listen to the entire message instead of just enough to make my phone think it had done its job. It was from Charlie Baker, dated November 7, 2018 at 8:42 AM. He had been to the chiropractor and the doctor had told him to be off work until the coming Saturday. He would have his wife bring his work excuse by shortly.

I hadn’t heard Charlie’s voice since December of last year. Thursday, December 6 ^th , to be exact. That was the last day he worked. That was the day he died.

It didn’t matter what Charlie had to say . . . or Sharon. What mattered was that they said it. I could hear their voices again. And in hearing their voices I could recall their faces and our conversations and so many moments that might otherwise never come to mind.

And that’s the second reason I keep such trivial little things. A snippet that lasts less than a minute . . . maybe two or three. Something that reminds me of them. Something that all too often can fade from my memory—the sound of their voice—is memorialized in a simple message about ordinary, everyday things. It brings them to life again, if even just for a moment, reminding me of who they were and how they were. And when I close my eyes, I can see them again as they speak to me once more. So I keep their messages . . . and so many others . . . because I know someday it will be all I have.

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Without Warning

Wed, 30 Oct 2019 22:54:00 GMT

It was a beautiful Saturday morning. The sky was slightly overcast with a gentle breeze and temperatures that were just right for sitting in the porch swing with a hot cup of tea and a fuzzy sweater. But within hours the world had changed drastically. Gusting winds in the range of 75 miles per hour had uprooted ancient trees or simply snapped them in two, often dropping them down onto the nearest house or vehicle. Shingles or entire roofs were missing and the property damage was beyond belief. Many were without electricity, water, and phone service—and still are. And one family was left to mourn the loss of someone they loved dearly, someone who died trying to rescue a family pet without realizing the danger.

For an area that is accustomed to tornadoes, the eye wall of a hurricane was shocking. Instead of instant destruction that takes place over minutes, this event seemed to last hours with prolonged gusts of wind literally coming from all directions. At least that’s how it seemed while sitting in the middle of it . . . waiting . . . listening as the trees fell around me and the house creaked and groaned . . . wondering if each gust was the last one. Was it safe yet to go outside and survey the damage?

Had I been in Savannah it would have been a different story, but I wasn’t. I was at our magical cabin that, on this day, Mother Nature wrapped in a nightmare. Once it seemed safe to exit I found the structure intact . . . but I had to crawl over the tree that blocked the entire front of the house. Then there was the hike up the drive that was blocked by at least a half dozen trees followed by the discovery that, at the end of that two-tenths of a mile, was a road blocked on both sides by trees that had given way in the wrath of the storm. Everyone on that road was trapped, with no way out and no way for help to get in.

After walking through the woods to cross behind the trees that were down, I stood in the rain, waiting on the reinforcements I had called, not knowing they couldn’t reach me because the major highways were also blocked, and not understanding their efforts would be futile in this aftermath. As I began to realize night was going to fall before anyone could get there, a group of angels I’d never seen before flew in on a UTV, pick-ups, and a front end loader. They got out, chainsaws in hand, and asked a simple question. “Need help?”

I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I was for their arrival, or how hard they worked or for how long, but the chainsaws didn’t stop unless it was to let the front end loader move the largest logs to one side. Within an hour or so they had cleared a path down the road in at least one direction and started on the drive. Before dark it was passable and I was cleaning out the fridge so everything wouldn’t spoil over the next week or so. When I found the leftover homemade vanilla ice cream, I took the bucket and a spoon, sat down in the dark and, by the light of a coal oil lamp, ate until I was miserable.

In all of this chaos, I was very lucky . . . again. There was no damage to the house, no life lost; I don’t have to survive without the modern day conveniences—like a flushing toilet or a running shower, without food in the refrigerator or heat for the house. I’m not looking for sympathy because, as I said, I was very lucky—and very blessed. I told you my story to make two very important, very powerful points. Maybe three.

Point 1: Life changed in an instant, with no warning as to what was coming. It happens to someone every day, whether it’s tornadoes or hurricanes, wild fires or floods . . . whether it’s accidents, illnesses, or death. The things of this world, including its inhabitants, are temporary at best, and most of us understand that. We just don’t always remember it and we certainly don’t always act like it. Maybe life would be better for everyone if we did.

Point 2: People I had never seen before, people who did not know me from Adam . . . or Eve . . . came to my rescue for one reason and one reason only—because I needed help. Their only expectation was to get the job done so they could move on to the next one. And they did. Without complaining. Without expecting this huge favor to somehow be returned, as though that was even possible. And they weren’t the only ones. Across Hardin and McNairy Counties, people were working together to do what they could, neighbors helping neighbors, whether or not they had ever met, because they could . . . because they knew they should.

Point 3: There aren’t enough thank yous in this world to cover this situation. To the highway department that’s scouring the area, looking for roads that are still obstructed, to the lineman working to restore power and other emergency services personnel who risked their lives that day, to the neighbors working to clear roads and driveways, to cover damaged roofs and offer a place of shelter for those without, to everyone who reached out to anyone beginning on Saturday, October 26 ^th , there are not enough words to express the gratitude felt by those to whom you offered aid and comfort. For once, words are woefully insufficient.

This was not my original topic for today. It’s Halloween and two weeks ago I wrote what would have been the perfectly timed blog about my granddaughter Cora and her “ghostly encounter” while we were on vacation. But then there was Saturday. Saturday with all of its fear and chaos, Saturday with all of its loss . . . loss of property . . . loss of life . . . loss of that sense of security which dissolves so quickly when the world seems to be crashing down around you—and somehow ghostly tales no longer seemed appropriate. But through it all, there were and still are the helpers—those people who, through their selfless acts of kindness, bless those who don’t know where to turn, assuring them they do not have to face the losses and the devastation alone.

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Bring His Clothes

Wed, 23 Oct 2019 21:27:00 GMT

There was a time when judges in our area would send youthful offenders our way for an alleged lesson in their own mortality. If you were caught driving under the influence . . . or recklessly . . . or both, chances were they would require you to visit a funeral home and plan your own funeral.

Do you think any of them really took that seriously?

Answer? Nope. It was a game to them and most of the funeral directors knew it was a game and really had no desire to take up their time—time that was usually already occupied by for-real death—so they could pretend. Especially when the other party to the charade couldn’t have cared less.

Our local folks finally figured that out and the practice ceased, at least in the counties we served, but a parent called one day needing to set up such a meeting. A judge outside our area had levied the sentence and none of their local funeral homes were willing to help, for the very reasons I just outlined. But she sounded so desperate I agreed to do it and then told everyone here I would meet with them so no one else had to.

When she asked what they needed to bring I suggested clothes. I’m not sure what made me say that, but it’s something we usually mention to at-need families. It saves them a trip home and back to us when there are so many other things on which they need to be focused, and there are times they have a specific outfit in mind that may or may not work with the interior of the casket they’re contemplating. Laying the garment in the casket can help them visualize the end result and often make the final decision for them. So . . . clothes.

The mother and son arrived promptly at the appointed hour, he looking bored and angry at having to be there and she looking like she would prefer to be almost anywhere else. We went upstairs; she settled into a chair at the end of the table and I instructed him to sit closer to me. Pulling out the personal information sheets I went through the questions which, for the most part, he answered. Occasionally his mother chimed in, prompting him with responses that did not come readily to his mind.

With the initial paperwork completed, I reviewed the various price lists, telling this young man that someone would be responsible for the charges incurred. Under normal circumstances, that someone would be his parents. Did they have any insurance on him? He looked at his mother and she shook her head no. Was there a checking account in his name that might be used to assist with payment? He didn’t have to look at her for that one, but the answer was still no. So I encouraged him to remember these things as we stepped into the selection room since, again, if anything really did happen to him, someone would have to be responsible for payment.

He wandered somewhat aimlessly around the room, glancing at this casket, stopping to touch the interior of that one. His mother stayed close to him, carrying the clothing I had suggested she bring and watching as he stopped by a solid poplar casket and said “This one”. It was then I asked his mother for the clothing she had clutched tightly to her chest. Taking it from her, I straightened the shirt on the hanger then carefully laid it in the casket for him to see.

She gasped—a quiet, almost imperceptible sound—as her eyes filled with tears. Turning, she ran from the room, leaving him staring after her, not knowing what to do. So he looked at me. And I said, “Do you see what your death will do to her? You are still standing here, alive and well, but the mere thought of you being in that casket was more than she could stand. Do you see now why you are here?” He simply nodded then dropped his head and swiped at his eyes with one hand.

Had that moment not happened I firmly believe the entire effort would have been time wasted. But it did happen and, hopefully, it made a difference. I always said the judges had it backwards when they imposed this sort of requirement. The parents needed to be told they had to come—both of them if both were still living, whether or not they were still married, because the law says they have equal rights—and they should have to make funeral arrangements for their child while that child watched. Because you see, it’s often too easy to contemplate our own demise, especially when we believe ourselves to be invincible and immortal. It’s a whole ‘nother matter altogether to watch someone who gave us life having to acknowledge that we are neither.

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Faster Isn’t Always Better

Tue, 15 Oct 2019 14:48:00 GMT

We are currently taking our first ever almost all of the family vacation. I say almost all because my son-in-law had to work so he had the misfortune of staying home in the peace and quiet . . . and serving as the gatekeeper and provider of food and water for our cats. Oh, and the designated cleaner of litter boxes.

It was supposed to begin in the early morning hours of Saturday; two of the four grandkids had soccer games, the first beginning at 10:15 in Bartlett. That was to be followed by the second one at 11:00 so the plan was to see both games, grab some lunch, and hit the road headed toward Hot Springs, Arkansas. Now, none of us had ever been to Hot Springs so we had zero working knowledge of the place, and other than bath houses, there wasn’t a lot on-line about stuff to do. But it was a three hour drive instead of a zillion, so Hot Springs it was . . . except then the soccer games were canceled so the plan could have changed, but we’d already rented an Airbnb that would hold all of us . . . so Hot Springs it still was.

Sunday afternoon was dedicated to visiting Magic Springs Amusement Park which looked somewhat promising on the internet but also maybe a little sketchy. When you’re only open full time for two months of the year and then weekends in September and October so you can decorate for Halloween and bill yourself as “The Scariest Place in Arkansas” it does tend to make one pause. My chosen role was one of solitude as the keeper of the Malcolm—‘cause what’s a five month old gonna do in the scariest place in Arkansas? So I stayed behind and Malcolm’s mommy went instead. I told them that was the better option . . . and I was proven right within the hour.

My phone dinged and up popped a picture of Kathryne and the grandkids, Wilson and Anderson, all smiles and strapped into some sort of harness. I understand the boys’ smiles faded soon thereafter. The next ding brought a few more pictures and a video. The pictures showed them high above the park, tethered horizontally to a line with Kathryne in the middle and the boys to either side, clinging to her arms for dear life. The video showed them being pulled slowly up and back, higher and higher, still hovering above the park, then a voice began counting down . . . “three . . . two . . . one . . . FLY!!!” And . . . nothing. That’s because Anderson was yelling “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! NO!! NO!! NO!! NO!!” and Kathryne knew he hadn’t heard the countdown—because he was too busy screaming hysterically—so she told him they were going, repeated it for him, then gave the cord a yank. That’s when the magic happened.

You see, the three of them had been suspended 110 feet above the park and held there. Yanking the cord released whatever held them in place, dropping them the length of the line while propelling them forward. Think pulling someone as far back as you can in a swing and then letting them go. Basically, the contraption was a giant swing, and they flew back and forth, twirling around, until the momentum finally subsided, bringing them to a gentle halt. And the boys, both of whom had determined they really didn’t want to do this after they were passed the point of no return, loved it. Right after they screamed in terror. And they each got a shark hat to compensate for their trauma.

There are some things in life that simply must be done with as much speed as possible. Evidently riding the Sky Shark at Magic Springs Amusement Park is one of those things; otherwise, you’re going to back out . . . and I think there’s only one way down when that happens. And I know you don’t get a refund. Other qualifying events would be jumping into a swimming pool when you first arrive. One quick shock is usually better than trying to inch yourself into the water. Or pulling off a bandaid that’s stuck to the hair on your body. Or taking really nasty tasting medicine. If you’re smart you don’t sip that mess. It’s gone in one nose-holding gulp.

But there are also times when speed is not your friend. Dealing with Death is one of those times. When you try to hurry through the process you hurt a tremendous number of people, not the least of whom is yourself. Too many times we see families in such a hurry to bury their loved ones that no one knows they’ve died until they’re already residing in the cemetery. And, although I know there are times when having everything in one day is the best option, many times it denies extended family and friends the opportunity to express their condolences and say their good-byes. Usually only immediate family can get off work when a death occurs; visitation the night before, even a brief one, allows others who can’t attend a daytime service to still pay their respects.

So the next time you happen to be at Magic Springs Amusement Park, feel free to ride the Sky Shark, just close your eyes on the way up. And when you first get to the pool, don’t inch . . . jump. Same philosophy for bandaids and nasty medicine. But when you start planning the farewell party for someone you love, slow down. Take your time. Give yourself a chance to rest and get organized and to let family and friends know of your loss. For most of the departed, it took years of living to get to this point. A few more days won’t bother them one bit . . . and it may be just what you and the people who loved them need.

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Let Your Heart Speak

Wed, 09 Oct 2019 03:16:00 GMT

In case you haven’t noticed, I like words. I know they say pictures are better at conveying an event or action (as in “A picture’s worth a thousand words”), but since I don’t particularly care for how I look in pictures (which means my memorial video is gonna be real short), I’ll stick with the thousand words. And I’m sure there are times people feel like I’ve used them all trying to construct an email . . . or a blog post. Kindly keep all of that in mind as we proceed.

I am also a terrible visitor. As an introvert and aspiring hermit, I’m not that excited about being around people. Oh, I love them and all that . . . I just prefer to do it from a distance . . . while not interacting with them verbally . . . if at all. Kindly keep that in mind as well.

Now, let’s imagine someone you know has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. You know their time on this earth is extremely limited and you know how much they have meant to you over the years, how much you will miss them when they make their final departure. So, what do you do with all that? Do you keep it inside and never actually tell them, never actually say the words? Of course, if they’re any kind of friend they probably already know how you feel, but sometimes—especially in those times—the words are nice to hear . . . and to say.

The problem is that we seem to be more comfortable with the dead than with the dying. Even if you’re not an introvert and aspiring hermit, it is difficult to look Death in the eyes when those eyes belong to someone you love. It is heartbreaking to watch as the illness lays claim to their body, engraving the invitation that Death will one day accept. And for some of us, the words can never come. They can’t because the tears will overwhelm them.

So, we’re back to our original question. What do you do? When the visiting is more than you can stand and the guilt of not having done so is even greater once it’s too late, what do you do? Well, for those of us who are introverts and aspiring hermits who like words, you write.

There are those times when I have taken pen and paper . . . or in later years, computer and printer . . . and I’ve written to someone that I knew was preparing for their final journey. I’ve told them how much they’ve meant to me, how sad I am that they’re leaving this world, and how much emptier it will seem without them. And then I trust the United States Postal Service to take my heart inscribed on those pages and deliver it to its intended recipient. Without fail, when Death finally does make his appearance and I see their family later, that letter is mentioned, and always with a look of gratitude because someone took the time to tell their loved one, in a form which they can now keep forever, how very special that person was.

But you know what? You don’t have to be a lover of words to put them on paper. You don’t have to be grammatically correct or punctuationally perfect. All you have to do is let your heart speak. That’s the important part, that’s the part that will mean more to them than all the appropriately placed commas in the world. It doesn’t even have to be a letter. Cards are sold every day at a multitude of stores, cards that will have a beautiful message to which you can add your own personal thoughts.

The only problem with all of this is time. Death doesn’t always give us fair warning before snatching his prey. You may wake up one morning and that seemingly healthy human you were going to have lunch with is now a client at the local funeral home. So, how do we fix that? By making sure the people around us know how important they are in our lives. Those who are dying shouldn’t be the only ones blessed by such acts. So break out the stationery or rev up the computer. Pull out your leftover notebook paper or write uphill on a blank sheet of something. Tell those you love that you love them and how much they have impacted your life. For some those words may be just what they needed to get them over a rough patch they’ve kept hidden from the world. And for some, those words may be the last words they will ever hear from you.

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For Sale

Wed, 02 Oct 2019 21:49:00 GMT

For several years after my mother’s death her Cadillac sat on the carport at the funeral home, occupying space and not doing much of anyone any good. But it was her car, silvery beige—I think the official name was “Light Cashmere”. It was the kind of color that was so neutral you forgot what it looked like once you walked away. She seemed to enjoy that color palette; their apartment was decorated in beiges, peach, and soft green, so silvery beige was right up her alley.

For those last few years, a Cadillac had been her preferred vehicle, but during those years she reached a point where she couldn’t open the doors (they were too heavy) and she could barely see over the steering wheel. Those inabilities kept us from having to take away her driving privileges . . . Mother Nature kinda took care of that for us . . . but it did mean a chauffeur was required for any excursions.

It took a while before we were ready to part with it, but it was dying a slow and painful death in its coveted parking space and the day came when someone who would appreciate it and care for it as she had drove it off the carport and away from the building, never to return.

Fast forward to this weekend. I’m driving back to work after supper with the kids and, as I pass the parking lot of a local clothing store, my eyes catch sight of a Cadillac. A silvery beige Cadillac with a FOR SALE sign in the window. I didn’t have to know the model year (not that it would have helped), I didn’t have to know who placed it there. I KNEW that was the prized possession I had walked passed for years as I entered the building each day . . . the car I had driven more than once taking my mother to church or a doctor’s appointment. I knew it was her car. The last car she had ever owned.

Except it wasn’t her car. Not anymore. It belonged to another nice person who legally purchased it from us but who no longer needed it and had chosen to place it there in hopes of finding a buyer. And for some reason that bothered me.

Now, I’m normally a rational, somewhat logical human being. I understand there is absolutely no justifiable reason for me to think anything about this. But you will notice I ended the first sentence of this paragraph with the words “human being”. As such we tend to form attachments to material things that remind us of the people we’ve lost to Death. Those things begin to serve a dual purpose. That car is a means of transportation . . . and something that meant a great deal to my mother. A house is a shelter from the elements . . . and a place where memories are gathered. The china that was a wedding present decades before, the recliner that became the favorite chair for watching the favorite show, a million other material possessions that now serve as a reminder of someone we love—these things are harder to part with because of the memories they hold. But we can’t keep everything forever. Generations of stuff will eventually have no meaning for those who never knew their connections to the past. Isn’t it better to allow those things to be used by others who will appreciate them and who will use them to create their own memories? That’s a lesson I’m gonna have to teach myself since our home became the repository for any leftovers from my grandfather’s house . . . and my husband’s grandmother’s house . . . and if I’m not careful, from the apartment that belonged to my parents. Meaning when I die my children are going to hate me. That doesn’t mean you don’t keep anything, just that keeping everything isn’t possible.

So, I’ll probably still watch as I drive by the Cadillac with the FOR SALE signs on the dashboard and in the windows. I’ll probably wonder who bought it when it eventually disappears. But I do hope it finds a good home with someone who needs a reliable car that was well cared for and probably still has a lot of miles left in it. When we choose to let go of the material possessions that belonged to our loved ones, we have to remember that we did just that. We let go, and we don’t get to be upset or offended, much less expect a say in what happens after that. And for our own sake, and the sake of the generations to come, we need to learn to let go of more.

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Between No Longer & Not Yet

Wed, 25 Sep 2019 22:01:00 GMT

My daughter and I recently attended STORY 2019—that conference for creative-type folks (which begs the question, why was I there?) that I mentioned about this same time last year, except then it was STORY 2018. In case this does not ring a bell or, like myself, your long-term memory ain’t what it used to be, STORY is a two day conference designed to inspire you on to bigger and better things and more creative approaches to whatever it is you might be approaching. I generally leave believing I can conquer the world . . . and then the world pops up intent upon proving me wrong.

This year’s theme was Between No Longer & Not Yet, addressing that liminal space hovering between the two. I’ll admit it, I had to Google “liminal space”; I didn’t want to spend two days listening to people talk about something I didn’t understand. For the non-Googlers in the group, liminal space is that period of transition or transformation from where you were to where you want to be—and is often very discouraging because you may not know how you’re going to manage getting from Point A to Point B—or even what Point B is.

Over these two magical days we heard from an abundance of folks whose names I won’t mention because, if you’re like me, you’ll have absolutely no clue who they are . . . except for maybe Leslie Odom, Jr. (Aaron Burr from the Broadway show, Hamilton ) and Brad Montague, creator of Kid President and co-founder of the Montague Workshop. Oh, and maybe Susan Blackwell, an actress, singer, and writer. But it didn’t matter. Each person brought their own unique perspective to the conference and their own unique story to further inspire us.

As Kathryne and I were talking about the magnificence of our first day, it dawned on me that, for many people, there is no liminal space. It has become a liminal life. They are moving from birth to death at a steady pace, with no dreams or ambitions to fuel their journey. Perhaps those were never there to begin with and that person is content to live without them. That’s their right and their privilege and I for one will find no fault with their choice. And there are others that held on to those dreams and ambitions for years before allowing Life to snuff them out with whatever obstacles could be conjured. Again, I understand that practicality often outweighs pursuit of some distant goal, and again, I for one choose not to find fault with their decision.

But for many of us, those dreams and ambitions still swirl, just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment, the right time to burst forth and bloom. If I look at my own life, I know those are still a part of who I am, but I also know I’ve hit my three score years and am currently working on the next ten. I also know I’m not promised anything beyond now . Honestly, as I drove home from Nashville on Friday, and pondered life as I know it on Saturday, there was a vague sense of panic. How long is too long to wait? Had I exceeded that time frame? And how does one move from Point A to Point B?

In all my pondering, I managed to draw a few conclusions: 1) It is never too late until you take your last breath, 2) You’ll never finish if you don’t start, and 3) The best time to start is now. So today’s message is brought to you by Life . . . but co-sponsored by Death. Live your life with intent, with purpose, and with vision, because the day will come when that is no longer an option. Instead of reflecting on the past, be inspired by the future and its possibilities. Don’t just dream. Go forth and do. If at all possible, don’t let your dreams die with you.

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Missing So Much

Wed, 18 Sep 2019 19:38:00 GMT

My grandson Wilson is currently in the fifth grade and, as is evidently customary for his school, a program was held on September 11 ^th memorializing the events of that day in 2001. And, as a part of that program, the school chorus (of which Wilson is a member) performed for the parents and others who were in attendance. And, as a part of that program, Wilson sang one verse of one of the songs . . . by himself . . . as in a solo . . . in front of a microphone and what appeared to be a bazillion people. I’m probably a tad bit biased (ok . . . a lot biased), but I thought he did a fantastic job. Even the critic in me agreed with the assessment. His voice wasn’t shaky or nervous, his pitch was perfect . . . he didn’t forget the words (which is a GIANT plus in my book). Everything about his performance was glorious.

I’m not telling you all of that to brag—although in re-reading the first paragraph I can see how you might think that’s where I was headed. It’s just that Wilson’s performance was a poignant reminder of so many things that had nothing to do with September 11 ^th .

Using the magic of technology and the world wide interweb, his mother filmed his part of the song and then posted said video to Facebook so those of us unable to attend could see and hear him sing his heart out. And as I watched it I thought about how proud my father would have been. Dad loved music and he loved to sing. He even sang the last song at his own funeral. Need a bass? He was your man. Need a tenor or an alto? Just call him. Need someone to carry the lead? Bob to the rescue. He could sing any part and do it beautifully. So yes, he would have been proud of Wilson—and I said so in the comments after watching the video multiple times.

Everyone knows how it feels when your emotions threaten to mutiny and overthrow your self-control. Your throat tightens and your heart starts pounding as your face begins to flush. And the tears. Don’t forget the tears you struggle to keep at bay—and for me . . . well, let’s just say I could lead Santa’s sleigh through the darkest night imaginable. My nose can give Rudolph’s a run for its money when I’m emotionally overwhelmed—and that’s how I was as I typed “Your Dee Bob would have been so proud”. Because I knew he would. Just as he would be proud of Anderson and Cora and now Malcolm. He would have been in the floor playing with them and sharing his words of wisdom, and there would have been that twinkle in his eyes as he watched them scamper about or as they related all the fascinating observations that only a child can make. He would have loved them beyond words. But he will never know them—and in my mind, an even sadder state of affairs—they will never know him.

As I sit here and think about the things in life we miss the most when those we love go missing, I know it isn’t the actual things we miss. It’s the moments. When we lose the ones we love we get to keep the past through our memories and the tangible items they leave behind. But the present . . . and the future? Those will never exist with them. There will always be moments . . . moments when we wish they were here so we could experience something together . . . so we could make more memories. But for them—and with them—there will be no more memories made, only recalled. And the generations who follow in their footsteps—the Wilsons and Andersons and Coras and Malcolms of the world—will never know how much they lost by never having known them. Only those of us privileged enough to have experienced both will understand.

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Unsung Heroes

Wed, 11 Sep 2019 20:36:00 GMT

The voices on the other end of the line were hesitant, skeptical of the callers’ motives. After all, through no fault of their own they were now caught up in one of the nation’s greatest tragedies; unwilling participants bound together by a common thread . . . the horrific loss of life. Their voices betraying the depth of their anguish and exhaustion, they questioned who these people were that had the audacity to call them at this moment in time. What right did they have to intrude upon their grief? But once they were given the answers to those questions, they were quick to provide whatever was asked of them . . . quick to latch onto that voice on the other end of the line . . . the voice that offered comfort and gave them hope. Not hope their loved one would be found alive, but hope their loved one would simply be found. Hope that perhaps they would be given the opportunity to say good-bye.

For weeks on end, those calls were made by members of DMORT—the Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team that had been established by the National Funeral Directors Association. That effort began in the 1980s with the intent of developing a plan whereby funeral directors could assist in mass casualty situations. But as they deliberated they came to realize such a far-reaching effort would require more than just funeral directors. Medical examiners, coroners, pathologists, forensic anthropologists and odontologists, dental assistants, fingerprint specialists, and radiographers where added as resources for identification of the victims . . . and on September 12, 2001, over 600 of these specialists arrived in New York City, their sole mission to aid in the identification of those who had perished the day before. They had no idea what to expect, no idea what awaited them as they packed their bags and boarded vans or planes, making their way to a scene of unbelievable devastation, but they knew they had to go. Those left behind needed answers. More than answers, they needed closure. It was the first time a federally coordinated response of this magnitude had been activated on a national level.

These men and women initially found themselves in chaos, sleeping on the concrete floors of an arena across the harbor from the city. Those in charge of the work in New York had expected 300—not twice that number—and were not prepared when they arrived. But every person was needed and every person was put to work.

One team was responsible for contacting the families of each airline passenger and crew member that died on September 11 ^th . That meant hundreds of phone calls placed to countries around the world—phone calls that gave the caller the opportunity to gather whatever information could prove helpful . . . phone calls that gave the families the opportunity to talk about how much they had lost, how devastating it was to think of the fear and helplessness that must have filled those final moments. The father of one crew member, a stewardess, even apologized because the person calling him had to ask those questions. Do you understand that? He apologized because his daughter died in a terrorist attack and lives had been put on hold to help him.

Among those 600 people who arrived in New York on September 12 ^th were several from the State of Tennessee, including Bob Batson, the Executive Director of the Tennessee Funeral Directors’ Association, and Roger Balentine, the manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Wayne County. They worked tirelessly, gathering information and consoling the families they contacted, forming a bond that in many instances continues today. They became a trusted source for people desperately seeking news of any kind, and often were the only people with whom family members would speak if they called back with additional information or questions. Through it all, they were constantly amazed at the resilience of those who had lost so much. That loss was on display for the world to see, but their grief, though felt by so many, was theirs and theirs alone. Very few understood the dire circumstances in which these families found themselves, yet still they came together to support one another through the horror.

Despite the hardships, despite the physical, mental, and emotional toll taken on each of them, the members of DMORT were there in the weeks following September 11, 2001. They were there in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation of Hurricane Rita. They are there whenever nature or mankind brings about massive losses of life—losses so numerous that local resources are overwhelmed. Their mission is to bring closure by bringing answers . . . and, on the best of the worst days, the opportunity to say good-bye.

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Tradition

Wed, 04 Sep 2019 22:48:00 GMT

This past Sunday was the first Sunday in September . . . which means it was also Decoration Day at Memorial Gardens in Collinwood . . . which means, as usual, it snuck up on me and I managed to schedule an abundance of other things on what should have been a restful holiday weekend (as if such a thing actually exists . . .).

I still found time to travel eastward that afternoon. It took some doing and some schedule rearranging, but I didn’t want to miss my annual trip. No, I don’t have any family buried there—or friends for that matter—but there is no way to describe the event that is Decoration at Collinwood, except to say it must be seen to be believed. You know the old saying “a picture’s worth a thousand words”? Well, that’s the honest to goodness truth where this is concerned. If you doubt me, scroll back to Tuesday’s post on our Facebook page and take a moment to behold the magnificence that is the first Sunday in September at the cemetery. Those are just a few of the scores of pictures I took and the thousand or so I could have.

These folks go above and beyond decorating the graves of their loved ones, and the first time I ever saw it I remember thinking there wasn’t enough room left to walk. When we were working on the new building that sits adjacent to the cemetery, I watched during the week before their Decoration as families came to put in place what must have been in the planning stages since the year before. And it wasn’t just the older folks. Everyone was there . . . and they brought their children with them, teaching them the ancient traditions and the reasoning behind the work.

The parking lot at the funeral home was full when I arrived and the cemetery looked as amazing as it always does. Families gathered around the graves of their loved ones, posing for pictures, putting up tarps or setting up folding chairs in the nearest shady spot, visiting with their friends and neighbors and wandering the grounds to take in all the hard work that was evident.

As I began my trek across the cemetery, camera in hand and hair pulled back so maybe I wouldn’t melt or look like Phyllis Diller when I finished, I realized two people were traveling in the same direction, just a few feet behind me. They appeared to be a grandmother and her grandson; I won’t even begin to guess at her age (‘cause that wouldn’t be polite) but I’d say the boy was eight . . . maybe nine. As they slowly moved toward some unknown destination, I could hear him asking, “Was that one a veteran?” “Was he a veteran?” and his grandmother would answer yes, or no, whichever was appropriate, and then explained that he could look for the monument that was usually at the foot of the grave. If there was one there, then that person was probably a veteran.

They continued their walk with his question now becoming a statement when he found the identifying plaque, until they reached a companion monument which had, among other things, a vase of flowers sitting on it. At least it had been, but something had caused it to topple over and, although the vase survived and the flowers remained in place, it was now on its side instead of upright. And he noticed. And it concerned him—so he pointed it out to his grandmother. She told him it would be alright to set it back up and with her permission he walked over, carefully wrapped his hand around the neck of the vase, and slowly picked it up. As she encouraged his efforts and offered direction, he placed it back on the monument, now in an upright position, and took a step back. This wise woman praised his deed, telling him what a good job he’d done, and they moved on.

It’s moments like that which tell me Decoration Day in Collinwood will continue long after the next generation joins their family members there. This woman took time to teach her grandson the language of the cemetery and its monuments—and respect for those who rest beneath its sacred ground. And she wasn’t the only one . . . just the one I happened to be closest to that day. Everyone there was remembering and honoring and acknowledging the importance of the past and those who helped shape the person they have become. To quote the English poet and author George Elliot, “Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.” Every first Sunday in September the folks in Collinwood take the time to tell the world they haven’t forgotten.

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The Faces of Grief

Wed, 28 Aug 2019 21:22:00 GMT

She came into the office clutching a small piece of cloth in her hands, working the material between her fingers and staring vacantly into space. The secretary approached the counter and asked if she could help but there was very little response. After a few seconds, the young lady looked at the material. She wanted it in his casket. The secretary nodded in understanding. “Do you have a special place in mind?” Silence filled the office as she stroked the material, still vacantly staring. “Would you like it in his hands?” At that suggestion her faced turned up and her eyes focused. “Yes. Yes, please.” So the secretary took the small corner of what must have been a very special blanket, and the young lady left.

She had come to pick up death certificates, but despite the lack of blinding light in the office, her dark glasses remained in place. I handed them to her and asked if she needed anything else and, although her lip quivered, no words came in response. She simply removed her glasses and revealed eyes red and swollen from crying—so I reached for our grief counseling brochure and the counselor’s card. Call him, I begged. He works for us so there’s no charge for his services and he’ll meet with you whenever you would like . . . and he’ll listen and not tell the world what you said. But she couldn’t. Not right now. She couldn’t talk to anyone without crying. She slipped her glasses back into place, picked up the material I had placed on the counter, and left.

He came in to raid the candy bowl that occupies one corner of the front counter and, while a close family member of his wasn’t the beginning of the conversation, it eventually worked its way in that direction. Their downward spiral had begun years before, resulting in an abundance of negative changes in their life, and now they had almost given up completely. We listened as he spoke, his concern and dismay evident, and as he finished I realized that everything began with the death of that person’s spouse—and I said as much. For a brief moment he looked at me intently, considering my observation, and then he agreed. So once more I pulled our aftercare brochure from its home and our counselor’s card from its holder and suggested that he pass them along and insist that a phone call be made—at least one. He took the material, expressing hope that perhaps this might provide a turning point, and then he left.

I hadn’t gotten to visit with her in what seemed like forever, which was no one’s fault but my own, but a tea we were both attending provided the opportunity. She and her husband had been some of my parents’ best friends and I had grown up with their children. He had died earlier this year and, when I asked how she was, her very matter-of-fact response was ‘Terrible.” She couldn’t get over losing him—and I assured her she wasn’t supposed to. They had spent too many years together in life for him to be easily dismissed in death. We continued our visit until someone else approached and I made my way to the door.

Several times in the last few years, we’ve been blessed to see our community come together in the aftermath of tragedy. When unexpected, heartbreaking deaths occurred people had a need to help, but what could they do? They might not even know the family that had suffered the devastating loss, but they wanted to do something. So our phone would start ringing or the office door would open more frequently as person after person contributed to the cause. It might be a credit card payment, possibly called in because the donor couldn’t make their way to the funeral home. It might be a check in the mail or cash brought through the door, but the donations would come so quickly and so abundantly that often the funeral bill was paid in full before the family even made arrangements. Those donations came because our community–in shock and grieving–wanted desperately to help . . . and this was literally all they knew to do.

These are the faces of grief . . . all so different . . . each responding to loss in their own way . . . each trying to cope with the pain and the heartache as best they can. Some are stronger than others, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need help. Some are lost and floundering, searching for something . . . anything . . . that will take away the pain. What they don’t realize is that nothing ever will. Even Time, although it can be their friend, isn’t a cure for grief. Whether it’s been a day or a year or a decade, there will be moments when the grief is as fresh as it was in the minutes immediately after Death staked his claim. So please, when you believe it’s time someone “got over” losing a large part of their life, just remember . . .

. . . that day will never come.

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Together Again

Wed, 21 Aug 2019 22:57:00 GMT

For 62 years they lived and worked side by side, sharing every imaginable part of life. They raised four beautiful daughters . . . beautiful not just in appearance but in character and spirit as well. They served their Lord at every opportunity, even joining with others of like mind to start a school that still exists today. Rarely ever were they apart and, if they were, it was for the briefest period of time possible. Until April 1, 2018. On that day, Death laid claim to his body, ending his suffering and freeing his soul—but leaving her alone.

Only she wasn’t really alone. She had her children and their families, although the closest was still over an hour away. She had her friends and her fellow church members. She was surrounded by people who loved and cared for her as she did for them in return. And she didn’t just sit down and feel sorry for herself. There seemed to constantly be somewhere to go, something to do, someone to keep her company . . . until night would fall . . . and the world would grow quiet and still. It was then the memories would come to keep her company . . . and to remind her of how much she had truly lost.

You might never have known how much she missed him since she was so good at the business of staying busy. She sold their house on the lake and moved to a smaller one in town, one that was closer to everything and everyone. She seemed to enjoy making it her home . . . but it wasn’t their home. There were lunches with friends and concerts on Main Street and church activities. And finally, a month long adventure with her daughter and son-in-law that took her up through Bowling Green, Kentucky and then to Lincoln’s log cabin in Illinois . . . on to Mackinac Island followed by a good drenching at Niagara Falls then onward to Canada for seven days. There was camping by the ocean in Maine and history lessons in Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington, D. C. As they headed for home they even swung by Scotts Hill to meet her newest great-grandson. During the entire trip, she outwalked them both while managing to exhaust everyone who tried to keep up with her travels on Facebook. Frankly, she could make the Energizer Bunny look lazy.

But the return home brought fresh grief and dread—the dread of being alone. After a month of company 24/7 she could not fathom the solitude she knew was waiting. Even throughout her travels, sprinkled ‘mongst the pictures and the itineraries, were snippets that whispered of her overwhelming loss, quotes and links that told you how much she was hurting. Two days after returning home she visited her husband’s grave in Jackson. A week after that she was admitted to the hospital . . . and 5 days after that, she joined him.

When I asked if I might write about her mother –this amazing woman with whom I had grown close in the aftermath of her husband’s death—one of her daughters remarked that she had a lot of years left, but she didn’t want them. And she was right. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her new house or wasn’t excited about moving in to it. It wasn’t that she didn’t fiercely love her family and spending time with them. It wasn’t that the life she now had didn’t have its moments of joy. There was just someplace else she wanted to be more.

Before you go, please take a close look at the picture that accompanies this post. I didn’t take it, but I was privileged to see this same scene, every Sunday, for more years than I can count. If he didn’t reach for her hand, she slipped hers into his. Always. That one gesture told the story of their life together. It also explains why she wanted so much to be with him again.

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No Substitute

Wed, 14 Aug 2019 22:48:00 GMT

I have a friend who, for a very brief time, owned a smart car . . . you know, one of those vehicles that anticipates what is happening—or is about to happen—and reacts accordingly. Not long after he bought it, he was driving down the road, minding his own business, when another car pulled out in front of him. So he did what most all of us would do. He swerved to avoid hitting the offender.

His car didn’t like that.

His car thought he had crossed the center line without just cause, so it yanked him back into his original lane. Unfortunately, not knowing its own strength, the car yanked too hard, sending him into the ditch.

As soon as he had collected his wits he went back to the dealer and traded for a not-so-smart-car.

As amazing and as helpful as technology can be, there are times when it is absolutely no substitute for human interaction, because there are times when all the technology in the world can’t accurately assess a situation and respond correctly . . . like say when you swerve to miss someone who obviously doesn’t know how to drive.

Yes, technology can be our friend and when it comes to communicating with the rest of the world, platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram can be great tools. They’re fast and easy and can reach an enormous number of people in less than the blink of an eye. And they offer people the chance to respond just as quickly . . . which isn’t always a good thing if they don’t think first. When a death occurs, Facebook especially can give a family the means to contact all of their friends and those friends, in turn, have the opportunity to post condolences and tell stories and share memories of the person who has died.

But all the technology in the world is no substitute for the human touch. It can’t take the place of a hug. It can’t look those left behind in the eye and cry with them . . . or laugh. It can’t tell that family they were important enough to you that you left the comfort of your home and came to be with them as they mourned their loss and said their good-byes.

That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t post our expressions of sympathy or share our memories on-line; often that’s as helpful for the poster as it is for the postee, but don’t then close your laptop or put away your phone and think you’re done. When dealing with Death, it’s important to be there for the people who are grieving . . . literally, not just technologically.

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. . . Again

Wed, 07 Aug 2019 23:24:00 GMT

I’ve thought long and hard about this week—a week that came on the heels of several others that were difficult at best and heart-breaking at their worst. On a personal level I’ve watched as classmates, co-workers, and friends buried people they loved. I’ve watched as families came to us after losing so much already, only to suffer loss again. Several of those I had personally helped over the years; it’s hard now to watch as their families are forced to bid them good-bye. But at the end of our local losses and the personal farewells loomed greater tragedies waiting to unfold . . . and with each one came the stark reminder of so many that have come before . . .

I’m sure on July 20, 2012 when the theater filled for a showing of The Dark Knight Rises , the people of Aurora, Colorado had no idea that within minutes twelve of their number would die.

I’m sure the parents of Sandy Hook never considered, as they sent their six and seven year olds to school the morning of December 14, 2012, that 20 of them would never return— 20 six and seven year olds —and that six of their teachers and administrators would die trying to protect them. Never again would they be allowed to tuck their children in, to kiss them goodnight, to tell them they loved them and to hear that in return.

I’m sure the folks entering Pulse Night Club the evening of June 12, 2016 never dreamed that Death would claim 49 of them by the hand of a deranged gunman . . . or that 58 people attending a music festival in Las Vegas on October 1, 2017 would perish—and 422 others would be shot.

I’m sure the students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida thought Valentine’s Day in 2108 would be like any other, filled with romance and homework. But 17 students never left the school alive.

And this weekend . . . I’m sure the families shopping at the Wal-Mart in El Paso never . . . never believed that a shooter would enter the store and take 22 lives. Just like the people enjoying their evening at Ned Peppers Bar in Dayton, Ohio never once thought it would be their last night on this earth. Nine of them perished, including the shooter’s sister and the friend that had accompanied them to the bar.

Have I told you anything you didn’t already know? No. Have I left out an abundance of other tragedies that are equally horrific, that equally defy comprehension? Sadly, yes. Throughout this past weekend, one individual has, for me at least, personified everything I have just detailed. His name is Paul Anchondo. He is two months old. His father died shielding his mother from the hail of bullets that filled Store 2201 in El Paso. His mother died shielding him. Let that picture form in your mind. This child . . . this infant who will have no knowledge of what happened, no memory of the devastation of that day, will also have no memory of his own parents—the people who died protecting him. But, unless drastic changes are made, he will grow up in a world where this type of mass murder, already commonplace, will only continue to escalate.

There are important lessons to be learned from the tragedies that fill our world, two of which immediately come to mind. One . . . we never know. When we leave home in the morning, when we send our children to school or our spouses to work or basically anyone, anywhere, we never know what waits for them on the other side of the door. Two . . . we may not be able to change the situation overnight but there are steps we can and must take to prevent the indiscriminate taking of innocent life. When society is forced to quantify death to determine if it qualifies as a “mass shooting”—which, by the way, is four or more people shot . . . not killed, just shot—then our society has a problem. When nine people die in a church in South Carolina and 26 people die while worshipping in Sutherland Springs, Texas, our society has a problem.

But for now, we’ll lower the flags to half-staff . . . again. We’ll send our thoughts and prayers and condolences . . . again. We’ll learn about the victims and the families they leave behind . . . again. We’ll look to our leaders for action . . . again. And if we don’t fight for change then history will repeat itself . . . again.

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This Lonely, Isolated Road

Wed, 31 Jul 2019 21:23:00 GMT

In case you missed it, we have a new little person in our family—Malcolm Edmund Guinn. I say little, but comparatively speaking, he might not have qualified as such upon arrival. At 8 pounds, 14 ounces and 21 inches long, he was a big boy. And at his two month check-up he was in the 96 ^th percentile for head size. So . . . there’s that.

My daughter and son-in-law are in their mid-thirties and this is their first child, by choice rather than chance. Being that age, they may have a jump on younger parents; at least there is the illusion of maturity that someone ten years their junior might not have. And although they read all the books and tried to prepare in all the ways, Malcolm has still gifted them with a few surprises . . . like acid reflux . . . and a disdain for naps . . . Those things coupled with a C-section and the required recovery time have, on occasion, left my little one a bit frazzled. It’s not that her husband isn’t helpful—he is far beyond that. But when he goes to work and she’s home on Malcolm’s less cooperative days, it can be a bit overwhelming.

A few Sundays ago she called, and I could tell from her voice something was amiss. Malcolm had awakened from his nap much earlier than anticipated (imagine that . . .) and, while she was tending to him, Josie, their slightly oversized, sometimes inside, sometimes outside, presently-wearing-a-cone-of-shame-because-she-wouldn’t-stop-scratching-her-ear-until-it-bled dog had managed to knock over a partial cup of coffee left out from that morning. And the remains of said coffee were now all over their relatively new couch.

As she stood holding Malcolm and looking at the coffee stained sofa, she saw the other dishes that hadn’t been washed . . . and the thank you notes still waiting to be written . . . and the cat hair that had accumulated in the corners . . . and the dust on the furniture . . . and the stuff still piled in the living room from when they began decluttering the house before Malcolm’s arrival . . . and suddenly it was all just too much. When I offered to come clean the sofa, she declined, too concerned about the condition of her house to allow her own mommy to enter.

I asked her if she remembered my desk . . .

I went, despite her protests, and cleaned the coffee off the sofa (commercial plug for Simple Green—it will clean the world while generally not making a bigger mess) and then gave her a giant mommy hug and assured her that this, believe it or not, was normal. Malcolm was normal. Being overwhelmed was normal. Not being the perfect whatever was normal.

You know, parents with young children have an enormous responsibility as caregivers, but hopefully, their end result will be a responsible adult who will make a positive contribution to society . . . and care for them in their old age . . . if they aren’t the death of them first. But what about those who are tending to someone they love during their last days?

Those last days can truly be days. They can also be weeks, or months, or even years. And all the while they know what the future holds. This person they love, this person for whom they are caring, will leave them. They just don’t know when. There will be pain and there will be grief—and the overwhelming sadness that lurked in the shadows as they filled the role of a caregiver will be multiplied by a million when Death finally does arrive. And then they will question whether or not they did enough.

We tend to forget those who are traveling this lonely, isolated road and, although they never wanted the journey, they would not have it any other way. To care for someone as Death approaches is a privilege and an honor. It is also an overwhelming responsibility that can mentally, physically, and emotionally drain the caregiver. It’s no wonder that person often dies before the one for whom they are caring.

We can do a lot to help lighten that load, but it requires more than just a “Let me know if you need anything” offer. Think about what you would want if the situation was reversed. Maybe the conversation needs to be “I’m going to the store. Can I do your shopping for you?” or “I just finished cooking supper and I’m coming over with yours,” “I’d like to pick up a couple of coffees and come for a visit. What time would be good for you?” or better yet “Why don’t I come stay a few hours and you can run some errands or just get some rest?” Even if they don’t accept your offer, at least now they know you are there for them. And sometimes, just knowing that someone, somewhere cares enough to clean up the coffee and give you a hug makes all the difference in the world.

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The Week

Wed, 24 Jul 2019 23:48:00 GMT

Last week was an incredibly hard week for them. In the middle of it they celebrated their 27 ^th anniversary. At the beginning they celebrated the birth of their first born son, 25 years ago. And at the end they marked his death at the age of 23. Joy and joy . . . overshadowed by immense sorrow and grief.

So how did they acknowledge these anniversaries? Well, a short trip was in order to celebrate their union. For their son’s birthday they hosted a party of 150 of his and their closest friends—a party held in his memory to raise awareness and donations for a charity he supported in life . . . and now in death. And that most somber of days? How did they acknowledge it? Just like they do every other day. Just like they will from here to eternity. It’s just that on this one day, it hits harder than on all the others.

Even though it has been two years it might as well have been yesterday. There are days the memories overwhelm them . . . and days when Life imitates normal and they move with relative ease through the muck of grief. They are some of the fortunate ones. They have each other and they have their other children and they’ve managed not to lose sight of those blessings. Granted, there has been family counseling and couples’ counseling and individual counseling—all of which proved beneficial in facing their loss. But the important thing through it all has been not to lose the strength of their relationship, to support one another on the bad days and to hold on to their faith as they hold on to each other.

Unfortunately, not all marriages or families survive the loss of a child. Many parents blame each other, even though there is no blame to be assigned. Many parents lose sight of those children who remain—living, breathing human beings who are also hurting and looking to them for guidance . . . and for an understanding of all the whys. This couple knew the dangers that lay ahead in their journey, and they actively took steps to prepare for those, to meet them head-on and to prevail. Is it easy? Of course not. Are they traveling this road side by side, at the same speed, footstep for footstep? Of course not, because although they are two united as one, they are also still individuals with individual fears to face and obstacles to overcome. Initially, she began counseling first but he quickly saw that it would take both of them to survive the loss and both of them to pull their family together and then hold them there. So he also began and it made a world of difference in how they approached the future.

Another key component of their survival is their willingness to be open and honest about their loss. They are not afraid to talk about their son, to acknowledge his life—and his death—and how they have struggled with his absence, but they do it in such a way that those around them never feel awkward or uncomfortable in the conversations. They have taken their grief and used it for good, encouraging others while still trying to walk the path themselves. It is a journey that will never end but as they move farther and farther away from that terrible day, they have chosen to look for the joy that could easily and understandably have been left behind.

No one should ever have to endure the trials and tribulations of grief alone, especially when mourning the loss of a child, and when you have a partner in life, those trials and tribulations should be more bearable. Not necessarily easier or less painful, but able to be withstood because the pain is being shared—but that only happens if you face them together. That requires a conscious decision that each partner must make, and it must be made every minute of every day. To do anything else is to risk failure . . . and the loss of so much more.

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Castles In The Sky

Wed, 17 Jul 2019 21:59:00 GMT

If I were to say the words “SKY Castle” to you, what would come to mind? Well, if you live in South Korea—or you’re a fan of all things related to that culture—you might immediately think of a television series that originated there and is currently the highest rated drama in Korean cable history. And about what, you may ask, is said drama? To quote from Wikipedia:

“The drama revolves around the lives of housewives living in a luxurious residential area called Sky Castle in suburban Seoul. They try to make their husbands more successful and to raise their children like princes and princesses. They want their children to go to Seoul National University Medical School. So parents rush to send their children to Seoul National University. They use every way to get to Seoul National University Medical School. They spend billions of won (one billion won = $850,000) to hire coordinators for college entrance exams.”

Well . . . that sounds vaguely familiar . . . but that’s not the point. The point is, if you’re seven years old, SKY Castle doesn’t evoke a Korean drama. If you’re seven years old, you don’t see parents scheming and conniving to get their kids into a top-rated medical school. You see a really pretty castle . . . floating around in the sky. Or maybe sitting on a cloud.

And so it is with Kelsey White’s seven year olds that she is currently teaching in South Korea. Her affinity for the culture led her to pursue her dream of living there and since living generally requires an income, no matter where one might reside (other than a deserted island), she teaches. Her little ones have named her “Kelsey Teacher” and, in the course of the year, have also learned that her mother died.

Not long ago, one of these precious children asked Kelsey, “Is Kelsey Teacher’s mom in SKY Castle?” and Kelsey, in the wisdom that comes with knowing how difficult a reality check can be with a seven year old, said yes. And that yes led to a whole glorious and on-going conversation revolving around Kelsey Teacher’s mom and her current abode.

One child decided her deceased fish was with Kelsey Teacher’s mom; another mentioned their pet turtles that had gone on to greater things. They, too, would be with Kelsey Teacher’s mom. And a young boy who loves to pretend he’s flying declared that Kelsey Teacher’s mom was flying around SKY Castle—and singing. Finally, in what can only be described as the sweetest, most child-like gesture imaginable, the little ones decided they should all wave to Kelsey Teacher’s mom. And with innocent faces turned toward the heavens, they all stood and waved to Kelsey’s mother. And so did Kelsey.

So, how do I know all this? Because Kelsey’s sister, Haley, works with us in Savannah. And she knew she had to share this story with me because, hiding just below its surface, was a blog waiting to be written. Now, to know Haley is to love her and to be around her generally makes you feel far more positive about the world. But it’s been hard for them since their mother died. And yet, as Haley told me about “Kelsey Teacher’s mom” and Kelsey’s adorable students, her face lit up and her eyes sparkled. These little ones, as yet untainted by adulthood and all the accompanying behavioral expectations, freely spoke of Kelsey and Haley’s mother in a manner that could only make you smile . . . and cry at the same time. They pictured her in a magical place of beauty, watching over them while making friends with the fish and the turtles—and the humans—that had joined her. And she was happy. Honestly, as adults (if we have religious foundations) we pretty much believe the same thing. Substitute a mansion for a castle and Heaven for a cloud . . . but we seem to have lost the joy these little ones find in the belief. You can say they’re young and don’t know any better—and you would be at least half right—but perhaps that’s the greatest blessing of all where grief is concerned.

How comforting it would be if only we could see Death through their eyes.

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Borrowed Trouble

Wed, 10 Jul 2019 21:29:00 GMT

My Wednesday morning started like every other Wednesday morning. I drug myself out of the bed, stumbled into the kitchen and put the tea kettle on the stove to boil, cleaned out the litter box and let Cass (one of the cats) out the side door. Henry, his step-brother and mortal enemy, positioned himself at the back door, also wanting to exit but not in close proximity to Cass. So I opened the door—which swings in—and then the storm door—which swings out. And as I watched Henry scoot through the opening, something grayish-brown in color fell from parts unknown, registering in my peripheral vision as it hit my arm and landed with a light thud on the steps.

A frog was my first thought. We have a deceased 40 x 20 foot in ground pool in the back yard (which is hopefully disappearing sometime this month) that has morphed into a frog farm. In the summer the house is literally covered in frogs of all sizes and colors. Kinda like the movie “The Birds” but with frogs. Not wanting to have to chase one around the house, I quickly shut the storm door then peered through the glass to see if I could spot it.

It wasn’t a frog.

There on the second step was a snake. Not a huge snake. Maybe 14 to 16 inches, but a snake none the less. A very much alive snake. Evidently falls from seven feet or so will not faze them . . . but then my arm did slow its descent. My eyes immediately moved to its head which was rounded rather than rectangular, so non-poisonous. I thought it looked like a Rat Snake, and Google confirmed my original identification. As I watched it slither through the foundation vent— and under my house —I remember thinking Henry just better get used to going out the side door from now on.

I went about my morning routine, which was now far from routine, filling the tub with water and stepping in. That was when I noticed the jets inside the tub. The jets that are just the right size for a toddler Rat Snake to slither out. But those things are sealed off, right? There are lines that feed them and circulate the water, so a snake couldn’t possibly get in. But what about the overflow drain? That has to have a pipe; it can’t just dump water under the house, right? So a snake couldn’t possibly get in . . . unless there’s a break in the pipe . . . or in the duct work that feeds the cold air into the house . . . that’s not made of a continuous sheet of metal . . . so someone had to put it together . . . meaning it can come apart . . . meaning a snake could wander in . . . and out the heat and air vents . . .

The more I thought about the snake the worse it got. It could have fallen on my head; after all, I was leaning slightly forward. It could have gotten stuck on my clothes. It could have desperately grabbed at my sleeves with its little snake teeth to keep from hitting the ground. What if it had been poisonous? AND WHERE ARE ITS PARENTS?!?!?

Everything I did regarding the aftermath of my snake encounter is natural. It’s human nature to imagine the worst possible scenarios and then get all in a knot over what could have been—or what might be. If you’re dealing with an innocent event that caused no harm, like, say a snake falling on your arm, you’ll be wasting an enormous amount of mental and emotional energy making up stuff that could have been but fortunately was not. And if you’re struggling with factual, current events like a personal cancer diagnosis or a health crisis affecting someone you love, the negativity filling your noggin’ will accomplish nothing other than making the path harder than it already is or has to be. Negative thinking breeds negative actions and therefore, negative results.

We seem to like to borrow trouble and worry about the terrible what ifs without remembering that every cloud really does have that proverbial silver lining. We may have to work to find it and it may be slightly tarnished when we do, but not looking for it at all will doom us to failure before we even start—and sometimes that failure means loss or even death. As my father once yelled at me, under circumstances that I may someday retell, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” The negative possibilities of our circumstances can’t take that hope away from us, but we can, and often do, surrender it.

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Small Victories

Thu, 04 Jul 2019 16:21:00 GMT

He arrived late for the reception, pausing at the door, searching the room for the guests of honor and any other familiar faces. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white dress shirt and matching tie, he carried himself exactly as you would think a true Southern gentleman should. His eyes lit upon the host and hostess and then the honorees and, after greeting each and conversing briefly, he took a piece of cake from the groom’s table, along with a cup of punch, and seated himself next to me. I was one of those few familiar faces, the child of his friends long since gone, and a friend in my own right.

He apologized for arriving late, but he’d gotten involved in a project at home and, as he so aptly put it, there was no one to shoo him out of the house. I understood completely. His lovely wife of 58 years had died a little over three years before. She would have been the time-keeper, the one who would have reminded him to stop work, clean up, and change clothes so they could make the drive and arrive in a timely manner. Now he had to serve as the keeper of his own clock, and sometimes other things proved a distraction.

And so it is when husbands or wives are left alone in this world, minus the partner they’ve depended upon for so very long. He still remembers to send beautiful flowers when a friend leaves this world. He still comes to the visitations and funerals and I’m sure other, happier affairs. He still does all the things they once did together, only now he does them alone.

When Death or even divorce lays claim to one party in a marriage, the one left behind often struggles with the day-to-day responsibilities of life. To the eyes of the world, my friend seems to be managing quite well. But public faces are often very different from the truth and I know there are times when his eyes have glistened with unshed tears as he speaks to me of his loss and how much he misses her hugs.

It’s the little things, the daily tasks of life that can prove to be the greatest tests when you struggle with loss. On Facebook the other day, a friend of mine was celebrating a small victory. She had changed the flapper in her toilet tank without having to call a plumber. For some that may not seem like a big deal. But for the rest of us, that’s quite an accomplishment. She, like many other women—and men—had never done that before, but rather than call for assistance, she decided to tackle the problem herself. And she tackled it successfully. Small victories, people. Small victories mean so much when you’re trying to cope with loss of any kind. Those victories tell you that you might actually be able to survive on your own, that you are truly capable of far more than you first thought.

As the reception drew to a close, he excused himself with the explanation that he had an appointment in Jackson and had to be on his way. I stood as he did, and we wrapped our arms around each other. Then I watched as he walked away and thought about how unfair Life and Death can be . . . and how many little things are required of those Death forces to walk alone.

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Ancient Stones in Hallowed Ground

Wed, 26 Jun 2019 21:45:00 GMT

I am a wanderer, a roamer of cemeteries. Settle me into one, be it old or new, and I’ll be quite content for the next several hours, walking ‘mongst the graves, making pictures of the ones that peak my curiosity . . . and I seem to have cemetery radar (not to be confused with the cat radar, which I also seem to possess). Even the tiniest of cemeteries, hidden in the most obscure places, do not escape detection. For example, we were on the road Tuesday, driving to my husband’s aunt’s funeral in Centerville (which, by the way, you can’t get to from Savannah) when I chanced to see the tippy top of a monument barely peeking out from behind a hill.

Small family cemetery at two o’clock . . .

Aunt Dot was to be buried in Centerville Cemetery which was just a short walk from the church where her funeral was held. But we drove because we didn’t know that. And because we had my in-laws with us. I thought I’d died and gone to cemetery heaven when we pulled in. It spread out before me like a time capsule whose contents had been scattered across the ground, waiting to be examined and appreciated. Ancient monuments dotted the landscape, crafted when artists carved them by hand and families wrote their hearts in the stone. As luck would have it (since time was short), directly across from Dot’s final resting place was a magnificent example of all of the above . . . the Brown family monument. So when the committal service drew to a close, I slipped away to visit with the gentle guardian of the Browns.

The base was constructed in such a fashion that it actually formed a bench, a bench I could imagine a young widow occupying for hours on end as she mourned her husband. After all, he was only 34 when he died. As is my custom, the first available moment in front of a computer found me delving into Ancestry.com and FindAGrave.

It seems that Mr. Robert Paul Brown was a graduate of the Cumberland University School of Law and a practicing attorney in Centerville. He had married the lovely Wilma Harrison and they had adopted a little girl, Bobbie. He, his wife and child, and his secretary had ventured to Nashville to begin residence there during the sessions of the General Assembly. And it was there in the Noel Hotel at the corner of Church and Fourth—a building that still exists today in all of its art deco grandeur—that he died of a heart attack on January 2, 1939. On the monument that marks his individual grave, his wife had ordered the following inscription:

“Since thou canst no longer stay to cheer me with thou love I hope to meet with thee again in yon bright world above.”

Although Wilma eventually remarried, at her death she was laid beside her first love.

Whenever I find such a treasure, I get this warm, fuzzy feeling, but when I find the story of the life being memorialized, that feeling multiplies by about a zillion. Which brings me to the following observation:

In today’s world, when options other than burial are becoming more popular, the stories told by these ancient stones will not be told for many who pass from this world to the next. That may not seem so important now. There are those who will remember, those who will tell their children in the hope that they will continue to pass the stories from generation to generation. But we all know that someday, the stories will fade and be forgotten, as will the people who lived them. Yes, the information will still be available if you know where to look. But what will trigger the search if there is nothing to publicly proclaim that someone ever lived? The Mr. Browns of this world and the life that was theirs will be lost to Time and Eternity—a fate that was not his because someone cared enough to place that ancient stone in hallowed ground . . . a stone that marks his grave as it whispers of his life.

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You Do You

Wed, 19 Jun 2019 22:22:00 GMT

Recently a friend of mine started asking questions about cremation . . . not the process but how to handle the before and after stuff . . . like can you have a visitation and then have the cremation. “Of course you can”, I replied. “There are all kinds of options” and then I began my list: Cremation with a visitation beforehand, cremation with a visitation and a service beforehand, cremation with the family receiving friends after the fact, cremation followed by a memorial service . . .

The possibilities are endless. Almost.

He nodded as I worked my way through the options and then, as I drew said options to a close with the endless possibility observation, said, “I was just trying to figure out how to navigate the visitation thing since I don’t want my wife to have to go out and buy a suit.”

Wait. What?

In my head I wasn’t whating over the fact that he must not own a suit. I was whating over the need for one. So I asked. “What do you normally wear?” and he motioned to what he had on. Jeans and a T-shirt. No problem. If that’s what you normally wear, then use that. He looked a bit surprised, so I told him the story of Elvin Williams.

For those not in the know, Elvin ran a service station that sat on Main Street next door to the old funeral home (the one with the now rented apartment and possible ghosts). I think he ran it for at least a hundred years—and drove a school bus. Anytime you saw Elvin, he had on his coveralls with a tire gauge stuck in his pocket. When he died very unexpectedly, his family walked through our doors to make his funeral arrangements . . . carrying his coveralls on a coat hanger. With his tire gauge stuck in the pocket.

I was so excited.

That’s all anyone ever saw Elvin Williams wear, and to put him in anything else would have been a travesty. His wife looked at me as if to apologize for their choice but before she could I assured her she had chosen wisely.

Then there was the gentleman who had a pair of bright red, high-top Converse tennis shoes. He loved his shoes and he was so proud of them, so when he died his family wanted those shoes on him, but they also wanted everyone to know those shoes were on him. So we ordered a full-couch casket (yes, one of those where the entire lid opens, from head to toe)—and the world could see for themselves the magnificence of his shoes.

The whole idea was to impress upon my friend that your service needs to be a reflection of who you are while meeting the needs of the ones left behind. Sometimes, that’s a tall order. But sometimes, a reflection of your life is exactly what the family needs as they say good-bye. And since we’re all so very different, maybe our farewell parties should be, too.

His final observation was a common one—he didn’t want his service, in whatever form it might be, to be depressing. He wanted something uplifting and celebratory. So I told him what’s gonna happen when my husband shuffles off this mortal coil—and if Death has other ideas and I’m not around to see that it does, I’m pretty sure the kids will. When the service ends, his casket will be rolled out to “Rocky Top” and, as the hearse moves slowly at the head of the procession, the windows will be rolled down and “Another One Bites The Dust” will be blaring. Throw in a few Three Stooges jokes and a clip from “Young Frankenstein” and he’s good to go. Literally. And if you think there’s anything irreverent or disrespectful about any of that . . . well, then you don’t know Joe Thomas. As for me? I’ve told them all to just roll me in about five minutes after the service starts.

‘Twill be appropriate.

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They’re Everywhere . . .

Wed, 12 Jun 2019 22:07:00 GMT

When my husband and I first married, we lived upstairs over the funeral home that’s on Main Street in Savannah . . . the one that recently had an apartment for rent . . . only not the apartment we occupied. We were in the one that was once the abode of my great-grandmother, Loura Paisley Shackelford—the place she spent the last 20 plus years of her life. Of those last 20 years, some of them found her bedridden in that apartment, and on October 4, 1960, she died—in that apartment.

Since then, several other folks had occupied the space with no weirdness going on—at least not that they mentioned. And I won’t say we had an abundance of weirdness. Just the occasional unexplained event. Like when I leaned the broom against the kitchen cabinets so I could wash the dishes and it decided to scoot in my direction. Not fall. Scoot . Or when the lamp on the end table in the living room just came on one night while we were lying in bed. All by itself.

Now, we manufactured explanations for both of those events . . . plausible, natural explanations that we convinced ourselves were the case, mainly because my great-grandmother never had much of a sense of humor (at least not that I was aware of), so the possibility of her playing tricks seemed remote at best.

Fast forward forty something years and I’m sitting in bookkeeping at the new funeral home, reading all the comments that were made in response to the apartment that’s for rent in the old building. Granted, I did note that you should realize it’s haunted (not because it really is but because that’s what everyone assumes), but several people mentioned that as a reason they would never live there. Of course, even more said it didn’t matter and some were actually excited by the prospect. What most people don’t realize is that, given the history of the world and the number of years people have inhabited the planet, you probably can’t put your foot down somewhere that someone hasn’t died.

For instance, what would you say if I told you that two people have died in the lounge at the funeral home in Savannah? Obviously, it wasn’t the lounge then; it was an apartment which served as the residence of my parents and, for a period of time, my maternal grandmother. She departed from what was their den and what is now the area in front of the coffee pots. My dad? We were fortunate enough to be able to keep him at home during the last years of his life—home being the apartment. His hospital bed was set up so he could look out the window . . . the window that now sits between the two upholstered chairs in the room with the vending machines. And that’s where he was when he took his leave on November 23, 2009. For my mother we had moved a bed into the living room from an upstairs bedroom since the stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. Her last breaths were drawn in the room that’s on the other side of the lounge wall, the one that requires a key to open the door because it hasn’t been converted into business space yet.

See? One small space and three demises in the span of less than 25 years. Imagine what happens when you multiply that by the population of the world up until now?! You find yourself back to my previous observation . . . you probably can’t put your foot down somewhere that someone hasn’t died.

So why am I making everyone aware of this –this which may be extremely disconcerting to some of you? Because it’s a fact and it’s true and it is, despite our feeble attempts to circumvent it, the inevitable end for most everyone who walks the earth. I say most because, according to Biblical history, two mere mortals were not required to meet Death on his terms.

I’ve often told folks the dead will never hurt you; it’s the living you have to worry about. I still stand by that statement especially since, in all my years of wandering the halls at night in a building filled only with the deceased, they’ve never offered to bother me (if any of the employees get any ideas just be aware—you probably won’t have a job afterwards), although I do believe Dave Hayes and now Charlie Baker rummage around in the tool box in the garage some evenings. Am I going to declare, without reservation, that ghosts truly roam the earth? No. No, I am not. But I’m also not going to say they don’t.

I’d just as soon none of them show up to prove me wrong.

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In Spirit and In Love

Wed, 05 Jun 2019 22:57:00 GMT

This past weekend, my nephew married the love of his life. You can see it in how they care for each other, you can see it in their eyes . . . it’s pretty much a perfect match and I’m pretty sure they’ll live happily ever after.

The wedding was a small, private affair with only family invited. They didn’t want the pressure of a large gathering and, having been involved in three such events (if you count my own), I get that and wholeheartedly concurred with their decision . . . and our family size kinda lends itself to such. My brother and I were the only two children of a father who was one of two children—and my two offspring and their families were otherwise occupied with a dance recital and a newborn. My mother’s side is another matter altogether, but they’re scattered in all directions and, sadly, our contact with them over the years has been limited, especially as my mother grew older and less inclined to travel. My sister-in-law’s family is the same way so, all told, the groom’s side of the room was occupied by seven people plus his parents.

As the time approached for the ceremony to begin, I was thinking about Preston’s grandparents. None of them had lived to enjoy this moment. Preston’s maternal grandfather was the first to depart, taking his leave far too early in 2002. My parents were sandwiched in between, my mother passing in 2008 with Dad following in 2009. Preston’s maternal grandmother was the last to go, dying just last year. While his bride had two of her grandparents present, Preston was grandparentless—at least in body.

The traditional taking of pictures followed the traditional ceremony (personalized with the inclusion of a love letter from a Civil War officer to his wife [for Preston] and references to Harry Potter [for Micah]) and while we were awaiting our turn in front of the camera, someone called my attention to an item inside Preston’s tuxedo jacket. Pinned inside the coat, on the left hand side so they lay close to his heart, were four very small frames. And in those frames were four very small pictures . . . one of each of his grandparents. I learned that Micah had two such pictures pinned to the ribbons of her bouquet, included to honor her grandparents who could only be with them in spirit, as well as a tie tack that had belonged to her grandfather.

It was such a wonderful way to honor and acknowledge the lasting influence of six very special people—people who were, in part, responsible for the people Preston and Micah have become. And their gesture of love and respect reminded me how important tangible things are in bringing those we’ve lost into focus. Yes, they will always be in our hearts. Yes, we will always treasure our memories of them. But there’s just something about holding an object that once belonged to them, something they enjoyed or used often, that makes you feel so much closer in that moment. And oh, how the distance can disappear—even if just for a bit–when you see their picture, when you aren’t dependent upon memory to line their face with years of laughter or to bring the twinkle to their eyes . . .

Yes, this past Saturday, I’m pretty sure the perfect couple was joined together in holy matrimony. And I’m pretty sure, through a gesture so simple and yet so meaningful, all the grandparents were present . . . if not in body, most assuredly in spirit and in love.

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Memories For The Making

Wed, 29 May 2019 22:18:00 GMT

I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that a great many folks celebrated Memorial Day with their family and/or friends. And, I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that food was involved, possibly a great deal of food. Hopefully, there was some time for reflection on the true meaning of the day, but on the whole, probably most of it was spent engaged in wholesome (or not so) activity.

Our bunch usually gathers at somebody’s house where we gorge ourselves on all kinds of meat from a local bar-be-que spot (and beans, and slaw, and potato salad, and . . .) then settle in to watch whatever sporting event happens to be on, unless you’re not a sports fiend (that would be yours truly) in which case you find some other means with which to occupy your time. There may be the traditional scrolling of the phone, the checking of Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or whatever your preferred social media platform might be, some random conversation, Hide-N-Seek with the grandkids . . . you know the drill.

But this year was a bit different. Instead of descending upon some poor soul’s abode, we gathered at a nice little cabin that sits on a small lake in the middle of approximately 100 acres of woods—a nice little cabin that doesn’t have cable . . . or internet . . . or satellite . . . not because it isn’t available, but by choice.

At one point during the evening, after everyone had eaten to way beyond their heart’s content and had settled in, I looked around the room. At one end, my son sat on the loveseat that once graced the upstairs of my parents’ apartment, drinking a cup of coffee and conversing with my son-in-law, who sat across the coffee table from him—the coffee table that resided in the formal living room of the house where I grew up—in a chair that occupied that same room but was turquoise at the time (evidently the predominate color for decorating in the mid-50s). On the other end of the room, gathered around the dining table that seats eight and came from the cabin my grandparents once owned in Hickory Valley, were my husband, my two grandsons, and a forever friend of ours who was always known to our kids as Uncle Tommy. It confused them terribly when they were old enough to realize he was in no way related to us. They were playing card games with a deck my husband brought from home—a deck provided by Wilbert Vault Company an eternity ago. At the opposite end of the table sat my in-laws, with my granddaughter in her great-grandmother’s lap and her great-grandfather playing with her.

I had seated myself on the hearth, across from my daughter in one chair and my daughter-in-law in the other. The latter had possession of Malcolm, the newest member of the family, who did not have bar-be-que but was well-fed none the less and was being lovingly snuggled by his Aunt Nat. The night had gotten a bit late, and a few extended family members had already departed, but as I looked around I suddenly realized how perfect this night was. There were no sporting events blaring across the house (not that there’s anything wrong with that . . .), no phones out, no mindless scrolling through whatever. We were actually talking to each other. We were giving other human beings our undivided attention without some electronic device in between us. We were enjoying our time together . . . and it was perfect. Wonderfully, wonderfully perfect.

I know not everyone is as blessed as I was on that night. And I know not everyone has a cabin that’s still in the dark ages, technologically speaking . . . but I also know most everyone has fingers—fingers that can be used to push the off button on the remote or that can be trained not to mindlessly reach for a phone instead of looking the people around you in the eyes and talking to them. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve gone to restaurants and watched as people took their assigned seats, immediately pulled out their phones, and immersed themselves in a world that, quite honestly, doesn’t really exist, to the total exclusion of everyone else.

So what’s the point of all this reminiscing? Hopefully to remind us (and that includes me) that the day will come when the people around us won’t be around us anymore. Sooner rather than later, some of the folks that I shared Memorial Day with will no longer be here. My father-in-law celebrated his 90 ^th birthday this year; my mother-in-law is a few years behind him. And if anyone should ever realize that Death doesn’t play favorites and certainly doesn’t pay attention to age, I would be that person. Please, people. Put your phones away. Not just down, but completely, totally away. Give the ones you love your undivided attention while you can. You can’t make memories when you’ve got your head buried in a phone, and one of these days, memories are all you’ll have.

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The Reason Why

Wed, 22 May 2019 21:25:00 GMT

They had just returned from one mission when their Sergeant approached them with another one. It was risky, but they already had two weeks of leave accrued. He promised them two more if they took it and a solid month off was too much to resist.

His buddy didn’t feel good about it. Something just told him they didn’t need to go, but he allowed himself to be persuaded. Sadly, he should have listened to that small, still voice and its whispered warning. As they stood outside their vehicle during a stop, the whistle of a mortar caught their attention. Just before it hit, his buddy pushed him away. That selfless act saved one life . . . and cost another. His death was not immediate and did not come easily, but help arrived too late and the friend he had persuaded to take the assignment died in his arms.

He requested and received permission to escort the body of his friend back home. And when he arrived and saw the young man’s mother, all he could do was say “I’m sorry.” Over . . . and over . . . and over . . .

Now, each October and November, he withdraws from the world. Even though decades have passed, he has not forgiven himself. His friend became a casualty of war and he feels the weight of his actions to this day. As he shared the story with me, he stood there and cried. After all these years, he cried. I will spare you the horrific details he provided. I won’t subject you to the heart-wrenching pain and guilt he conveyed, but in my heart I knew I had to share his story. So I asked his permission—and he gave it willingly.

This, my friends, is why we have Memorial Day. It isn’t so we get a long weekend. It isn’t so we can fire up the grill and say hello to summer. It is to remember and honor those men and women who died in service to our country, those who gave the ultimate sacrifice so the rest of us can enjoy our long weekends while eating burgers at the lake and basking in the sun. Our cemeteries are filled with those who lost their lives to the violence of war. Don’t let them be forgotten.

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A Butterfly’s Embrace

Wed, 15 May 2019 22:37:00 GMT

In the halls of the maternity ward of Jackson-Madison County General, there hangs a three part banner, the center of which you see here. It can be found around the corner from the waiting room, the center section proclaiming its purpose while the two ends are covered in pale lavender circles, each bearing a child’s name . . . or perhaps two or even three names. There may be a date for each name, sometimes two dates very close together. But never a weight. Never a length. Never a time. Those numbers aren’t important. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure little else matters because these children never went home with their parents.

For some of the families, there is only one circle, bearing one name. But one family’s circle began with a daughter born in 2006. Slightly less than a year later, her brother was born and slightly less than a year after that, a third child to whom a first name was never given.

On the other end of the banner is a grouping of six, all bearing the same last name, but only one whose circle bears a full name—the first one born in 1997. The others followed quickly . . . 1999 . . . 2001 . . . 2002 . . . 2003 . . . 2005. The handwriting on each circle was clearly that of the same person; each consecutive circle carrying the title “Baby” coupled with the family name, evidence perhaps that the pregnancy was not advanced enough to determine if this little bundle of joy that would never be was a boy or a girl. Or perhaps they simply could not bear to select a name for a child they would never hold.

There are twins, one of whom died at birth and one who lived for three and a half months. There are circles that simply say “The Smith babies” or “The Jones babies”, but I’ve changed those last names because, even though these families have chosen to memorialize their sleeping angels in a very public way, they have not done so in a very public place, and I want to be certain I don’t invade their privacy, even after all these years.

As I stood before that banner, reading those names and realizing what each circle represented, it was a sobering moment. In the excitement of waiting for our own little one to make his grand entrance, I reflected on those mothers and fathers who were denied the privilege of watching their children grow, of being able to hold them in their arms for years instead of minutes . . . or not at all . . . parents who as long as they live will carry these children in their hearts. Like the brush of a butterfly’s wings, these little ones were here for just a moment, but their touch was surely felt. Each one was wanted, and despite the brevity of their lives, each one was and is loved.

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A Never-Ending Bond

Wed, 08 May 2019 21:25:00 GMT

I really thought I’d be writing this while hanging out on the OBGYN floor at Jackson-Madison County General Hospital awaiting the arrival of one Malcolm Edmund Guinn. In case you’ve not picked up on it in previous blogs, my daughter Kathryne and her husband Dennis are expecting their first child any day now. Literally, any day now. She actually thought it was going to be Tuesday night, so I made my mental list of things to take (iPad, books, computer, etc.) so I could be productive and not bored while waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Unfortunately, all that preparation was in vain. To say she was annoyed would be putting it mildly. Kathryne had caught a glimpse of the bright light at the end of her nine month tunnel . . . and then Malcolm turned it off.

When he does finally decide to show up, my little Kathryne’s role in life is going to change; she’ll be adding “mother” to her resume. In recognition of that fact, her husband has already purchased her first Mother’s Day present ever, and where she normally can figure out what he’s bought before she ever opens it, this time she doesn’t have a clue. Except that it’s metal. Over supper last Sunday, she was asking if she still got her present even if Malcolm wasn’t here yet, ‘cause even if he isn’t here, he’s still technically here . Just not where they can see him. So I guess, if we’re speaking technically, Kathryne is already a mother.

She’s been begging for a decent night’s sleep for the last few weeks, ‘cause anyone who has ever been pregnant knows that’s a thing that does not come easily as you near the end. I assured her she could have that . . . in about 18 years. Truth be known, there is no time in life when a mother is not concerned for her child or children, no time where sleepless nights are banished forever—at least not until her rest becomes permanent. And even then I’m not so sure . . .

Fast forward through the cycle of life, and you’ll find our office secretary, Robin Kenney, who is preparing to lay her mother, Minnie Welch, to rest this Friday. Given the circumstances, I’m not going to say Minnie’s departure was inevitable, but it was a distinct possibility. It’s just that no one thought it would be now. True to form, she caught everyone by surprise one last time. And even though her life had been long and the coming weeks and months would have been extremely difficult had she survived, that doesn’t make it one bit easier to say goodbye. As Robin stated in her Facebook post announcing her mother’s death, “I know you are with daddy now. But I was not ready for you to go.”

There is a bond that forms between a mother and her child, a bond which—for good or ill—remains for all time. From the child’s perspective, there is safety and comfort, compassion and acceptance to be found in their mother’s arms, a gentleness to her touch that is reassuring and protective. And for that mother? There will be all-consuming love and sacrifice coupled with worry and joy, with fear and relief . . . and every emotion that falls in between. For in the cycle of life, that child will always be her child—and she will always be their mother. It is a bond that cannot be broken. A bond that survives even Death.

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When Days of Celebration Turn to Sorrow

Wed, 01 May 2019 21:23:00 GMT

In 2013, on August 29 ^th to be exact, my son and my two grandsons were involved in a very serious wreck coming from their house on Hard Rock Road to the pre-school where the boys were enrolled. After flipping at least twice, the mangled vehicle came to rest on the median that runs between the east and west bound lanes of Highway 64 just outside of Savannah—a place I seem to pass somewhat frequently if I’m headed to Waynesboro or beyond. And every time I pass that spot, my brain automatically revisits the day, bringing forth some watery eyes and a prayer of gratitude.

Gratitude because everyone survived almost unscathed. Anderson took the worst of it (imagine that . . .) but only required 14 stitches and some minor surgery later. Coincidentally, August 29 ^th is the day before my birthday, so I told them I got the best birthday present possible. But it could have been so much worse.

If just one of those precious people had died in that accident, I know there would have been no more birthdays for me. Ever. Please understand that’s not a complaint on my part. It’s an observation . . . a statement of fact. When Death comes to call, or some other horrific event occurs on or close to someone’s birthday or a holiday, those days of celebration become anniversaries of loss. And sometimes they remain so until those who remember have passed from this life to the next.

A friend of mine told me years ago about his brother’s death at the hands of a drunk driver, a death that occurred on my friend’s birthday. From that day forward, his family, especially his aunts, rarely ever acknowledged his birth, but they never failed to mention his brother’s death. Effectively, his birthday ceased to exist, overshadowed by a loss they grieved until their deaths. And even today, when his birthday rolls around, he makes mention of the event so many years before and how that seemed to become the focus of the older generation.

Loss needs to be acknowledged. When it is pushed aside or hidden from view, it festers and grows like a terrible infection until it will literally take the life of the person grieving—not necessarily their physical life but most certainly their mental and emotional well-being. But at the same time, we shouldn’t choose to only acknowledge the loss and not recognize the blessings we still have.

When I updated everyone as to Joseph and sons’ conditions the day after the accident, I ended the post with a quote from Thornton Wilder—a quote I had forgotten until I started looking for the exact year for this post. I’m going to use it again today, not only because it is true, but also because it serves as a beautiful reminder not to forget those who are still with us in life while we are mourning those who are not.

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”

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When The Benefit Doesn’t Benefit

Wed, 24 Apr 2019 21:01:00 GMT

We are very fortunate in our area. We live in communities that rally around those in need, whether it’s because of a house fire that destroys everything, a flood that drives them from their home, or even assisting with medical and funeral expenses. In all of those circumstances, everyone comes together to help and the end result is often unbelievable and such a blessing to those who benefit from the generosity of neighbors and strangers alike.

But lately we’ve seen a distressing trend and it’s one of which everyone should be mindful. However, before I discuss said trend, I would like to note that on occasion families cross our threshold uncertain as to how they’re going to manage the financial end of the funeral service. Generally, the person who has died did so without insurance or sufficient assets to cover that expense, leaving their next of kin in a financial quandary. And as much as we try to help, and as patient as we try to be, sadly, other than providing free funerals, there isn’t much we can do. I’ve often said I wish we could have funerals at no charge . . . and we probably could . . . for about a week. But our employees expect to be paid so they can pay their bills, our suppliers won’t deliver if their invoices aren’t covered, and it would be really hard to have a funeral with no water or electricity in the building.

We work to find less expensive options that still provide the dignity and respect every family deserves; we wait without charge while they explore ways to raise the money needed for the choices they’ve made. And sometimes, good friends and family members will organize benefits to help with those expenses. That, my friends, is my point of discussion for today.

Recently, we were made aware of not one but two benefits that people organized for the sole purpose of assisting with funeral expenses for two separate individuals. The benefits and the families they were designed to help were totally unrelated, held at different times and in very different locations. I only know by the rumor mill how much was raised, but I can tell you this. None of it ever made its way to the funeral home.

I do know there were people who worked hard to make these happen, people who donated homemade cakes and sold raffle tickets and went around to businesses asking for donations. And many of those businesses gladly, freely contributed to the effort . . . because we live in communities that care about their neighbors, communities that will pitch in when someone is down to help them back onto their feet. And how do I know these things took place? Because Facebook is a wonderful way to advertise and gather support for events such as this, and because people tell us when they call to see why something hasn’t happened with someone whose funeral expenses they tried to help cover.

I don’t believe for a minute that the organizers of these events didn’t fully intend and make arrangements for the money to be used as designated. Unfortunately, when the fundraising was over and the day was done, the money was obviously entrusted to someone who should not have been handed that degree of temptation. And all that hard work, and all those good intentions, were in vain.

I don’t know how you fix things like that, because whenever those funds aren’t given to the family, it implies a level of distrust. Sometimes that might be a good thing, but more often than not, the families use the money as their neighbors meant for them to. I would never want you to believe otherwise—and I would never want to discourage the spirit of generosity that thrives in our communities, for without that so many people would suffer. Perhaps the best course of action is to simply be aware. Ask questions about how the money will be used and who will be the end recipient. Make certain you know who’s accountable and who will take care of the distribution. Whether it’s a house fire or a flood, medical bills or funeral expenses, all the good intentions in the world won’t cover the cost involved.

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He Just Couldn’t

Wed, 17 Apr 2019 22:16:00 GMT

For 20 years she had hated him. Well, perhaps hated is too strong a word. Maybe just intensely disliked . . . but probably closer to hated. He had married her daughter, and he shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t right for her, his background and life experiences were all wrong. It was a terrible idea . . . a horrible mistake . . . a union headed for disaster . . .

I’m sure you get the picture.

But during the last five years of her life, something changed. He was still the same person, but maybe she began to see the good in him and how well he treated her daughter. Maybe she realized she was in the waning years of her life and perhaps she shouldn’t have judged him quite so harshly. But for whatever reason, she began to call him for little things. Could he come over and take a look at this? This other thing didn’t seem to be working right. Could he come over and take a look at that? And when he’d arrive he’d fuss with her and aggravate her until she’d finally agree to get in his truck and they’d just go riding around—spending time together and making amends for the past.

But the day came when it was obvious her life was drawing to a close. After 84 plus years, her body was tired and it was time. There were opportunities to visit, maybe not for truck rides, but for conversations at her bedside. But he couldn’t do it. He just . . . he just couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He did. He cared deeply. Maybe too deeply. And maybe that was the problem. Throughout his life, Death had seemed to follow him, sometimes directly confronting him but, more often, taking those he loved . . . his father murdered when he was just a boy . . . his best friend dying beside him in combat . . . there always seemed to be violence involved and, even though that was not the case now, he had seen enough of Death. He had seen too much of Death, visiting too close to home. If he had the choice, he would not watch it again.

When his wife realized her mother was dying, she called him. Did he want to speak with her? And he did. He told her he loved her. He wished her a safe journey. And he knew she heard him because of the single tear his wife told him crept down her cheek.

It’s been almost a year and a half now, but his voice still grows softer as he remembers and his eyes still fill with tears. Despite his love for this woman he could not bring himself to be there as she slipped from this world to the next—and maybe his story is one from which we all can learn. Sometimes, when a close family member or friend chooses not to be present as Death approaches, it isn’t because they are in denial or because they don’t care. Sometimes, they are all too aware of what is waiting for this person they love, and sometimes they love them too much to be a part of it.

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He Will Not Be Forgotten

Wed, 10 Apr 2019 20:14:00 GMT

It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was finally shining after days of rain and the blue of the sky was clear and cloudless.

The five of them gathered around the smaller than usual grave . . . smaller because it was meant to receive the body of a child, just a few months old, but old enough. Old enough to have brought smiles and laughter, old enough to have been a part of someone’s life, old enough to have touched the hearts of people who never knew him.

The funeral director opened the door of the hearse and removed the casket that looked so lost in its cavernous interior. Gently he placed it beside the grave and stepped back. The minister opened his Bible and began, speaking of Christ who chastised his disciples for keeping the little ones from him, of Christ who loved the children for their innocence and the beauty of their hearts. “Let them come to me,” He had said. “If you wish to be with me, learn to be like them.” Closing with a prayer, the minister moved aside and the gravedigger lowered himself into the grave he had prepared, carefully taking the casket from the funeral director, and placing it into the cradle of the earth. The grave was closed and those in attendance left.

It was a difficult service to attend, a difficult service to arrange, for this child, so innocent and pure and perfect, had been abandoned in death. Those who came that day—and those who would have come had there not been other families to serve—had never known him in life, never seen him smile, never held him as he slept. But they cared enough to assure that he was not forgotten. In that moment they chose to remember his brief life rather than the circumstances of his death. In that moment they all became his family. And he became theirs.

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Gathering Together

Wed, 03 Apr 2019 23:38:00 GMT

I was headed to the lounge for my ‘leventy-hundredth cup of coffee, a trip that took me down the service hall and required me to punch in the “secret code” that gets the employees through the not so private lounge door entrance—not so private because the employees are the only ones who can use it, but everybody in the lounge can see us when we do. The lock beeped, I pushed the handle down, and the door swung open. Immediately, four heads pivoted in my direction. It always happens when I come in that door, at night, during a visitation, and there are people in the room. Even though it’s a door, they always seem surprised when it opens.

As I crossed the room, headed for the coffee pot, you could have heard a pin drop. I didn’t know if I’d startled them into silence or interrupted a very private conversation. Either way, I was gonna get my coffee and get gone. But as I stood with my back to the table, pumping the handle on the air pot (it just happened to be the one that doesn’t get in a hurry when dispensing coffee), the conversation picked up again.

It was not my intention to eavesdrop, but sometimes, when folks are only 12 inches away from you and speaking in their normal, outside voices, you can’t help but hear what’s being said. And, in this instance, what was being said made me smile.

These four people, two young men and two young women, I’m guessing in their late teens to early twenties, were reminiscing about their grandmother—or possibly their great-grandmother—the woman whose death had brought them here that evening. There were brief recollections and not so brief stories that one would start and the other would finish, all the while sipping on their coffee or tea or hot chocolate or whatever they had in their Styrofoam cups. And there was laughter. Each memory and each story brought another to mind and, as they sat and shared those times together, there was joy in the remembering.

As I slipped quietly out the door through which I had entered, I thought to myself, “This is what it’s about. This is what we hope to see.” When someone dies and the family and friends gather, it should be a time of sharing, of enjoying each other’s company and reminiscing about the life of someone they loved. Those gatherings don’t often take place unless Death issues the invitation; so many times we’ve heard folks say they never see each other unless it’s at the funeral home. Distant family, and even those who live close by but never have or take the time to visit, will gather together when Death comes to call.

That gathering . . . that remembering . . . is all part of the process we call grieving. It celebrates life and acknowledges its finality while honoring the one who died. And it gives those who choose to come an opportunity to share their loss . . . and their memories . . . with people who understand—who have also lost and also remember. Hopefully we were able to surround the “honoree” with love during their lifetime. Why would we not also want to take one last opportunity and do the same at their death?

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That Horrifying Moment . . .

Wed, 27 Mar 2019 23:13:00 GMT

When I was but a wee thing . . . ok, maybe not so wee . . . maybe more like nine . . . or ten . . . possibly eleven . . . my maternal grandmother lived in an apartment above what we now refer to as the old funeral home but which was the actual funeral home at the time. She never learned to drive so she never ventured far from her apartment unless someone else provided transportation, but since the building was situated on Main Street, just a block or so from the only shopping district Savannah had, she would on occasion stroll down the street to pick up a few things.

My mother worked at the funeral home, as did my father, but evidently on this particular day, neither of them was present, because I got a phone call. My mother was just a bit concerned because she had been trying to call my grandmother for most of the day . . . but no one was answering the phone. So I was dispatched to investigate.

Really? You have a whole building full of live, adult-type people and you call the kid?

At that age—and to some degree today—I had what might be described as an over-active imagination. Couple that with the fact that my life, even then, seemed to revolve around death and you have the perfect recipe for a horror movie script.

A not so small child is sent to the upper recesses of a funeral home in search of an aged and frail (at least in my mind) woman who, unknown to her family, is deceased, probably having been that way for several days so decomposition has already begun (actually, I think she kept us the night before while my parents were out, but that was irrelevant). The child grasps the ancient door knob, twisting it until the massive door to the woman’s abode opens, the hinges creaking as it slowly swings inward (informative side note—this was originally a Victorian home so the ceilings are twelve feet high and the doors are sized accordingly). In fear and trepidation, said not so small child creeps into the apartment, cautiously entering each room . . . dreading that moment . . . that terrible . . . horrifying . . . moment . . .

I’m not sure where my grandmother actually was that day, but I didn’t find her decaying corpse. I did, however, find all of our Christmas presents laid neatly across the bed she didn’t use—a fact I smugly disclosed to my mother as I reported on my assignment. Needless to say, I was not sent back to the apartment and my grandmother got a stern lecture about literally hiding things in plain sight.

Now, my adventure turned out to be rather non-adventurous, but until I actually knew that, I was terrified of what might be waiting for me on the other side of that apartment door. Sadly, there are people every day who are the unlucky ones—the ones who happen upon someone they love who, for whatever reason, has died alone. It may be from natural causes, possibly expected or not. It may be from a horrific accident or a violent act, but whatever the cause, the discovery of that loss sets off a whole series of physical, mental, and emotional responses, none of which are the same for everyone and all of which are normal . . . and unpleasant. Those responses can range from quiet sorrow and acceptance to screaming rage and denial—and everything in between. Combine that with the shock of the discovery and the confusion and flurry of activity that often follows, and the one person who will struggle the most becomes the one person who can be the most forgotten.

The loss of someone we love is always difficult and life-altering, but to be the one who walks in to find Death’s handiwork makes it so much worse. Whatever the circumstances, please remember those people will need extra care and attention as time passes. While the rest of us may be able to dwell on the good times and happy memories, that person may see one thing and only one thing when they close their eyes. And they’ll see it for a very long time.

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What a Beautiful Thought

Wed, 20 Mar 2019 22:35:00 GMT

That morning she called and offered to come and sit, to keep watch over her child while her son-in-law ran to get breakfast and a shower. They didn’t want her to be alone, not for any medical necessity but because her time was short and growing shorter—and they did not want her to die alone.

It had been a difficult journey for the entire family, one that began with a surprising diagnosis and had progressed more rapidly than they expected. There was supposed to be one last family trip, but Death had other ideas and now all they could do was wait.

As she spoke with the hospital chaplain, her daughter quietly drew her last breath. And then it was over. All the watching, all the waiting had peacefully come to an end. The doctor arrived to confirm her departure and as they spoke, she observed how appropriate it was that she should be the one who was there. After all, she brought her into this life . . . and now she had been the one present as she passed into the next.

Think about that . . .

As difficult as it may be to give birth through the physical pain, how much harder to watch as your child dies! And yet, this mother saw it as appropriate, as a privilege that is thankfully not afforded to many, but for which she was grateful. If her child had to leave this world before her, what a blessing that she could be there with her in those last moments.

As mothers and fathers it is our job to teach our children how to survive and thrive in this world. And, when Nature behaves as it should, and Death bides his time, we should leave long before our children are ever required to face their own mortality. But when the order of the world goes awry, and parents must bury their children, what a beautiful, beautiful thought. We gave them life, we were there when they entered this world, and they are truly a part of us. Despite the heartbreak and the pain and the loss that will never, never heal . . . how appropriate that those who nurtured and cherished and protected that child in life should be beside them in death.

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Know The Rules

Wed, 13 Mar 2019 22:21:00 GMT

Pay close attention, people. If you come from a dysfunctional family, you haven’t seen your spouse or your children in decades but they still legally belong to you, or you’ve outlived anybody even remotely related to you . . . or you know and/or are caring for someone who meets that description, LISTEN UP. This is a public service announcement that will save both of us a lot of heartache and headaches when Death comes to call.

If you don’t have someone who is legally allowed to make your funeral arrangements—or you don’t like or trust the people who occupy that position—you can change that with one simple form. A Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare.

To begin—who has the right to arrange for your funeral? Well, first and foremost, you do. Yes, you can prearrange and/or prepay for your funeral and the law says that prearrangement becomes our directions when you die. The only problem is that we may have to look at a table full of people and tell them they can’t cremate you and take the rest of the money because that’s not what you legally, officially said you wanted; that’s gonna be hard to do because you won’t be around to back us up (and yes, we’ve had families that did that, but the Tennessee Code Annotated didn’t address the issue then). Of course, the law is on our side, but that can get very ugly very quickly. It can also be devastating to the family if you wanted cremation and they are morally opposed to such (which has also happened—more than once). So, first moral to the story, if you have a good relationship with your family, please discuss your plans with them before you carve them in stone with us.

But suppose you didn’t prearrange, then who gets to decide? Next on the list is your Healthcare Agent as named in your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare, if you have one. For the sake of clarity, now might be a good time to just review the whole list.

PRIORITY OF DISPOSITION RIGHTS UNDER THE LAWS OF TENNESSEE:

See what a mess we can have if none of these people exist, or worse yet, they do and refuse to accept responsibility? As you can tell from this legal list, someone doesn’t just magically get to walk in and take charge, even if they’ve cared for you for years, and if there isn’t anyone to step up, your final arrangements could be left to a total stranger. Is that really what any of us want? I know, I know. If we were to ask a lot of you, we’d probably hear “It won’t matter. I’ll be dead.” Yes. Yes, you will. But generally, no matter how long you’ve lived or how estranged you may be from your family, there is someone who cares for you, and that’s who’ll have to suffer through all the waiting and the red tape. That’s why a Healthcare Agent is so important. They aren’t just empowered to make healthcare decisions; they also have limited power after death. That power allows them to 1) authorize an autopsy, 2) donate your organs, or 3) see to the disposition of your remains. In other words, make your funeral arrangements.

So if you don’t have family who can or will or who you want to make your funeral arrangements, do the people who care about you a favor (and, by extension, whatever funeral home may be in charge). Make certain someone, somewhere has the legal right, the willingness, and the ability to do so when that time comes. And if you’re the caregiver and you know this is going to be a problem, take steps now to solve it. Folks can’t sign legal documents once they are mentally incapable of understanding them and, despite the fact that we’ve had people actually ask, folks can’t sign legal documents after they die. At either point, it’s a little late to start trying to fix the problem.

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No Perfect Solution

Thu, 07 Mar 2019 00:18:00 GMT

This, my friends, is a face that will give anyone nightmares, especially if you’re a child. And that’s exactly what it was originally designed to do. The statue, which was named “Mother Bird” was created in 2016 by Keisuke Aiso for an exhibition inspired by Japanese ghost stories; the figure is based on local folklore about a woman who died in childbirth and returned as a bird, intent upon haunting the area where she died. However, it was never the artist’s desire that the piece be used to frighten children—unfortunately that has become its lot in life.

In true social media form someone posted a picture of the creature, renamed it Momo, and either created the “Momo Challenge” or stories about it. The alleged game is said to entice children to harm themselves in various challenges while filming their activities. The final challenge supposedly requires the child to commit suicide, offering explicit instructions on how to accomplish that goal.

You may have noticed a lot of qualifiers in that last paragraph, like “alleged”, “is said to” and “supposedly”. That’s because internet experts and social media platforms such as YouTube haven’t found any evidence the original challenge game actually existed, although there are numerous claims stating otherwise, but that lack of evidence hasn’t stopped the copycats. Enterprising and evilly-minded folks took the picture and spliced it into videos such as Peppa Pig on YouTube Kids, or into popular games such as Fortnite, so it pops up unexpectedly, terrifying the victims. The whole mess has brought about numerous warnings from police departments and school systems, encouraging parents to be more conscious of their children’s activity on-line and to watch for signs that their child could be considering self-harm or suicide.

That’s the only positive outcome from this entire episode. People have religiously shared anecdotal stories of someone’s child dying at the command of a creepy on-line creature. They have hit the Facebook Share button without actually knowing if there is any truth to the matter or if the entire thing is a hoax—a response that drives me crazy because it happens all the time. Otherwise intelligent people share things on social media without ever questioning the validity of what they’ve read, thereby perpetuating the problem. But that’s another soapbox for another day.

What has happened by sharing these tales without confirmation is that the copycats now have a new weapon in their arsenal. But the greater threat is the distraction this causes where the real and very troubling issues lie.

According to the National Center for Health Statistics, in 2017 suicide was the second leading cause of death for people between the ages of 10 and 24. Between the ages of 10 and 14 there were 517 reported instances; between the ages of 15 and 24 that number increased to 6,252. Sadly, those numbers are small compared to the number of children who try and, in their minds, fail. By focusing on what is possibly a hoax and blaming it for deaths that have not been definitively connected to it, we are overlooking the real problem—what causes these children to take their own lives?

Most suicides are rooted in two emotions: hopelessness and helplessness. Those two will lead to despair and despair then reinforces the belief that the situation is hopeless and the one struggling is helpless to change it. So begins the vicious cycle and eventually death seems to be the only way out. But beneath those two driving forces are so many other factors . . . bullying, drugs, and mental illness being perhaps the most prevalent.

So what can we do to address suicide in our children? Unfortunately, there is no one solution that fits every situation and no one solution that is guaranteed to work. But we can be more present and more aware. Don’t use technology as a babysitter. Let’s get our heads out of our phones and into the lives of our children. Converse with them over meals. Know their friends and what they’re doing. When their behavior changes, try to understand why. If your child is being bullied, step up . . . and if your child is the bully, step in. No one is perfect, not even our children, so don’t be guilty of trying to defend the indefensible. If you see your child struggling or they ask for help, listen . . . then find them the help they need. Don’t pretend that need will go away if you just ignore it. It won’t, and that’s the best way to guarantee you will lose them. As I said earlier, there is no perfect solution, and all of our best efforts may still result in failure, but we have to try. Our children are the most precious resource we have on this planet—they are our future—and they need to know we believe that.

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Water, Water Everywhere . . .

Wed, 27 Feb 2019 23:31:00 GMT

“Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink . . . Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink.”

So said Samuel Taylor Coleridge in his 1834 epic poem, “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”. Granted, the reason he couldn’t drink the water was because of the salt content, which was also the reason the boards of the ship were shrinking even though they were submerged in the offending and practically useless liquid. But the point I want to make here is that he was literally surrounded by water . . . lots and lots and lots of water.

And so has been our situation for the last several days, but not salt water. Just nasty, muddy, smelly, catfish-laden river water that has slowly crept across the fields and hollers of our county and surrounding area, rendering people helpless and often homeless in its progression. It has been and continues to be a flood of historic proportions, rivaling the great flood of 1973 which was, at one time, memorialized by a high water mark carved into a post at the Botel, a boat/restaurant/hotel that sits on the banks of the Tennessee at Pickwick Dam.

The region at large and the population in general seem fascinated by the devastation. And for a while all the memes and such made the rounds on Facebook, like the one where the Welcome to Tennessee sign sits above one that states “No Lifeguards on Duty”, but those quickly turned to pictures of the flooding, pictures taken from every corner of the county. Then came the warnings. Quit sightseeing—it endangers those who are trying to save what few things they can, including livestock. Watch for snakes—the water has brought them out of hibernation. Turn around—don’t drown. The currents are strong, even on roads that have never flooded but have now become tiny rivers, tributaries to the real thing.

In all of this, we have come together to help each other survive. When the call went out for trailers and pasture so livestock could be saved, it was answered. When businesses needed help moving fixtures to lessen their losses, people came. When the Red Cross began preparing to open a shelter for those driven from their homes by the rising waters, so many people arrived to help that they were amazed. They honestly believed the volunteers were families needing housing. That doesn’t even count the local restaurants that willingly provided food or the grocery stores that called offering the same.

But in spite of all the coming together, in spite of all the community and compassion, there is so much loss. We have been fortunate in our county; no human lives have been taken, but livestock is another matter altogether. And, although no human life has been lost, a way of life has been for so many. Over 1,000 homes are flooded, many more are unreachable. The clean-up to come will be a monumental task and there are material possessions which have been lost for all eternity. If you were to ask any of those who fled the flood or were rescued as the rising waters threatened, I’m sure they would tell you they’re simply glad to be alive. But as the days turn into weeks and months and they face the daunting task of cleaning or replacing or rebuilding, they will still be grateful, but they will also be grief-stricken.

Yes, you can buy a new dining room table, but you can’t replace the one that belonged to your grandparents. If your personal pictures didn’t make it to safety, and you didn’t have a back-up plan in place, then a tangible reminder of your past is gone . . . the visual record of those memories no longer exists. Farmers are struggling with fields that are lakes or livestock that has been lost. Not only has a significant part of their lives been destroyed but also a significant part of their livelihood. And through it all, there is one theme that stands silently in the background of every picture and every Facebook post and every interview . . .

The things of this world are fleeting and often fickle. Nothing—not grandma’s dining table or pictures from your child’s third birthday or your own life—is safe from destruction and devastation. But if we support one another . . . through losses of any kind . . . we can and will survive. And come out stronger for having done so.

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Grant’s Story

Wed, 20 Feb 2019 23:50:00 GMT

I don’t often mention families or their loved ones by name here; I certainly don’t use their pictures. And if I’m going to tell their story anonymously, I wait long enough that most of you won’t know who they are. But today is different. Today, with his family’s permission, I want to tell you about Grant Johnson. It is their hope, and mine, that by doing so perhaps there are lives that can and will be saved.

This is not a post that will make you feel good; there aren’t any snippets of humor or cynical observations. If that’s what you need or want today, then I suggest you move on without reading this. But if you have children, especially children of driving age, I hope you will read the entire piece . . . and then I hope you will show it to your children and ask them to do the same. And then I hope you’ll talk about what you’ve read and how important it is that they consider the consequences of their decisions—and how many people pay the price when they don’t.

Grant was 23, an age where all the doors of life are opening, where the potential and promise are unlimited—and he was striving to take full advantage of both. He was completing his senior year in college, already employed with the family business and co-owner of his own. He had found the girl with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life and they had already begun making plans. He had college friends and high school friends and church friends; his circle was wide and ever-growing because Grant had a heart for people. Compassionate and kind, loving and generous, he served as a role model and mentor—a kind of big brother—for the youth group at church, constantly astounding those around him with his knowledge and practice of Biblical principles. His life was coming together in all the ways for which a parent prays. Until the very early morning hours of Sunday, February 3, 2019.

In the darkness of that hour, Grant made a decision . . . a very foolish decision. He wanted to race, and with that decision he handed Death an engraved invitation to not only ride with him, but to take the wheel. It probably wasn’t the first time—and I’m sure Grant thought this time would be like every other time before—but on this night, Death accepted. This time, Grant’s decision cost him his life.

So much died with Grant that night. There will never be a class reunion with his high school friends or the guys with whom he played football and basketball. He won’t be finishing the hard work he started in college or celebrating graduation with his fraternity brothers at MTSU. His friends will no longer have his infectious smile or the mischievous twinkle in his eyes to cheer them up when things are tough, or his listening ear when they just need to confide in someone they trust.

The love of his life now has to struggle with starting her own all over again. And the one person who would have been there to support her in any trial is the person she no longer has . . . the person responsible for the storm she now finds herself trying to navigate. Don’t tell her she’s young and there’ll be someone else. Even if that’s true, it’s of no comfort now. And it never will be. Now there will never be a home built with Grant, a future filled with love and laughter. There will never be the barn they planned to build. There will never be children that bear his name, children to inherit his smile and his wit and his heart for others. For her, that future died with him.

His sister and her husband will never have children that get to play with Uncle Grant or grow up with his children. When her parents leave this earth she will have no one from her immediate family to share birthdays, or Thanksgiving and Christmas, because Grant was her only sibling. There’ll be no gathering and celebrating with her brother and his family . . . her little brother that she fiercely protected as they were growing up . . . the little brother she loved so dearly and deeply. The living connection she would have had to her parents died that night as did all the memories their families would have made together.

Grant’s parents must now walk into a house that is so empty and quiet because he no longer fills every corner. The blessing—and the curse—is that he is still there and always will be. The family pictures and photo albums, his personal belongings, the Christmas stocking that belongs to him . . . what will become of these things and so many more? There will be decisions to make, each one difficult and heartbreaking. Does his stocking get hung this Christmas or does it stay safely packed away? Do they turn his bedroom into something else, something not so filled with memories? Or do they leave it as is so perhaps one day a grandchild will ask to sleep in Uncle Grant’s room . . . the Uncle Grant they never knew . . . the Uncle Grant who is spoken of often with love and longing? Each time they see his picture, it will remind them of what they lost. Each time they walk by his bedroom or see his friends or experience a thousand other tiny moments that will mean nothing to anyone but them, they will remember. They will never get to celebrate his birthday with him again, never get to see him graduate from college or get to watch as he marries and builds a home, never get to rejoice at the birth of his children or celebrate the other milestones of his life. And for the rest of their lives, there will be pain. The severity will lessen with time, there will be more and more moments when life will seem normal again, but there will always be pain.

Grant’s death left a trail of broken hearts and shattered dreams in its wake, touching our community in ways we rarely ever see. As I mentioned at the very beginning of this piece, I hope the parents who have made it this far will sit down with their children and talk with them. Show them Grant’s picture. Tell them his name. Stress to them that it only takes one foolish decision or one distracted moment to turn a mode of transportation into a deadly weapon. Just because they’ve done it before and survived doesn’t mean they will the next time. And if you’re guilty of engaging in any activity that can do the same, then stop. Just stop. Grant’s life and how he lived it to the fullest with compassion and love should be an example for all of us. His death should be a lesson. I hope we choose to learn from both.

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‘Til Death Do Us Part

Wed, 13 Feb 2019 23:45:00 GMT

In case you’re one of those date oblivious folks, February 14 ^th , aka Valentine’s Day, is upon us—as in right on top of us if you’ve waited until Thursday to read this. Or long since gone if you waited much beyond that. So, in honor of that special day, I’d like to tell you the story of Gordon and Norma Yeager.

Gordon and Norma were high school sweethearts who probably set the record for the fastest engagement and wedding in history; Norma graduated from high school at 10:00 AM on May 26, 1939, Gordon immediately asked for her hand in marriage, and by 10:00 that evening, they were husband and wife. For 72 years thereafter they did everything together . . . they raised their family, they traveled, they worked, they played . . . they were never apart. Never. It simply wasn’t something either of them needed or wanted.

All of that ended on Wednesday, October 12, 2011 when Gordon and Norma set out in their car for a trip to town. They never reached their destination; an accident sent both of them to the emergency room and, eventually, to intensive care with broken bones and internal injuries. It soon became apparent that recovery was not an option, and the hospital staff, knowing they couldn’t separate them, moved Gordon and Norma to a room where they could be together, their beds pushed close enough that they could hold hands. And so they did, until Gordon died at 3:38 that afternoon. His family had watched as his breathing slowed and then ceased, but they were confused. Despite his obvious departure, the heart monitor to which he was attached was still beating. When they asked the nurses how that was possible, they offered a simple explanation. The monitor was picking up Norma’s heart beat through Gordon’s hand. Her heart was beating through him.

Exactly one hour later, at 4:38 PM, Norma Yeager joined her husband. Only then did his monitor fall silent.

The Yeagers’ children said it was a fitting end to their lives. Gordon had never wanted to leave his beloved Norma and she had felt the same way about him. In death it seemed he had waited on her before making his final exit from this world into the next. According to their son, Dennis, “Dad used to say that a woman is always worth waiting for. Dad waited an hour for her and held the door for her.”

When the family went to the funeral home to make arrangements, they asked if the couple could be placed in a single casket, holding hands. They had never been apart in life; it didn’t seem right to separate them now. And the funeral director said yes.

Gordon and Norma Yeager lived a love story for the ages, one that few of us will ever be able to experience. And in the end, they honored their vow . . . ‘til Death do us part. Only this time, Death never had the privilege.

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Little Ears

Wed, 06 Feb 2019 23:23:00 GMT

I have this grandson named Anderson. Recently I told Anderson’s father (my son), that his child had to be part cat. He’s bound to have nine lives and, as best we can estimate, he’s used five of them thus far. That we know of. And he’s only eight.

I won’t recount the previous four; although two of them were gross but not gag inducing, two of them have caused people’s eyes to get really big and their hands to instinctively go to their mouths in horror. But this last one. Oh, this last one . . .

A few weeks ago Anderson, who loves to climb anything, but mainly trees (yet another cat-like quality), managed to work his way up about 15 or 20 feet into the neighbor’s Magnolia tree. I should clarify that this is basically the neighborhood tree that just happens to be located in someone’s front yard, and every child up and down the street knows they have perpetual permission to climb said Magnolia. But on this day, Anderson climbed higher than he should, to that point where the branches are still young and green . . . and bendy . . . and thin. And he fell. Actually, I contend the tree dropped him because the branch upon which he was standing broke, and the branch he grabbed to keep from falling also broke. And Anderson hit the ground from about the height of a two story window.

The end result was two fractured bones in his left arm, close to his wrist (fortunately, he’s right handed), two to four cracked ribs (compliments of the branch he hit on the way down . . . the branch that probably saved his life), a tiny skull fracture on the left side of his noggin, just behind his ear, and a small brain bleed—and a night as a patient at Le Bonheur Children’s Hospital. He was released the next afternoon with instructions for follow-up appointments for a cast and another CT scan—and, of course, the usual in-room doctor/parents conference.

That evening, when bedtime rolled around, as tired as the little fellow was, he didn’t want to go to bed. And he certainly didn’t want to go to sleep. When his exhausted parents asked why not, he told them he heard the doctor say that, due to the brain injury, he might forget some things during the coming week, and he was afraid if he went to sleep he wouldn’t know who they were when he woke up.

I’m sure the doctor never once thought that Anderson was listening. I’m sure his parents never thought he would take that simple remark to the place he did. But Anderson was listening . . . and he did understand . . . up to a point. Then his train of thought got seriously off track. And therein lies the lesson we need to apply on so many other occasions.

One of the most life-altering events in a child’s world can come when Death claims someone they know and love. As you discuss that death with other family members and friends, remember, the walls have ears—and so do the little ones. Children share some of the same qualities that make for a good ninja, and they generally exhibit those when you least expect it—or want it. Your comments to others, your descriptions of what transpired, your observations about that person’s life, all are fair game for children to take in and process—and if they don’t have a clear understanding of what you said . . . and what you actually meant to say—you have just compounded the problem. It may be a tall order, but we should always be aware of our surroundings when conversing with others and choose our words with care. Children may not come when we call them to supper. They may not respond when we tell them to clean their rooms. But we need to remember they are constantly watching and listening—especially when we don’t think they are.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

Thu, 31 Jan 2019 00:00:00 GMT

To quote the great Yogi Berra, these past few days have been a case of “déjà vu all over again”. For those who might be unfamiliar with the terminology, déjà vu (pronounced “day zha voo”) is the feeling that you’ve experienced something before, even though you may not remember when or how. So déjà vu all over again is like déjà vu twice times. Déjà vu on steroids. Or just Yogi being redundant.

It all started when a long-time friend of my father’s died. Frank Shepherd was someone I’m pretty sure I’ve known all my life, even though he wasn’t originally from these parts. I’m not certain when their friendship began but it was one that stood the test of time, ending only with my father’s passing. He was a bear of a man, tall and strong, and whenever we saw each other, which wasn’t as often as I might have liked, there was always a one-armed hug that would literally engulf me. Mr. Frank almost made it to 89 and a half and, although I knew his health had declined, I’m not sure I knew the extent, so his departure caught me by surprise.

Just a few days afterwards, Bob Adkisson followed in Mr. Frank’s footsteps. His health had also been declining, both mentally and physically, but Death had taken his own sweet time in coming. Another close friend of my dad’s, Mr. Bob was one of the faithful few who continued to come and see him after his body and mind failed him so miserably. He would sit beside Dad’s hospital bed in the apartment at the funeral home and recount the ridiculous circumstances in which they had often found themselves. And my father, who rarely acknowledged anyone’s presence, much less communicated with them, would smile and even try to laugh at the memories as they unfolded.

When Dad died we asked Mr. Bob to speak at his funeral, but he hesitated. What we didn’t realize at the time was that he was already suffering from the dementia that eventually took his mind before illness laid claim to his body—and he was aware that something wasn’t right. He was afraid he would stand before those in attendance and forget what he wanted to say. But his wonderful wife, who had been one of my mother’s closest friends, reassured him. They would write down his thoughts and he could read them from the pulpit. And that’s exactly what they did, and no one was the wiser. I tried to tell him—and I hope he knew—how much it meant to have him there as a part of honoring my father’s life.

But now both these wonderful men are gone and suddenly I find myself losing my father all over again. They were a connection to him and, although I didn’t get to see them as regularly as I once did, I still knew they were here. I still knew that connection was alive and intact . . . but not anymore.

And hence we have “déjà vu all over again”. For me it’s that feeling of loss which had, with the passage of time, somewhat faded into the busyness of life, but which in the last few days has come back with a vengeance—an ache deep within for something that is only a memory now. In 2009 my loss may have reminded others they were not too far behind me on the path of grief. And today, their loss reminds me of what I once had and what I miss so much. My consolation in all of this? Now Bob A., Bob S. and Frank are together again, no longer suffering and I’m sure reminiscing about old times and catching up on what they’ve missed . . . and waiting patiently for the rest of us to arrive.

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Walk Gently

Thu, 24 Jan 2019 00:29:00 GMT

After thirteen years of marriage, my daughter and son-in-law are expecting their first (and possibly only) child. And for thirteen years, they have endured all the questions.

“So . . . when ya’ll gonna have a little one?”

“Thinkin’ ‘bout startin’ a family anytime soon?”

“You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know . . .”

Kindly read all of the above in your best Southern little old lady voice, although the questions were by no means limited to Southern little old ladies. For my children (yes, I consider my son-in-law one of my own), they were nothing more than aggravating, because they had chosen to wait, not been forced to. But what these “kind-hearted” and well-intentioned people didn’t consider is that might not have been the case at all. They might have been trying for years. They might have already lost several pregnancies. If either of those circumstances were the issue, then every question regarding their childless status would have been equal to a knife through their hearts. And being the people they are they probably would not have told these inquiring minds the actual state of affairs.

All of the above reminds me of another instance I heard about several years ago involving a young mother and her two small children and a trip to Cracker Barrel. The kids were being kids but not wildly so. There was no running around the restaurant or bouncing off the walls, just two siblings behaving like children do when they’ve been cooped up in a car for an hour or so. While they were waiting on their food, a woman came over and read this mother the riot act, complaining about how the children had disrupted what she hoped would be a nice, quiet meal (and who, pray tell, goes to Cracker Barrel for a quiet meal?) and how she should really be more considerate of those around her. And with those hurtful words, she turned and left.

As the husband/father related the events to me, he added that he wished he’d been the one in the restaurant. He would have looked up at that woman with the most mournful look he could muster and apologized for his children’s behavior, telling her they had just left the hospital where his wife had died and he couldn’t bring himself to go home. The house would be so filled with her but so empty and he was still trying to figure out how to tell his kids their mama would not be coming home. And then, while the woman was standing there, ashamed of her actions and trying to stammer out an apology, he would look at her and say, “That’s all right, because you see, nothing I just told you is true. But you didn’t know that when you walked over here. ”

I loved that response—even though it only took place in his head—mainly because this woman never considered what circumstances might have brought that family to that Cracker Barrel on that particular day—what adverse conditions might have caused the innocent behavior to which she objected—and somebody needed to remind her of that.

Often we do not walk gently into the lives of others because it never occurs to us that their lives are anything but normal, when the truth of the matter is, we can rarely ever tell just by looking at someone how much they may be hurting. Whether from grief brought by Death or loss in some other form . . . whether their pain is physical, mental, or emotional . . . our words hold an enormous amount of power over others who may be struggling.

Please, always try to use that power for good.

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Frustrated, Livid, Irate, or Mad . . .

Thu, 17 Jan 2019 03:12:00 GMT

Have you ever opened a bottle or can of Dr. Pepper that’s been shaken, even just slightly? Have you then gone looking for wet paper towels or a mop, or just gone to stand in the shower so you can remove all the syrupy stickiness with which you have been coated due to the ensuing explosion? Kindly hang on to that mental picture as we proceed.

It was a morning or two after his death that her kids walked into the living room and just stopped. Everything was everywhere and nothing was in its place. Throw pillows had been thrown, couch cushions had been scattered . . . if it wasn’t nailed down then it was fair game. They looked at her in fear and astonishment and started to ask, “Mama, what in the . . .” and she stopped them cold. “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t you say one single word about it. I’ve fussed at your daddy all night long .”

And fussed she had. He had known something was wrong. He had known he needed to go to the doctor because of the symptoms he was having. But fear overcame common sense. He assured everyone that he was fine; he assured everyone they shouldn’t worry. Then she came home and found the ultimate proof that he was wrong. So on that night she had yelled at him and lashed out at him and thrown everything she could in every possible direction, until she was worn and spent and beyond exhausted.

Every day thereafter she went to the cemetery. And every day she stood at his grave and yelled at him. And when the venting was done she would tell him about all that happened the day before. It was a cycle that repeated itself over and over and over, but it was also the cycle that allowed her to keep her sanity.

I know there is a word to describe the depth of her feelings. I just don’t know what that word is. Mad doesn’t seem to do them justice. Neither does angry. Or even frustrated or livid or irate. Perhaps furious . . . but as I think about it, I’m coming to the conclusion there isn’t a word in the English language to adequately describe the anger that boils up inside of those who are left behind when Death comes to call under circumstances such as hers. Its strength and depth defy description.

A friend of mine heard her story and woefully observed, “You know that’s not healthy, right?” Oh, but I beg to differ—and I quickly did. Her anger is so strong that the failure to release it could be devastating. Which brings me to my Dr. Pepper analogy. As I told my friend, to have that much anger inside, and to keep it inside, is the equivalent of putting a cork in a bottle and then shaking it for all you’re worth. Eventually, the pressure will build to a point that the cork will go flying across the room or, at the very least, bounce off the ceiling—and the resulting mental and emotional mess will be everywhere.

It’s natural to be angry when Death comes, especially if he comes unexpectedly, claiming those who are young or in seemingly good health, or those who fall prey to tragic accidents or circumstances they could have prevented. If we aren’t mad at the person who died then we’re mad at the universe or its Creator. Whatever the focus of our anger, that anger has to be expressed. To push it down and refuse to acknowledge it is a recipe for disaster. Not only will the resulting words and actions hurt the people closest to us, but that unresolved anger will eat away at our mental, physical, and emotional well-being. Only by letting it out will we eventually be able to let it go.

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It Wasn’t His Fault

Wed, 09 Jan 2019 23:20:00 GMT

He had been very hesitant about coming into the office, not because he didn’t like us but because he didn’t like the reason behind the visit. His wife was terminally ill and for several weeks she’d been after him to go to the funeral home and make certain the cemetery lots they planned to use had been transferred into their names. He knew it needed to be done. He knew it wouldn’t take that much time. But deep down inside, he had the nagging fear that, if he went, she would die and it would be his fault. Never mind that the doctors had told them Death was on the horizon. Never mind that he had been by her side for the entire battle and could see the toll it had taken. If he made the trip and took care of the business, he was signing her death warrant. But on that day, in spite of his misgivings, he had finally given in to her wishes and walked through our doors, telling us during the visit he knew that wasn’t how it worked and he knew his fear wasn’t rational, but still . . .

She died that night.

When the employees arrived the next morning and learned what had happened, they were horrified—not because they thought his nightmare had come true but because they knew that’s what he would believe. He would feel responsible for her death, even if he never admitted it.

As difficult as it is to lose someone you love, it’s so much harder when you believe you’re somehow at fault. In this gentleman’s circumstances, there was nothing he did to bring about the death of his beloved wife—but that knowledge won’t quiet the still, small voice in the back of his mind.

If death occurs because of an accident—a true accident that no one could have prevented—the survivors may still feel they should have been able to save the person or people who died. If your loved one is battling an illness which eventually takes their life, you may feel you should have done more . . . one more visit to another doctor . . . one more treatment to be tried. There may always be something we think we should have done or some way in which we believe we failed. Guilt can be as unreasonable as it is strong, neither of which makes it right. So for those of you who may find yourselves feeling this way, please let me assure you of something.

You aren’t that powerful.

Most of us will never hold the keys to Life and Death. We may be able to prolong one and delay the other, but not for long and certainly not forever. Death, in its many forms and fashions, will eventually circumvent even the best laid plans, and our inability to keep that from happening is simply a fact of life—and one for which we should not insist upon taking the blame. Loss is hard enough without adding the extra burden of unreasonable guilt. If that’s where you are right now then please, cut yourself some slack. I’m pretty sure your loved one would want you to.

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Family Matters

Wed, 02 Jan 2019 23:45:00 GMT

Despite all of my best efforts, the year has ended and a new one has arrived. And, despite all of my best efforts, I think I’m farther behind than I’ve ever been. It reminds me of a coffee mug I have that says, “God put me on earth to accomplish a certain number of things. Right now, I’m so far behind I will never die . . .” (Maybe I need that one at work instead of my Gumby mug.) The holidays, as much as I enjoy them, tend to eat my working time . . . and my sleeping time . . . but, unfortunately, not my eating time. That seems to multiply.

So today, on Wednesday, January 2, 2019, I’m trying to settle back into my work groove and at least file/toss enough paper that I don’t need a catalog in my chair to be able to work on my desk. Part of my rut involves going through the day’s mail, sorting and handing off or throwing in File 13, whichever is appropriate. But today there was a rather unusual piece, an envelope that was obviously a card of some sort, but thick, as though it held more than was intended originally. It was addressed to my husband and me, and to my brother and sister-in-law, and came from Milan, Michigan. When I opened it I found a beautiful Christmas card—and a memorial folder from my first cousin’s funeral service that had taken place on November 9 ^th . Accompanying the card and folder was a heart-warming thank you note . . . and several pictures of my mother with her sisters and of our family at the Rogers reunion that took place a lifetime ago.

You may not understand why I’m sharing all of this, but if you’ll bear with me, I’ll attempt to explain. My mother was the youngest of four girls, and the only child of my Rogers grandparents. My grandfather, who died before I was born, had been married previously but was widowed while his three girls were still at home. He married my grandmother and brought my mother into this world.

Fast forward several years. One sister, my Aunt Lorraine, died of cancer at an early age. Another sister, my Aunt Christine, and her husband took in Lorraine’s girls, making a home for them along with her own children in Michigan. The third sister, my Aunt Dean, lived in Kentucky. And my mother eventually came to rest in Savannah, Tennessee by way of multiple towns since my grandfather worked for TVA during the dam building years. We saw our Kentucky kin far more than we did the Michigan folks, simply because they were closer, but every once in a while, we’d all gather and visit. Now all of my mother’s generation is gone and several of mine took an early leave from life. Terri Gail was the most recent.

My brother and I did what we could to help; hence the Christmas card and thank you note. The pictures, however, were an unexpected blessing. And I know I’m tired from too much Christmas and New Year’s celebrating (which was a party at the house, attended by our three grandkids), not to mention life in general being thrown in for good measure, but I stood in bookkeeping, holding that card and looking at those pictures, and my nose turned red and my face made every face imaginable, just trying to keep the tears at bay.

To make a long story short (a feat you’re probably thinking isn’t possible at this point), despite the fact that I rarely ever hear from this side of my family, they are still my family. They are still my first and second cousins, the children of half-sisters that my mother loved beyond measure. Despite the time and the distance, we still know we can count on each other and we still share life’s joys . . . and sorrows. And that brings me to my actual destination in this journey of words.

It’s a brand new year, all bright and shiny and full of promise and opportunity. My hope for you as we begin this I-blinked-and-there-it-was year is that you will make time for the people you call family. Reach out and renew relationships, set aside moments when you can reconnect or strengthen the ties that already bind. If those relationships are strained or non-existent, work hard to repair them before that opportunity disappears forever. Friends are wonderful and should never be taken for granted, but family . . . family should mean home. And home is where your heart should be.

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The Last Christmas Present

Wed, 26 Dec 2018 23:02:00 GMT

Every year, without fail, the packages arrived. It might be on Christmas Eve or the day before; it might even be Christmas Day, but they always, always came. They might be in bags or they might be wrapped, but there were usually two, one of which was a fun box of S’mores stuff from Wal-Mart. You know, the box that has a chocolate bar with a package of graham crackers and a small bag of huge marshmallows—all the fixin’s one would need to rev up the oven and indulge in a campfire feast for two, unless you really, really liked S’mores. Then it’s a feast for one. And there would always be at least two adorably cute mugs in that same box, all brightly Christmas colored and themed . . . usually snowmen but occasionally a Santa or reindeer or some other holiday appropriate character.

I always told him it wasn’t necessary. I appreciated being remembered and it was extremely nice of him to go to the trouble and the expense, but I was just grateful for his loyalty and devotion to our work. That was more than enough for me and Christmas presents, as much as I enjoyed S’mores and scarfs with gloves or coffee or whatever the second gift might be, were not required or expected. He could have spent that money on his family instead of me; however, my words fell on deaf ears and the presents continued to come.

But on December 6th, Charlie Baker died. He’d always been in a hurry to finish everything at work. I would have greatly preferred that he not follow that philosophy where his life was concerned. But Death had other ideas and we lost a valued employee and friend. Someone even mentioned they guessed I’d seen my last box of S’mores stuff. I really hadn’t thought anything about it. S’mores or Christmas presents or even Christmas were the last things on my mind at that moment. But I agreed; they were right.

Then one day about a week before Christmas, I walked into my office to find a GIANT Christmas bag beside my chair. And inside that bag was a box of twelve K-cups for coffee (for the twelve days of Christmas, except the manufacturers called it “The 12 Pods of Christmas” ) . . . and a box of S’mores fixin’s with two of the cutest snowman mugs I could imagine. Of course their cuteness was probably amplified by the absence of the giver.

His wife said he’d bought the gifts forever ago, put them in this bag that was about ten times too big, and set them in their living room floor, waiting for the appropriate time to deliver them. Since he couldn’t, she did.

I won’t lie. I may have teared up just a bit when I realized what I had. And I may have cried outright when I got my bag home and slowly unpacked it. I opened the S’mores box, tucked the chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows away for another time, and placed my two snowman mugs on the window sill by the kitchen sink. Now, during the holidays, whenever I wash the dishes or water the cats, I’ll look at those two mugs and think about someone we all loved and we all miss. Every December they’ll come out of the cabinet where they’ll live the other eleven months of the year and occupy their place of honor. They were my first gift of the season . . . and they were my last gift from someone I had known and appreciated for 28 years. As much as I fussed at him for spending his money on me, for once I’m so very thankful that he did.

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Future Memories

Thu, 20 Dec 2018 02:22:00 GMT

I was driving down the road the other day, looking at all the things that aren’t there anymore. City Hall looks very different than it did when I was growing up. The Guinn Tourist Home turned into a Hardees. And the wonderful old Patterson house is now a vacant lot, compliments of a fire a few years ago.

You know what else is missing? The people that, in days long since passed, occupied those places that I find myself thinking of more and more. Maybe it’s the time of year or maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of a baking marathon and I’m just tired . . . or maybe I’m getting older and beginning to realize how much the things of my past mean to me now. And how much I wish I could go back.

How wonderful it would be to make the trip to Bolivar again for Christmas with my grandparents, to compete against my brother on the trip over, trying to see who could find the most Christmas decorations before we reached our destination. There were very specific rules for that game. It had to be a house—no businesses—and it had to be facing the road. Even just a wreath on the door counted and every house was equal. No extra points because they had a yard full of stuff. We played it every year that we traveled west and you could be pretty well assured that whoever lost going over would win coming back . . . unless everyone had gone to bed and turned off their Christmas lights. Then it was anyone’s game.

I don’t remember much about the food at those gatherings, except that my grandmother, or Mom as we all knew her, was a wonderful hostess with some excellent help in the kitchen. Dessert often included sweetened condensed milk that had been slowly simmered in the can for hours until it morphed into the most delicious caramel I’d ever had. She would detach the top and bottom from the can once it had cooled, then use the bottom to force the caramel out in one neat cylinder. After about a quarter of an inch she’d stop and cut a slice, using the can as her guide. Serve that with some vanilla wafers and you had what I believe was my favoritest dessert ever. Maybe not because it was so good (even though it was good), but because of the memories in which it is wrapped.

In the course of all my wandering around in the past, I had a startling revelation. Granted, it’s a thought that I’m sure I’ve had many times, but never in this context. The memories I cherish so, the memories which, on occasion, I long to return to, are the memories that I am now creating with my children and grandchildren. The day will come when I am no longer here, at least not as I am now, and hopefully they will hold fond memories of cookie baking and birthdays and Christmas suppers that are probably more like dinners than I’m willing to admit. Hopefully, they’ll look back at what is my now and wish for those days again.

I know I’ve said all this before. I’ve even used the picture attached to this blog before, but it’s one of my favorites and most perfectly illustrates the point I want to make. Even the simplest of moments can fill a lifetime with memories, but only if we are present for them. So take some time this Christmas to be thankful for all your blessings. Take some time to recognize the beauty and importance of the little things. Always make the time you have with the ones you love count, so someday they’ll look back and wish for more.

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Merry Christmas?

Wed, 12 Dec 2018 23:37:00 GMT

Let’s all put on our thinking caps for a minute and see if we can count how many different ways we’re told to be happy this season. I’ll start with the song Deck the Halls which is rather insistent that it’s the season to be jolly. Let’s see . . . then there’s Winter Wonderland . The very first verse tells us we’re gonna be happy tonight ‘cause we’re walking around in a snow-covered world—probably with a layer of ice underneath. But it’s gonna be real pretty. Oh, and we can’t leave out The Christmas Song by Alvin and the Chipmunks. “Christmas, Christmas time is near. Time for toys and time for cheer . . .” Great. Even the animals are in on the conspiracy. And that’s just a smidgen of the Christmas music. Don’t forget that seemingly everyone ends their conversations with “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy Holidays!”

But unfortunately, not everyone feels jolly or merry or happy or cheerful or whatever other term you choose to describe the joyous emotions of the season. As a matter of fact, there are many who would prefer that the season just go away. Let’s fast forward from Halloween to January 2 ^nd . That should fix it.

If only that was true. But hiding from the holidays won’t make the world right. It won’t bring back what has been taken and it won’t make it hurt any less. As difficult as it is, facing the pain and finding ways to acknowledge those who are no longer with us is better than trying to pretend it never happened and they never existed.

So light a candle in their memory. Hang their stocking in a special place of honor. Fix their favorite dessert or play their favorite song—or tell your favorite story about them. Continue a tradition they loved. Allow them to be a part of your celebration. Cry when you need to . . . smile when you can . . . laugh if the opportunity presents itself. By inviting those we have lost back into our lives, especially at this time of year, we are acknowledging their importance and facing their absence. We can only slay the dragons if we are willing to engage them in battle. And if ever Death had a form other than the Grim Reaper, I’d say a fire-breathing dragon would be appropriate. We may come from the battle scarred and changed, but we will survive.

Before you leave this page, I hope you’ll take a look at the picture attached to this particular post. The Christmas tree is the one that graces the foyer at the funeral home in Savannah. It’s a simple tree, covered in red berries and pine cones and icicles that manage to travel all over the building. But look beyond the tree at the window. There you’ll find a wreath, wrapped in black ribbon; a wreath proclaiming to the world that we lost one of our own. In one picture, you find symbols of both the joy of the season and the heartbreak of loss. And so it is in life. To quote Khalil Gibran, “Joy and sorrow are inseparable . . . together they come, and when one sits alone with you . . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.” You cannot have one without the other, and as we get mired up in this season of contradictions, please remember—to try at all costs to avoid life’s sorrows is also to give up all hope of life’s joys.

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It’s Ok . . .

Thu, 06 Dec 2018 00:32:00 GMT

Services were almost over when she came down the center aisle. There was determination in her step, a note held in her hand, and grief etched across her face. She spoke briefly with the minister after handing him her message, returning to the back of the church before the song of invitation ended.

The minister moved to the microphone, holding the note, looking at it as he chose his words carefully. But before he revealed its contents he began his remarks by noting that the story it told was the story of so many in our congregation. I will simply say it is the story of so many.

Her husband had died a little over eighteen months before. And seven months later—just as it seemed the world might be settling down—her son unexpectedly followed his father. Now she was selling the home where so many memories had been made with both of them, moving into another, more manageable property. And she wasn’t handling it as well as she needed to (her words, not mine). There were many who had offered themselves in comfort and support, and she was eternally grateful for those who cared so much, but the passage of time hadn’t lessened her need for their presence.

As our minister spoke I scanned the auditorium, because I knew there were people present who could easily have written that same note. My seat is such that I can see almost everyone who is there, and as my eyes moved about the room, they came to rest upon one woman who sat, looking straight ahead, unmoving with arms folded, but with her nose turning the slightest bit red. Her husband had died just eight short months ago. She, too, had just moved into another house . . . away from the home they had built and filled with memories . . . away from the place their children and grandchildren loved to visit. She is a practical individual who approached her husband’s death much as she did everything else in life, but today I could see the pain on her face.

Toward the back of the building sat a man with whom I went to school. His wife died very suddenly and unexpectedly while on a church trip, and her death rocked our congregation. With a larger than life personality, her loss left an enormous void, and I know not a day goes by that he doesn’t miss the sound of her voice. When the service ended, those close by wrapped him in their arms, surrounding him with love and compassion.

Slightly behind him sat a woman whose husband had succumbed to the cancer he battled for so long. It was approaching two years since his death, but as the preacher read the note he’d been given, she sat with her head in her hands. Though she had family living close by and friends to listen, there were days his absence was overwhelming.

Those were the three I saw, but there were so many others—how many more I will never know. And it doesn’t have to be a spouse. The loss of parents, grandparents, siblings, or—heaven forbid—children can bring about the same depth of grief and sense of hopelessness. A few days later, as I spoke to the woman with whom I began my story, I reminded her that it’s ok not to be ok. And she agreed. It had taken her eighteen months to realize she didn’t have to walk around with a big smile on her face as though life was great and everything was fine. She finally realized she had permission to grieve, openly and publicly. When I asked her if I might share her story, she readily consented. Her reason? If it could help just one person . . .

Any time of year is hard when someone you love is missing, but Thanksgiving and Christmas—the two most family-centered holidays known to man—make the grief even greater, and I’m not sure it matters whether it’s been two months or two years or two decades. Grief doesn’t own a watch, or a calendar, and expecting it to abide by ours is useless. It’s normal to struggle with life’s drastic changes and Time, although helpful, isn’t a cure. Too much has been lost for adjustment to be an easy task—or for things to ever be the same.

So my message to you today is a simple one. It’s ok to tell the world you’re hurting. It’s ok to ask for help when you don’t feel you can continue alone.

It’s ok not to be ok.

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Grief and Fear

Wed, 28 Nov 2018 23:40:00 GMT

If you’ve read my last few attempts at blogging then you know my daughter and I traveled to Sedona, Arizona recently. She had been before, so I had a knowledgeable and really cute tour guide who also had a whole list of must-sees/dos for her mommy. On that list just happened to be the Grand Canyon, an approximately two hour drive away, but one which was to be well worth the time spent.

I won’t comment on the trip over for, although my little Kathryne is an excellent driver, I am not the best passenger, especially when the non-existent shoulder of the road is a straight drop of several thousand feet (which is probably an exaggeration, but not from where I was sitting). We thankfully arrived unscathed, parked, and began our approach and contemplation of the afternoon’s activities. She really, really wanted me to hike a ways down the Bright Angel Trail. She and her husband had actually made a day of it when they visited, hiking 4.5 miles in . . . downhill . . . on a sweltering day in June . . . knowing they had to hike back out 4.5 miles . . . uphill. Despite its relative simplicity, she wasn’t nearly as optimistic about this mini-trek, because my Kathryne knows me too well—and she knows that high places are not always my friend.

I can stand on a step ladder with no problem whatsoever; I do it every year to decorate the Christmas trees, as well as scaling the kitchen cabinets to get to the windows. I can climb an extension ladder and transition from it to the flat roof of our building with no trouble at all. I can even fly in an airplane at 30,000 feet without panicking. But walking down a three to four foot wide dirt trail with no place to go but several hundred feet straight down if I fall? Nope. Ain’t gonna happen.

Not wanting to disappoint my child—and firmly believing that I could will power my way through a tiny portion of the trail—I agreed. As we started down I constantly reminded myself not to look. If I didn’t see it, then it wasn’t there.

That’s actually a lie and my brain knew it.

The farther we walked (which wasn’t very far), the more I realized for every step down there had to be a step back up—on the outside of the trail if I met anyone. The outside that’s right next to nothing but air. As we approached the first bend in the trail, which was also the location of a very large sign, I looked at her and said, “Kathryne, I don’t think this is going to happen.” And she said, “I don’t guess you want to know we aren’t even on the trail, yet. It starts at that sign.” And I said something I shouldn’t have.

We turned around and hiked back up, me with my hand resting on the sheer rock wall to my left (like it would keep me from dying) and her fearlessly tagging along behind me. At one point I approached a group of three people . . . three people who were just STANDING there, taking up my space that I desperately needed so I could continue to touch the wall . . . MAKING me edge closer to the abyss that lay to my right. But I did. And I passed them. And I didn’t fall off . . . or knock them over trying to get beyond them while not getting too close to the canyon.

When my feet finally landed on the solid ground of the south rim, I realized I really hadn’t been breathing. I also realized I wanted to throw up and/or cry (or both) from panic and then from relief. And I made her promise not to tell anyone. So here I am telling the world. My only consolations are that I actually did try, I didn’t drop to my hands and knees and crawl back up, and no helicopters were involved.

After the death of his wife, C. S. Lewis, the author of The Chronicles of Narnia , among other works, wrote A Grief Observed in which he said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” Although my losses have been limited to my parents and grandparents, I have experienced grief. And, although I have been afraid in the past, on that day I experienced fear to a depth I did not know was possible. And I can tell you, C. S. Lewis was right.

The physical effects of grief so closely resemble those of fear that one could easily be mistaken for the other. And perhaps that is because grief and fear are inseparable companions. When Death visits, claiming his intended victim, he leaves fear in his wake—fear of life without someone in whom our life is bound, fear of an unknown and uncertain future, fear of life in general because it is now so very different. I survived my terror-inducing experience, as I knew I would . . . once I did. But those who are grieving don’t have the comfort of solid ground for which to aim and upon which to stand, at least not for months and often years—and sometimes, never.

When grief and fear reside in the same soul, those of us around them can help by offering to listen and support them as they struggle. We must be patient and not filled with condemnation for their “inability” to overcome and move on with their lives. If we haven’t been there, we can never know the depth of their suffering. And if we have, then we should remember our own pain . . . and understand theirs.

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In The Service Of Others

Wed, 21 Nov 2018 04:42:00 GMT

As usual for this time of year, the normal post-on-Wednesday-night, find-it-on-Thursday-morning blog comes a day early, ‘cause Thanksgiving wishes rule the regular blog day. And, as usual, I feel like I should really focus on being thankful for something. The trouble is, for what? That isn’t to say I’m not grateful, because goodness knows, I realize how truly blessed I am. My problem is where to start? As I pondered the direction of my focus, the usual suspects came to mind . . . family (especially the grandkids and future grandkid), friends, decent health—the list could be endless. But then one particular blessing came to mind, one that is often overlooked but is so important that when it sprang into my thoughts I immediately knew. I just knew that was the one.

I’m grateful for the people with whom I work—for those folks who have dedicated their lives to serving the families who walk through our doors. It doesn’t matter if you come to Savannah, Selmer, Bolivar, Waynesboro, or Henderson, you’re going to find compassionate, caring people who routinely put their lives on hold to help someone else through theirs.

Day by day—and night after night—our folks walk with families as they struggle with loss and make plans to honor someone they love. For the directors and funeral staff, it may be a day of arrangement conferences and funeral services that follows a night of little sleep because the calls have kept them up and out . . . or the previous day’s events made sleep difficult to come by. I don’t know anyone who works with us who has perfected the art of “dropping it at the door” when they get home; there are too many times that Death and its repercussions touches everyone who works here in ways that are not easily set aside. The directors and assistants must routinely serve as counselors, comforters, and referees—they must gently guide those who are trying to find their way through the haze of fresh grief.

It’s not just the funeral directors and staff that make what we do possible. Believe me, you’d definitely notice if the housekeepers weren’t quietly working in the background. We rarely ever take note when something is clean and in good order, but we most assuredly do when it is not, and I know there are days they go home exhausted because of the number of people we’ve asked them to clean up after.

Without the secretaries and bookkeepers, our records and paperwork would be a disaster and family members would find themselves responsible for a great deal more at a time when more is the last thing they need. The office personnel are generally the first ones with whom they come in contact, and many families grow to rely on them as they try to navigate the piles of paper that accompany Death. So often I have walked into our foyer or office only to find a distraught family member pouring their heart out to one of our secretaries, because that secretary willingly takes the time to listen, to understand their grief, and to respond to their pain. And that doesn’t even take into consideration the amount of work we ask of them once the directors finish meeting with a family.

And the grave crew? They wade through snow and sleet and rain and mud and muck and unbearable heat or cold so families can bury their loved ones. They routinely come back from cemeteries frozen or melting, soggy or coated in mud, but they willingly come back the next day, knowing the same is waiting for them.

What it all boils down to is this . . . we can’t do what we do for the families who call on us without every single one of the folks I just named. They all have their job. They all understand the importance of the role they play. And they are all dedicated to doing the best they can for those we serve. We are blessed that they have chosen to work with us and today, as we prepare to give thanks for so much in life, I want them to know that they’re on my list.

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Looking Up

Wed, 14 Nov 2018 14:50:00 GMT

This week has been a struggle, at least where any kind of writing is concerned. Writer’s block has ruled the day. Actually, all the days. And it wasn’t for a lack of possible topics. Kathryne and I were spending a week in Sedona, Arizona so there was all the “preparation to leave” material. Then the shooting in Thousand Oaks, California took place, claiming twelve lives, followed by the horrific wildfires that have claimed far more. Those events offered the opportunity to discuss hope or the unexpected brevity of life . . . but it was all so depressing and I felt like life had been depressing enough lately. It didn’t need any help from me.

Then Kathryne and I went hiking.

She let me choose the trail and I took one labeled Easy/Long. It was the trail known as the West Fork which was allegedly 3.3 miles in . . . meaning it’s also 3.3 miles out. There were a few creek crossings (as in stepping from rock to rock while hoping the only thing that gets wet is your shoes)—actually, 15 in all . . . one way. But it sounded intriguing, so off we went.

The landscape was absolutely beautiful . . . and totally unmarked other than the occasional arrow that indicated the continuation of the trail, meaning we had no idea how far in we were as we hiked. Please don’t suggest that we should have consulted our Health app on our phones. We had no service at any point, so it could only tell us afterwards what we had done (which, by the way, appears to have been walking 8.9 miles in 22, 144 steps and climbing the equivalent of 19 flights of stairs).

The longer we hiked, the more we wondered how much farther it was to the end of the trail—and would we even know it if/when we arrived? I started asking the folks we met if they had made it to the end. It wasn’t that we were tired at that point, but for every step we took in we had to take another step back out. There would come a point when the dark of night would catch us and the wild things would appear. But we didn’t want to turn back if we were almost there.

The first guy said no (like I was an idiot), the full hike is 14 miles long . . . that was not helpful. The next folks were far more informative, telling us we only had a mile or so to go. But approximately another 20 minutes in, a nice English couple told us we were only about 1.1 miles away.

*Sigh*

We had to walk single file due to the narrowness of some parts of the trail, and as we were trudging through what proved to be the last mile or so of the hike, I heard an “Oh. Wow,” from behind me. I turned to find my little one standing in the middle of the path, her face turned upwards in absolute awe. Following her gaze, I saw one of the most magnificent examples of Nature’s beauty that I believe I have ever been privileged to behold. And as we both stood there in wonder, she observed, “We were so focused on our destination, we forgot to look up.”

And that, my friends, is my message to you today. There will always be obstacles that will interfere and tragedies that will impact our lives. But we can’t allow ourselves to get bogged down in the chaos that so often swirls around us—or within. Life is far too short and far too precious to lose sight of what’s important. So as you travel through it please, don’t get so focused on your destination that you forget to enjoy the journey.

Don’t forget to look up.

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The Stuff We Leave Behind

Wed, 07 Nov 2018 23:07:00 GMT

He came to the building intent upon purchasing a monument for himself and his wife. She had died just over a year before, and he’d thought about it often enough, but folks kept telling him they’d help him with it . . . but that’s all they ever did. He wanted a family member to come with him to help him make the decisions—and they said they would—but they never actually found the time. He knew everyone was busy. He knew everyone only thought about those things when they saw him, but still . . .

He needed to clean out the closets and put away some things. He needed to rid himself of things she’d bought that were just for her that he would never in a million years use. There were folks who said they’d come and help. There were folks who said they’d like to go through her clothes because they wore the same size. And he didn’t have a problem with that; it was better than him having to do it all. But all they ever did was talk about it; no one ever landed on his doorstep for the express purpose of carrying something . . . anything . . . away. He knew they might have changed their minds or felt awkward after they’d asked on the spur of the moment, but still . . .

She’d been sick for years . . . long, tiresome years where he’d cared for her and watched her slowly slip away. There were days she’d look at him and tell him she knew when she was gone he’d just throw her stuff away, like it didn’t mean anything. And now that she was gone, and he was trying to find others who could use what she had accumulated, her words rang in his ears. She had staked a claim in that part of his memory and, no matter how hard he tried, the guilt would creep in whenever he tried to move something out. He knew they were just things. He knew she would never need them again, but still . . .

I’m pretty sure he talked for at least 30 minutes, talked about the struggle of living without her and dealing with everything she’d left behind. As he left he expressed his appreciation for our time and our willingness to listen—and I wanted a magic wand so I could wave it over his house and make everything better. Shoot . . . I can’t even manage to go through my own mess but I wanted to follow him home and help him wade through hers.

There’s a lot more to death than memorializing the life and/or disposing of the remains, a lot more than just planning a funeral or choosing a cremation or even both. There’s all the stuff . . . all the paperwork that must be completed and forms that have to be filed. There are accounts to be closed and material possessions to be distributed or discarded or simply stored away, hopefully so a future generation can use them, but more likely for eventual tossing. One can only keep so much ancestral stuff before a house becomes a museum that’s bursting at the seams.

It’s hard to let go of something, especially if you know it was important to someone you loved. So for those of us who might be doing the leaving sooner rather than later, perhaps a good house cleaning is in order (I am now going to hear from both my children . . .). Keep what’s important and, if you can’t bring yourself to get rid of the rest, at least let the future responsible parties know what came from their great-great-grandmother and what came from eBay. And then give them permission to let go of whatever they need to when the time comes.

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Amazingly Memorable

Wed, 31 Oct 2018 22:25:00 GMT

Last week I recounted the tale of our smoldering heat and air unit, the one that made me believe the world as I knew it was about to change drastically. In the course of my story, I mentioned our code for a fire in the building—Code Jerry Lee—which was based on the song “Great Balls of Fire” sung by Jerry Lee Lewis.

Get it?

Some of you found that extremely amusing, so I thought perhaps a bit of history was in order and maybe even a revelation or two.

Several years ago, a nice gentleman from TOSHA—the Tennessee Occupational Safety and Health Administration—paid us a surprise visit. You see, we not only have to address funeral specific safety stuff, but they also expect us to be prepared for any situation, meaning our fire extinguishers are tagged and inspected, all our electrical outlet covers are intact, every restroom has hot water . . . you get the picture. One of the things he encouraged us to implement—actually demanded might be more accurate—was a notification and exit plan in case of various events, such as fires and the like. Hence, Code Jerry Lee.

Actually, not quite hence, at least not immediately. While drawing up the floor plan and filling it full of red arrows showing emergency exits and proposed routes of escape, I began to ponder a system of codes. But I didn’t want just any old codes. None of this Code Blue and Code Red business, or Code 1 and Code 2. Nope. Our codes needed to be creative and unique and nothing short of amazing. If I’m gonna be forced to do something, I might as well have some fun in the process. So several of us convened in the office and put on our creativity caps. The results of that session were as follows (keeping in mind that the only people for whom these codes are meant are the employees . . . TOSHA told me that was their only concern . . . some other governmental entity was responsible for worrying about the public . . .):

Code Lena—to be used in case of a severe weather alert when notification throughout the building is deemed advisable. Named for Lena Horn who sang Stormy Weather .

Code Billy Ray—to be used in case of a medical emergency. Named for Billy Ray Cyrus who sang Achy, Breaky Heart .

Code Chubby—to be used in the event of an impending tornado (aka a “twister”). Named for Chubby Checker who sang Let’s Twist Again .

And, of course, the now famous Code Jerry Lee.

Later we added another one—Code Patsy—to be used in the event there was a threat in the building involving a mentally unstable person. It was named for Patsy Cline who sang . . . you guessed it. Crazy . That code would definitely have come in handy the time a little lady came in wanting to arrange a cremation for a child. When I began to ask her questions (because something didn’t seem quite right) I learned the child wasn’t dead . . . yet. She expected us to remedy that situation and then hide the evidence by cremating the body. And it wasn’t her child. It was some random child she had seen at Wal-Mart and to whom she had taken an immediate dislike.

We called the police.

Now why, you may ask, would we go to so much trouble over a simple set of codes that we will hopefully never need? Well, there are actually two reasons. The first I’ve already mentioned—in my head they needed to be unique and amazing. The second reason was more practical. By using codes to which we could relate, we might be more inclined to know what the emergency was when the code was announced. If I hear Code Blue or Green or some other color, my brain is going to start down the list to see if I can figure out exactly what’s going on. But give me a Code Billy Ray and I immediately know there’s a medical emergency somewhere in the building.

Believe it or not, the same two philosophies hold true with funerals (you had to know we were going to get there eventually . . .). Just think about it for a minute. If the person to whom you are saying good-bye was amazing (and most of the time they are to the people they leave behind), then you want their service to reflect just how amazing they really were. And you want it to be memorable in a good way. The funeral you can’t remember didn’t necessarily do justice to the life of the person being honored. Like a Code Blue, it may not be as meaningful as it could have been. Instead, maybe we should strive for Code Jerry Lee funerals . . . not because the building might need saving but so we can easily remember the real purpose behind the plan.

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Code Jerry Lee

Wed, 24 Oct 2018 22:16:00 GMT

I was quietly working away in bookkeeping last Saturday evening, minding my own business and not bothering anyone else. It seemed a little chilly, which is understandable since bookkeeping is in the garage, so I turned on the heat for the first time this season, and went back to the tasks at hand. A few minutes later the strangest alarm started sounding. It resembled the ringing of an old-timey telephone followed by a sick goose. Seriously. Three rings. Three honks. Three rings. Three honks. Over and over and over. I kept wondering whose house or car had such a funky sounding alarm . . . and why in the world didn’t they shut it off?

Then my cell phone rang.

It was my husband, who was answering the funeral home phones that night, telling me the monitoring service for our alarm company had called to report a fire alarm at 450 Church Street and they had notified the fire department.

Hmmmm . . .

I rose from my chair, still on the phone with my husband, walked out of bookkeeping into the garage, then out of the garage into the hallway by the mechanical electrical room. That’s when I realized the “goose” was actually the little man who lives in the fire panel yelling, “FIRE. FIRE. FIRE.” And the hallway was filled with smoke.

I’m fairly certain I said something I probably shouldn’t have.

My heretofore unformed mental check list kicked in. First out, any living breathing human beings. We actually have a code to be used over the intercom system in case there’s a fire in the building—Code Jerry Lee (for Jerry Lee Lewis who sang “Great Balls Of Fire”)—but since I was the only qualifying individual present, an announcement didn’t seem necessary. Second out, any deceased human remains. I checked the preparation room. Empty. I searched the staterooms looking for the person for whom a visitation was to start the next day. At this point the employee who lives across the back yard—the one I had frantically summoned—arrived and the casket was removed from the stateroom and placed in the back of the hearse, ready to be taken away from the building.

In the midst of the chaos I remembered turning on the heat, a fact I mentioned to the fire fighters as they arrived. To the roof they went, quickly locating the offending unit (the smoke billowing from it was a dead giveaway . . . no pun intended . . .). A dismantling of the thing revealed smoldering insulation that vaguely resembled the glowing embers of a camp fire. No flames, but enough smoke to make you think there should have been some somewhere.

When the excitement subsided and the world went away, I started thinking about how much there was to lose in this building. I don’t mean furniture or caskets or even equipment and vehicles. I’m talking about history. We have records of families we’ve served dating back to 1926 and all the insurance money in the world won’t replace those files. Granted, for years one of the motivating factors for several actions we’ve taken has been, “What do we lose if the building burns?” That’s why we’ve archived basic information from the older funeral records we have into computer databases, back to the very first service. That’s why we now have the records for the cemetery entered into the computer so we know who’s buried where and who owns what. It’s why we used to run back-ups to external hard drives that we changed out each day, storing the latest one in the safe. It’s why we’ve started backing up to the cloud. But there’s so much more.

Now we’re beginning to scan our preneed files, creating digital copies of the paper that presently occupies six file cabinet drawers. Next on the list will be the monument orders. And I’m still trying to figure out how we get the bookkeeping records out if the opportunity is there, keeping in mind that no record is worth someone’s life . But if there is time, where do we start and in what order do we go?

There were always fire drills when I was in school and today we’re encouraged to have escape plans in place should our homes ever catch fire. That may mean a designated gathering spot and collapsible ladders for second floor bedrooms with smoke alarms in all the appropriate places and fire extinguishers in the kitchen and by the electrical box. The main goal should always be to save lives. In a fire that’s all that really matters. But there are steps we can take before that ever happens that will safe guard our history—like scanning family pictures and storing the back-ups in a safe place or copying important documents and placing the originals in a safe deposit box or fire-proof safe.

As I mused about the evening and all the suggestions I’d received from various members of the staff regarding building evacuation and document salvaging, I remembered one observation that was definitely an accurate assessment, whether you’re talking about your own personal home or a business . . . like a funeral home. You can’t protect everything. And he was right. But you know what?

I can sure try.

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An Uphill Battle

Thu, 18 Oct 2018 01:17:00 GMT

Several months ago, for reasons which have absolutely no bearing on this epistle, ABC elected to cancel the show Rosanne and reinstate it as The Conners , minus one of the main characters. When a network does that, a couple of things can happen. Either the character goes on a very long trip or takes a job in another city or engages in some other semi-reasonable behavior that explains why they are no longer present, or the powers that be decide to kill them off. In this instance, the former title character was sacrificed for the story line.

That’s hardly a new event in the world of television, but what made this one extraordinary was the manner in which she died. In their fictional world, what was first believed to be a heart attack suffered while she was sleeping turned out to be an opioid overdose, discovered during an autopsy—an overdose brought about by a secret addiction to pain killers. As her family searched for answers they also began to find pill bottles hidden about the house . . . and the more they searched, the more they found—and the more they found, the more they came to understand how much they truly did not know.

Fans have been all over the place on this one, most making their feelings known via Tweeter. For the record, I’m not on Tweeter, but the news media has a need to let me know what everyone else has to say. Some have been mortified that they chose death to explain her character’s absence—and some have praised their acknowledgment of a real-life problem.

Whatever your thoughts on the matter, one thing is certain. Opioid addiction (as well as other types) and the resulting overdoses and deaths are real problems within our society. Not long ago, MSN posted a list of 83 celebrities who had “left us” during the year. Of those 83, 21 died from either suicide or an overdose—or both. Sadly, suicide is often someone’s answer for their inability to escape an addiction by any other means. And if it isn’t an accidental overdose or escape by suicide, Death rides in on the violence this lifestyle can bring.

For years we have been a society too often fueled by drugs—both legal and illegal. The magnitude of this epidemic went unrecognized, or at least not acknowledged, for far too long. Now, as we try desperately to reverse the trend, we find ourselves fighting an uphill battle, one that we seem to be losing.

This is not a problem limited to “big cities”; our rural communities are just as affected and frankly, those addictions and resulting deaths probably touch more lives when experienced on a smaller scale. Why? Because in small towns and rural areas, everyone knows everyone. The chance that you know someone who is an addict, or know a family that has lost someone to addiction seems to increase as the population decreases. In metropolitan areas, those deaths can get lost in the crowd. In the communities we serve we see the heartbreak firsthand, not on the part of the addict, but in the lives of those they leave behind. Family members and friends who struggled for years to help them beat their addictions walk through our doors defeated, believing they should have done more while knowing full well it was a problem they couldn’t fix. Their loved one, their friend, may at last be free, but the cost of that freedom was their life.

No matter how you feel about The Conners or the choices that were made in dealing with the departure of a character, they have focused a very bright light on a very harsh reality. In the course of that dialogue, I hope we remember a few things. 1. A sudden, unexpected death doesn’t automatically mean a drug overdose, so don’t automatically turn it into one, and 2. No one is immune. It doesn’t matter where you come from or who you are or how well off you may or may not be. In the real world of addiction, anyone is fair game.

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Voices From The Past

Wed, 10 Oct 2018 22:29:00 GMT

If any of you have checked the news on-line lately or scrolled through Facebook, you’ve probably read or watched the story of Kaley West Young’s father-daughter dance at her wedding. Actually, it was a brothers-sister dance because Kaley’s dad died in 2015, so her five big brothers stepped in, not to take their dad’s place but to provide that moment so many brides cherish—even if it was with five pretty special people instead of one very special person.

What Kaley didn’t know was that her brothers were a conniving bunch. As they began to dance to Michael Bolton’s “Fathers and Daughters”, the music faded and a familiar voice filled the room . . .

“Hi, Kaley. My name is Dave West and I’m Kaley’s dad . . . and I love her very much . . . eighteen hundred times worth . . .”

Her father’s voice, pulled by her brothers from years of family videos, spoke directly to her. Throughout the song, the brothers traded places so each could dance with their sister—and her father’s voice continued saying all those wonderful things a daddy says while filming his only little girl. Before the song ever began, the bride was in tears and, by the time it ended, everyone there had joined her, deeply moved by a bond Death had not broken and by a gift the value of which could not be measured.

Today, the ways to bring someone’s memory to life are limited only by our imaginations. Children who have been taken far too soon are included in family portraits. Husbands who have lost their lives in service to our country cradle their unborn children. Even Princess Diana “met” her first grandchild . . . all because technology can take our memories and make them a part of our present.

For some of us this may seem an odd pursuit. Why revisit the pain of loss? Why not be content with what remains rather than bringing then into now? Because there are some moments in life for which certain people should just be there. Children should not die before their parents. Fathers should be there for the birth of the child they helped create—and they should be there to walk them down the aisle and dance with them on their wedding days. But if those things—and so many more—are not possible because Death has interfered, then how wonderful it is that we can still have some part of them with us, even if it’s a very small part compared to their actual presence. After all, as a friend of mine so often reminds me, anything is better than nothing, when nothing is what you have.

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A Garden of Opportunity

Wed, 03 Oct 2018 22:26:00 GMT

In the mid-years of my life, my father often made trips to Nashville for meetings. If it wasn’t the Tennessee Funeral Directors Association Board of Directors it was the Tennessee State Board of Funeral Directors and Embalmers, and if it wasn’t the State Board it was the Board of David Lipscomb University, and if it was the board of Lipscomb . . .

You get the picture.

He always traveled what I lovingly refer to as The Turnpike—mainly because I think that’s its actual name. You know, the stretch of country road/highway that you turn left onto way outside of Waynesboro that takes you through Henryville and Summertown. At least you should know if you’re from these parts.

In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t do highway numbers—or directions such as north, south, east, or west.

We did, on occasion, travel with him, but generally he was alone and generally he returned earlier than expected because he was a race car driver at heart. But one night he didn’t arrive at the appointed hour. Since cell phones were non-existent, my mother had no choice but to pace the floor and fret. When she was just before calling the highway patrol and every hospital ‘twext Savannah and Nashville, he pulled into the garage and walked into her wrath.

As a point of information, there was a house on The Turnpike—a quaint little country home that pretended to be nothing more than just that. Its mailbox was across the road and surrounded by the most beautiful array of flowers you could possibly imagine. I always looked for it when I had reason to go that way, and the bed just seemed to grow prettier and larger every year.

On this particular day, my father, who was equally taken with said garden, had decided to stop and tell the homeowners/gardeners how much he appreciated their efforts and how he always looked forward to seeing that one spot in an otherwise routine drive. I’m not sure any of us would do that today for fear of being perceived as a serial killer or perhaps finding ourselves face to face with one. But times were different then—and so was my father. He hadn’t anticipated that a very sad and lonely man would answer the door. He never dreamed that the gentleman’s wife—the one solely responsible for this roadside beauty—had died just a few days before, her life taken by a young man they had tried to help over the years. That young man had taken a fancy to a necklace she had always worn . . . an inexpensive piece of jewelry given to her by her husband . . . a necklace with a tremendous amount of sentimental value but not much else. When she had opened the door for him that day, he had taken what he wanted, and her life in the process.

Nothing would do the gentleman but that my father come in. He showed him her pictures and the garden she had planted out back of the house and everything she had already managed to harvest and can. He talked about the flowers that surrounded the mailbox—the ones that had drawn my father to his door—and how she had lovingly tended them every day. He was trying to keep it as she would have, but he could tell the flowers were already suffering from her absence. He just didn’t have her touch.

I can’t begin to imagine the direction of my father’s thoughts when he finally continued on his journey home, but as he told the story his voice grew quieter than usual and his ever-present handkerchief came out of his back pocket at the end for a good nose blowing and possibly a swipe at his eyes. Because he had simply wanted to extend a compliment and continue on his way, he had given someone who was suffering greatly the opportunity to unburden himself, even if just for a few minutes.

So what is the moral to my story? Well, I’m glad you asked. There are people all around us who are hurting, people we don’t even know who offer us opportunities on a daily basis to help ease their pain. And the only cost to us may be a bit of our time—and possibly the wrath of a worried spouse.

I hope we’ll always look for the opportunities . . . and that we’ll always take the time when those opportunities find us.

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What Do You Want To Hear?

Wed, 26 Sep 2018 19:55:00 GMT

Her name is Yoko Sen. As she walked onto the stage, you didn’t get the sense of a compelling presence. She was small, slight of frame with a lilting voice that could easily lull you to sleep with its sing-song quality. But somehow, as she began to speak, she filled the space, her words echoing in the vastness of the room.

She is an ambient musician, one whose music creates a mood or an atmosphere without necessarily creating a recognizable melody. So when she fell ill and was forced to spend a good bit of time in hospitals, the noise surrounding her was extremely disconcerting. The crackle of the paging systems, the incessant ringing of the phones, alarms screaming for attention, the beeping of the monitors, the hiss of the blood pressure cuff as it inflated and then released . . . every single grating sound was amplified to her ears—ears that were trained to create peace and universal harmony in her music.

As she began to heal and then to resume her life, she took on a new challenge—to change what hospital patients heard as they lay captive in their beds. But there were obstacles . . . so many obstacles . . . not the least of which were the medical professionals. As she sat in a room filled with doctors, trying to make them understand why this was so important, she asked one, very simple question.

“What is the last sound you want to hear before you die?”

In stunned silence they considered her question. And then they realized the importance of her mission.

Moving to one side of the stage, she fell silent, and the soothing sound of a beating heart began to gently fill the room. One by one, the answers came . . . the sound of the ocean . . . music . . . the whisper of the wind through the trees . . . birds singing . . . a child’s laughter . . . the voice of my husband . . . my wife . . . my children . . . my mother . . . Each person she asked had quietly considered their own last moment and answered her question from deep within. As the answers faded the rhythmic beating of the heart continued.

And then it stopped.

The silence in the room was deafening, overwhelming every thought, save one. What would I want to hear? You could feel everyone there considering the question and you could see from the tears being shed that many knew their answer.

Her mission is one of peace for those who are struggling to heal or are facing their final moments on this earth. And the question she used to make the world understand is one that can touch us all.

What is the last sound you want to hear before you die?

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Stories To Tell

Tue, 18 Sep 2018 19:03:00 GMT

My little Kathryne wandered into bookkeeping a few weeks ago and asked if I would like to go to a creativity conference. Since I had no idea what that meant, she stood behind me while I Googled “STORY 2018” in Nashville and then while I learned all about “an immersive, two day conference-style gathering designed to inspire, challenge and equip artists, creators and storytellers who work in a variety of industries”. Hmmm . . . I rummaged around their website a bit, realized they were using an “Alice in Wonderland” theme this year . . . and that I only recognized one name ‘mongst all the presenters—Brad Montague from Henderson, Tennessee. Creator of Kid President, motivational speaker extraordinaire, college friend of my son, and church camp mate of my daughter (Joseph tried church camp once . . . it did not go well . . .).

As I sat there pondering something that most definitely appealed to me (not that I’m creative or an artist or, goodness knows, that I need to think outside the box any more than I already do), I mused aloud as to how this might apply in my profession. After all, it did refer to “artists, creators and storytellers who work in a variety of industries” (focus more on the industry application than the artists, creators part). I generally have a need to justify something I’m doing before I do it, as in how it might apply to funeral service. So while I’m thinking this one might be a stretch, Kathryne voiced a little known and rarely articulated fact.

“Well, you’re a storyteller. That’s basically what you do.”

I’d never thought of it that way before, but she was right. We are storytellers, and the stories we tell belong to the families we serve, especially to the loved ones they’ve lost. It starts when we sit down with them and begin asking all those questions. Where were they born? Who were their parents? What about other family members? Had they ever lived anywhere else? What about school . . . and work . . . and hobbies . . . and things they just enjoyed doing . . . The list could go on and sometimes the answers do, too. But not always. During one arrangement conference I was going through the usual interrogation, but not very successfully. The answers were short and often incomplete; finally one of the family members asked me point blank why I needed to know all that stuff. And I told them. I’m going to write this obituary and when I do, I want the people who read it to know more about him than they did when they started. I want them to see something of who he was. They understood; after that the answers flowed more freely and, as they did, so did the memories . . . and the tears . . . and the smiles.

Decades ago, the forward-thinking members of our profession realized that acknowledging a life and honoring that life were very different from simply burying the dead, and that what came to be known as “cookie-cutter” funerals—where each one resembles the one before it—didn’t really do an individual justice. They began promoting a different approach—“Life Appreciation”—which two of our directors trained for and then attempted to implement upon returning. Unfortunately, our world wasn’t ready for that and the first few families with whom they met looked at them like they had two heads. After a while you can get tired of people thinking you’ve lost your mind, and you quit trying. And they did.

But today more and more families want to tell the story of their loved one’s life and we want to help them do that. They bring in the pictures and display the things that meant the most to that person or items that told you who they were and what they enjoyed in this life. There are quilts spread across pews, fire trucks or vintage cars leading the funeral procession, family members sharing memories during the service—there are so many ways to tell the story that go far beyond memorial videos and folders with pictures on them and a register book with flowers on the cover. Those things certainly help, but it’s only the beginning of possible.

I told my children when I died I expected them to stay up all night baking Snickerdoodles to pass out to the mourners, assuming there are any. For the uninformed, that’s a cookie and cookies are kinda my thing—a big part of my story. And they told me if I wanted cookies served at the service I better figure out a way to bake them myself. And while I was at it, I needed to go ahead and write my own obituary. I guess I’m supposed to get up each morning and edit it in case something remarkable happened the day before. Of course, they said all of that in jest . . . maybe. But the simple truth of the matter is everyone has a story to tell and we should always strive to do just that. After all, it took them a lifetime to write it—shouldn’t the world get to hear it?

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Courage and Kindness

Wed, 12 Sep 2018 22:13:00 GMT

On September 11, 2001 I was walking through the house, trying to get out the door and off to work. A news station played mindlessly in the background, providing noise in an otherwise quiet place. But something caught my attention as I passed through the den. The first plane had already struck the North Tower and the eyes of the country were glued to the scene. I sat down on the couch, listening to the theories as to why and how and whom. So when the second plane struck the South Tower, I watched in real time as the horror of what was happening dawned on the world. Thirty-four minutes later, Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon. And I dropped my head and begged God to make it stop before anyone else died. It did, but only after the brave souls aboard Flight 93 sacrificed themselves so no one else would have to.

Now, seventeen years later, our country remembers those moments, each telling their own story of where they were, how they heard the news, what they did the rest of the day as reporters and anchors from news stations around the world broadcast continuously of the tragedies and their aftermath. Each year, our country focuses on the loss of life and of innocence, replaying news footage that most of us can see with our eyes closed, while holding services to honor those who died in the attacks. But often the courage and the kindness that rose in the midst of the chaos are overlooked.

Within minutes of the first attack, emergency personnel raced toward the scene, not knowing anything other than this was what they were trained to do. If there were lives to be saved, they would be there in spite of any personal risk. They paid dearly for their dedication. Even if they survived, they would never be the same.

The passengers of Flight 93, upon realizing what was truly taking place, determined they would literally not go down without a fight. As Tom Burnett said to his wife—his last words to his wife—“Don’t worry, we’re going to do something . . .” And they did. They died trying, and we will never know how many lives they saved in the process.

There were heroes everywhere and people who went above and beyond what was asked of them in the hours and days that followed. Search the Internet and see what the people of Lewisporte in Canada did for the thousands of airline passengers that were forced to land in Gander and then stranded for days. Their generosity so blessed those travelers that they began a trust fund for the town, a fund that would offer college scholarships for their children, a fund that now stands at over two million dollars. Those stories of kindness and generosity repeated themselves hundreds of times across Canada and the U.S. as planes were grounded, waiting until they could safely continue on their journey, displacing thousands in the interim. But those blessings flowed in both directions, as noted by then Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien at the first anniversary of the attacks. As he stood at the airport in Gander, he told those in attendance, “ 9/11 will live long in memory as a day of terror and grief. But thanks to the countless acts of kindness and compassion done for those stranded visitors here in Gander and right across Canada, it will live forever in memory as a day of comfort and of healing. ”

The good that was done on September 11, 2001 far outweighs the evil committed by a few, but it is impossible to focus solely on the good when the evil was so overwhelming. Nor should we. For those of us with no direct connection to the events of that day, it is a memory that we revisit once a year, and in the course of that visit we have the chance to choose the direction of our focus. There may be grief and tears as we recall the day, but afterwards our lives return to normal. But for those who lost so much in so short a time, seeing the courage and the kindness as well as the evil is difficult at best and impossible at its worst. There is never a moment when they don’t remember. And there never will be.

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Every Path Is Different

Wed, 05 Sep 2018 19:40:00 GMT

In the cemetery there is a path worn to one particular grave, a path that is literally walked every day by a gentleman carrying a lawn chair. He comes in the early morning hours, before the sun makes its way overhead, parks as close as he can without leaving the drive, then takes the chair from his car and makes his way to the grave of his wife. Every day. Without fail.

Across the county the mortal remains of a young man rest at the very edge of another cemetery, as close to the boundary line as possible while still being within its hallowed ground. His parents chose that space for him when he died unexpectedly decades ago. Then they sold their farm, which was several miles away, and bought a building lot as close to the cemetery as possible. Actually, only one lot stood between them and his grave. That would have been the chosen one but a house was already there. They built a new house as close to their son’s resting place as possible, and every morning—and every evening—as long as her health allowed, his mother would walk from her home to his grave to spend time with him.

I don’t know what these folks do—or did—as they faithfully visited the grave of someone they loved and lost. I don’t know what conversations were held or if silence and contemplation were the order of the day. But I do know why they went. They went because they missed them. They went because being that close to their physical bodies was comforting.

There are some of you who may tell me those visits and those conversations are silly, a waste of time since that person is no longer there. What made them who they were was taken by Death, leaving a shell and nothing more. And I will tell you that you are wrong. That “shell” is the physical representation of the person, the home they occupied for their entire lives. When they are remembered, that is the mental picture that forms—and it is the tangible part that remains when Death claims the rest. It was important to the people who loved them in life and, to them, it is still important in death.

There are some of you who may tell me that type of dedication isn’t helpful, that it could actually be harmful. And again I will tell you that you are wrong. If you have been so dedicated to someone in life, it is unreasonable to believe it should immediately cease at death. And if those daily visits help the grieving to process and work through their loss, who am I to say it should not be done?

Everyone learns to accept death differently, each finding their own way through the fog. For some that means a daily visit to the cemetery; for others, the occasional trip, and for the rest, never returning after the burial is complete. None of those paths is the wrong direction, as long as it’s the direction that suits them the best.

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Influence and Honor

Wed, 29 Aug 2018 22:20:00 GMT

Since Saturday, every news outlet and social media feed has made note of John McCain’s death followed by an extensive commentary on his life. Whether or not you liked him as a person or agreed with his politics or methods, two things (and probably many others that won’t be addressed here) have become fairly obvious through it all. First, John McCain was a person who influenced our country and our world, and in several areas that influence will continue from beyond the grave.

If we think about it honestly, to some degree that statement is true of everyone who passes through this life. We may not influence an entire country and certainly not the world at large, but we most assuredly influence our world—the people with whom we come in contact, even on a limited basis. Our actions, for good or ill, have the power to change what is to come. Think about the movie Back to the Future . When Marty McFly climbed into the DeLorean to travel back in time, Doc Brown warned him not to interfere in situations there. Doing so would disrupt “the space-time continuum”. Yes, that really is a thing—and Doc had a valid point. If you could go back into the past and change it, you would automatically alter every event from that point forward. If that holds true for time travel (. . . if we actually had time travel . . .), don’t you think it holds true for the present? Our choices today determine tomorrow, and usually not just for ourselves.

The second thing we might take away from the John McCain coverage is the importance of remembering and funeral rites and rituals when it comes to honoring a life. Make-shift memorials have sprouted at his office in Phoenix, Arizona, on Capitol Hill—even as far away as Vietnam, on the banks of the lake from which he was pulled after his plane was shot down during the war. There will be visitations to accommodate the people of Arizona and Washington, and services which will offer his family their private time to say good-bye and his friends and political cohorts a more public venue. One could assume that all of this is necessary because of his reputation and decades-long involvement in politics, and to some extent that may be true. But again, almost everyone has lived a life that someone would want to honor. Please note, I said almost. There are always those who, by virtue of their actions and choices, make it difficult to find something honorable, but for most of us, we’ve had our moments, even if they are few and far between.

Honor after death doesn’t just belong to the famous or the wealthy or the highly influential. It can and should be bestowed upon everyone who used their powers for good in this life. That good may be far-reaching, touching the lives of countless thousands, or it may simply be improving the lives of those closest to us. The catch is, we never know which will bear the most fruit, for our legacy, even though it may be limited, may influence someone who will truly change the world.

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When Something Breaks

Wed, 22 Aug 2018 22:11:00 GMT

Have I mentioned I have cats? I believe that may have come up in the conversation a time or two. Have I mentioned how many cats I actually have? There are currently nine, most all of which live outside during the day, but at night there is a round up and roll call . . . Tip and Tweeds, Cass and Callie, Henry and Louisa, Herman, Sherman, and Sam. I have them somewhat grouped so I’ll know when I’ve actually counted all their furry little heads.

I realize that bringing everyone in comes at a considerable cost, namely the safety of our stuff, but even though we reside within the city limits, there are wild beasts that dwell in our woods, beasts that roam at night and devour small furry creatures. I know we’ve had coyotes, and at one time there was a bobcat (don’t raise one eyebrow and cock your head at me . . . it ended up dead in the road compliments of a passing car, so I know it existed . . . or did . . .), and there are foxes and other such critters that would just love to make a meal out of one of my kitties. So everyone comes inside and I can sleep because I know everyone is safe.

Our stuff, on the other hand, not so much. Monday morning—at 6:43 to be precise—I awoke to a rather loud THUD , the kind that you just know does not bode well for something. I crawled out of bed and wandered through the house, until I came to the living room.

In the living room there is a sofa that sits against the wall with a somewhat small end table to either side, each of which has—excuse me, had—a lamp that had graced them since our days on Choctaw Circle. That would be about 35 plus years of table gracing. But that morning, only one lamp still occupied its appointed table. The other one was lounging in the floor . . . in pieces. Herman, who is a ball of fat wrapped in a wad of fur, had been using the table as a perch from which to survey the world. Evidently, on that particular morning, he and the lamp did battle. The lamp lost.

The three pieces broken from the base are fairly large and most of the damage is on the back, so I’m thinkin’ I can glue this thing back together. With that in mind, I took the pieces to the kitchen counter and moved the rest of the lamp and shade closer to the table, out of the way of traffic moving from the back of the house to the kitchen.

Monday evening, after the troops were assembled and accounted for, I started across the house and, out of habit, flipped the light switch that activates the outlets in the living room into which the lamps are plugged. Yes, I have one of those houses where even the outlets operate on a switch, which can be terribly confusing if you don’t know that’s a thing. But I digress, as I so often do. Anyway, as I walked across the living room I became aware of an unearthly glow coming from the floor beside the sofa. Despite all of its trials and tribulations—and the fact that filaments tend to break if you so much as blow on the light bulb—the lamp was on and working—in the floor and on its side, but on and working.

There are many times in life that human beings can feel, or actually be, broken, especially if they are trying to adjust to life after loss. And if we don’t know how well they’re adjusting, we may tend to leave them alone, thinking they need space or time or privacy or something that means we shouldn’t include them in life’s everyday activities. Unfortunately, those things may be the last things they need. Assuming they want to be left alone or would not be interested in participating in some activity or event can lead to them feeling even more isolated than they may already.

Always offer when you have the opportunity. Always include those who are grieving, even though they may decline. You never know when they might just accept your thoughtful invitation; whether or not they do, at least they know you’re thinking of them. Just because someone feels broken doesn’t mean they still can’t shine enough to brighten their corner of the world. And that might be just exactly what they need.

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Three Life Lessons

Tue, 14 Aug 2018 23:23:00 GMT

Recently my little Kathryne issued a challenge to me via Facebook. On ten consecutive days I was to post (one per day) the covers of the ten books I loved the most, without comment or review or explanation.

Really?

First of all, not commenting or reviewing or explaining is a stipulation which does not set well with me. If I love a book I want you to understand why. If I can’t explain it and detail the glorious nature of its contents, then how can you comprehend its greatness without also reading it? Second of all . . . HOW IN THE WORLD AM I SUPPOSED TO LIMIT THIS TO TEN!? It is an absolutely impossible task. I mean, come on. There is a whole room in our house lined with nothing but bookshelves and cabinets filled with books (kindly do not judge me . . .). And that still isn’t enough room. But the gauntlet had been cast down, and I accepted the challenge.

I began to mentally compile my list ‘cause after I compiled said list I would have to do a Google image search so I could find pictures of the covers and save them to my computer so, when the time came, I could post that picture on my wall and let the world wonder exactly who I really was. My choices are rather diverse in nature, possibly indicative of multiple personalities .

I’d already posted the first four of the required ten when it suddenly occurred to me that I had omitted a very important volume . . . Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama . For those with whom the name rings absolutely no bells whatsoever, Charley Weaver was a character created by comedian and actor Cliff Arquette whose greatest claim to fame might have been his long run on the game show Hollywood Squares where he generally occupied the bottom square on the left hand side, compliments of his quick wit and one-liners.

How sad that I actually know that . . .

He may have had other published works, but this book was especially special to me. You see, when I was growing up I was the oldest of my generation with three years separating me from the next oldest of the bunch. When we would gather at my grandfather’s home in Bolivar, the adults would convene around the dining room table after we ate, to converse and normally discuss the businesses. My two cousins and my brother would run up the stairs to play whatever it was they played. And I was left alone, too young to understand (or care about) the business stuff and too old to engage in “childish games” (I need a sarcasm font for that). I was in the Twilight Zone of my family. So I would venture over to the antique bookcase that sat against the stairs and pull out Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama , curl up in what I called the “Horsehair Chair” (‘cause it was one of those truly Victorian chairs with the high back and intricately carved woodwork, covered in mauve velvet and stuffed with horsehair), and read the book from cover to cover. Every single time we were there.

My grandmother had died when I was five and my grandfather eventually remarried—and after his death, his widow remained in the house until she eventually remarried. At that time, everything was distributed ‘mongst the family members. Of all the things in that house, there were only three that I truly wanted—two volumes of Lorna Doone (because my grandfather always wanted me to read it) and Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama . Anything else was a bonus.

I hadn’t thought of that book in years, but Kathryne’s challenge propelled me to the shelf where it has lived for a few decades. I pulled it out, lovingly opened its cover, and began to read. And as I did the strongest, I-wish-I-could-go-back feeling washed over me. At my age and general condition of exhaustion, I can cry at the drop of a hat, so I found myself wiping more than one tear from the old, yellowed pages as I gently turned each and every one. But I also smiled a lot.

My three life lessons for the day . . . Sometimes, the most innocent things can end up taking you places you haven’t been in years. Sometimes, it’s not the object that’s important—it’s the memories it holds. And sometimes, joy and sorrow can come from the same source . . . at the same time.

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Don’t Wait Until I’m Gone

Wed, 08 Aug 2018 22:59:00 GMT

If you’re reading this, then you should already know we have a website . . . since when you clicked on the link, that’s where you landed. If you use that website on occasion, then you probably know we post obituaries there, and each obituary has a Tribute Wall where nice people—or not nice people—can stop by to leave a message or “light a candle” (as in post a picture of a candle—there are several different colors from which to choose) or send a virtual gift (such as an angel or a teddy bear or a Bible). What you may not know is that before any of those posts can be seen by the world, they are first seen by one of us. That’s why they don’t immediately pop up on the intended person’s page.

Now, we have the option of just letting everything slide right on through, but we don’t do that because we don’t trust you. That’s not you as in the you that’s reading this but a general, random human you. For some reason, there are people out there who think death provides an opportune time to tell everyone how sorry the person was and what crime/grievous sin they committed that makes them so.

We don’t approve those posts.

Granted, everyone who knew the person may have known the back story, but we don’t know that. And even if they did, that doesn’t mean we have to let some vengeful soul remind them of that at this particular time and in such a public manner. That’s why Tribute Wall posts require adult supervision.

Fortunately, most of the posts are filled with fond memories of, and praises for, the departed. They may hold words of comfort for the surviving family members or expressions of joy over the end of someone’s suffering and their reunion with others who have gone on before. Even lighting a candle or leaving a virtual gift tells the family you thought enough of them and their loss and the one they loved to acknowledge all of the foregoing publicly.

Whenever I happen to be the one who logs in and runs through what’s waiting to be approved, I marvel at the memories that are often left and at the sorrow expressed due to someone’s permanent absence. There are times I can feel the hurt as they mourn the passing or share the joys of the life they are honoring. But, on occasion, I find myself wondering, did they tell them how much they meant when they were still alive and could appreciate it?

We all fall short when it comes to telling the people around us how much they mean. We fall even shorter when it’s someone we don’t see but every whip-stitch and don’t think about on a daily basis. Often, we don’t realize how much they meant in our lives until they are no longer there.

According to the Interweb (which we all know is always accurate . . .), Anne Frank once said “Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude”. Whether or not she actually said that is debatable, but no matter the source, that’s still a very strong statement. I don’t believe regret is always the motivating factor behind the actions that follow a death, but I do know we can often avoid that possibility by just taking a few moments to tell someone how important they are to us. You know, flowers don’t always have to be flowers. They can be a simple card that says thanks for the difference you’ve made or a letter that shares how much you appreciate their presence in your life. They can be a phone call that says, “I’m thinking about you today”. When Death comes to call, flowers for the family are beautiful, and always appreciated, but there’s no substitute for telling someone how much they mean to you while they’re still around to hear it.

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Let The Healing Begin

Thu, 02 Aug 2018 02:11:00 GMT

My ice cream freezer died. My wonderful, White Mountain, can-churn-anything-until-it’s-hard-as-a-brick-bat, came-over-on-the-Mayflower ice cream freezer died. The motor simply couldn’t turn the dasher anymore. It just sat there making an awful racket. So I ordered another one.

The arrival of the new freezer happened to coincide with the arrival of our three grandchildren for a three day, two night visit. What better time to take the new freezer for a test drive? So I put together my homemade chocolate ice cream mix and froze it in my brand new, didn’t-sound-like-a-freight-train-in-the-kitchen ice cream freezer. Then Wilson had some (and seconds) and Anderson had some and Cora had some. And I had far more than any mere mortal should consume at one time—and then licked the dasher (and yes, I washed it with scalding hot water afterwards). But since it’s a six quart freezer (for the measurement conversion-challenged, that’s a gallon and a half) there was a significant amount of ice cream remaining at my house once the kids departed.

This left me with a quandary. It was too good to throw away and too much for one or two people to eat quickly, so this temptation was going to be lurking in my home until such time as I managed to inhale every last bite. If you’re wondering why my husband couldn’t help with this task, he’s diabetic so ice cream is kind of a no-no . . . and my daughter isn’t fond of it because it’s so cold. For the good of everyone else involved, this was a mission that was all mine to complete. I finally came to the conclusion that I should just consume as much as possible at each sitting so it would disappear faster so I could get back to behaving myself, nutritionally speaking.

That probably wasn’t the best approach, given that I still needed my clothes to fit without feeling like I ate a gallon of ice cream at one time . . . or maybe two or three or four times. But sometimes, for whatever misguided reason, we think faster is better—and this was one of those times.

Now, there are instances when faster really is better, like when removing a bandage. If you slowly . . . gently . . . carefully pull it off, you just prolong the agony. But if you give it one good yank, the pain will be intense for about a second—more or less—and then you’re done. Unfortunately, dealing with Death falls more under the leftover chocolate ice cream category than the bandage scenario.

You can hurry through the process of burying the dead—at a family’s request we’ve managed to bury someone less than 24 hours after taking the death call—but that’s not an approach we’d ever recommend. Granted, there are times when speed is required due to family illnesses or obligations that simply cannot be rescheduled. But most of the time, when a family chooses to move at the speed of light, it’s because they mistakenly believe it won’t hurt as much. They can get the funeral over with and go back to life as they knew it and everything will return to normal. They don’t understand that life will never again be as they knew it and no matter how much they wish for the old normal, they will have to create a new one. When important pieces go missing, the puzzle can never be the same.

As emotionally and mentally painful as grief is, the process of acknowledging a loss and honoring a life is designed to help rather than harm. It gives friends and extended family members the opportunity to share in the loss while offering comfort and support. It allows everyone to reflect on the life that was lived and the importance of that person to them. And it provides a safe setting where tears and laughter can combine without reservation or fear of condemnation. Will it hurt? Oh yes. Will it make it not ever hurt again? Oh no. But it will allow the healing process to begin. After all, a deep wound can never heal when you don’t take the time needed to care for it.

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The Final Salute

Thu, 26 Jul 2018 00:53:00 GMT

The director was impressed with the facility, a home for veterans who could no longer care for themselves. It was the first time he had been there, the first time we had been called upon to assist the family of one of the residents. When he looked at the call sheet, that slip of paper we complete when someone reports a death, it said “Come in the front.” That seemed a bit odd. Most of the time facilities such as nursing homes and hospitals try to slip us in and out so as not to cause undue stress for the other residents. So when he arrived, he walked in without the cot, believing they would route him to another entrance, but no. He was to come in the front . . . and exit the same way . . . down the hallway . . . and across the lobby . . . in full view of anyone who chose to watch.

Quietly he went about his work, placing the gentleman on the cot and preparing to make what seemed like a very long walk through a very public place. But as he opened the door to leave the room, he understood.

Lining the hall and forming a corridor across the lobby were the employees of the facility, standing quietly, their hands placed over their hearts. Many of the residents had joined them, standing, as best they could, at attention, their hands raised in a salute to their friend. As the director approached the exit he noticed one very elderly gentleman, confined to a wheelchair. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he was struggling to raise his hand. It was the last thing he could do for his friend . . . the final measure of respect and honor . . . the final goodbye.

In our profession we often witness acts which touch us deeply, but as professionals we strive to hold those feelings close so we can continue to serve as a guide and source of comfort and strength for those who have called upon us. But on this day, as he looked upon an old soldier saying his last farewell to a friend and brother in arms, his step quickened and he moved a little faster toward the door and the light and the fresh air. It was one of the most touching—and gut-wrenching—acts he had ever witnessed. As he told the story upon returning, one employee commented on how sad it was to put the residents through that. But they didn’t understand. These men didn’t view it as a reminder of their own mortality. It was an honor . . . and a privilege . . . and a duty they bore willingly.

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Where’s The Stuff?

Thu, 19 Jul 2018 01:44:00 GMT

On occasion a few of us will spontaneously gather in the office and find ourselves discussing the latest series of events that didn’t have to be. One particular discussion centered around how many people don’t know where the important papers are stored. You know . . . wills and deeds and insurance policies and car titles and such. Families will come in to make arrangements and begin the conversation with “I can’t find Mama’s Social Security card and I don’t know her number. How can we get that?” or “I know my brother had insurance but I don’t know the company and I can’t find the policy . . .” The Social Security number is simple, but the insurance, not so much. We’ll offer all kinds of helpful suggestions, but unfortunately, at that point it’s too late for the most helpful suggestion of all.

As we were conversing, one of the secretaries volunteered that they have a fireproof safe where they keep their important papers. Excellent! “And who knows the combination to this safe?” I inquired. Answer: she and her husband. Good. “Do y’all ever go anywhere together?” Well, yes. “So, what happens when something happens to both of you . . . at the same time?”

Silence.

Dynamite could be a possible option, but there will most probably be a confetti shower after the blast. The better option is to trust a third person with the combination.

Everyone should make it a point to gather their important documents into one central location, whether it’s a fireproof safe at home, or a lock box at the bank, or even the refrigerator. Don’t laugh. That’s one place that is constantly opened and always searched. Maybe not for documents, but I promise you, they’ll be found along with the leftovers. Don’t, however, make the mistake of believing that’s a safe spot. The fridges of today are no longer fire resistant metal boxes, so any vast quantity of flames will destroy both of the aforementioned. Also, anyone who resides in your house and is hungry will have the opportunity to be all up in your business. But at least your stuff won’t be lost . . .

Do you still have living parents? If so, do they still trust you? If you answered yes to both questions, then make it a point to sit down with them and record where all the important stuff is stashed while you can. I asked the trust question because my mother reached a point of non-trust where most people were concerned, but especially my brother and me, not because we had ever given her just cause but due to the dementia that was slowly consuming her brain. Once that trust begins to fade you’ll find it almost impossible to get any useful information, much less a detailed accounting of all the things you’ll need when they no longer do. And should you find their mental faculties fading, it would be wise to secure said important stuff before it is hidden away without your knowledge.

While we’re on that subject, failing mental health is something many of us will face someday, so while we’re of sound mind (the body part is optional for these purposes) what better time to entrust some trustworthy soul with the treasure map to our chest ‘o stuff? Of course, to draw the map you must first have the location, which takes us back to the first sentence of paragraph five—the one that begins “Everyone should make it a point . . .” Your children will thank you, or your siblings, or whomever is your legal next-of-kin/responsible party. Just look at it this way. You know how frustrating it is when you’re running late and you can’t find your keys? Or you want to browse the latest on Facebook and your glasses are AWOL? Multiply that by a million, and you will know just how families feel when they need the important papers . . . and they’re nowhere to be found

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Be Careful Little Tongue . . .

Wed, 11 Jul 2018 22:38:00 GMT

A few years ago, I answered a call from someone with the Red Cross. They were checking to see if we were serving a particular family; a relative of the deceased was serving overseas and they were working with the military to bring him home for the service. But first they had to verify that there was, indeed, a service. When I responded in the affirmative, assuring her we were assisting the family and that the death had truly occurred, she said, in a voice about as perky and pleased as you can get, “WONDERFUL!!!”

Really?

I’m pretty sure she didn’t think about how that came across. Perhaps she had already tried several phone numbers before reaching the correct one, an accomplishment that she felt required a moment of celebration. Or perhaps she had been successful on the first try and was genuinely excited at having reached the right funeral home. I really don’t believe she was expressing pleasure at the demise of the poor soul in question . . .

There’s a children’s song that’s been taught in churches for ages that includes the words, “Be careful little tongue what you say . . .” Unfortunately, too many folks don’t realize those words of wisdom apply in a wide variety of life situations. Responding to Death and the grieving would definitely be one. Most of us have enough sense not to come across as gleeful when speaking with the survivors of loss, but there are a number of other responses that can be equally distressing, like condemnation for grieving too long . . . or not long enough . . . or perhaps for taking a loss too hard . . . or not hard enough. We tend to judge the response of others to a situation based on how we think we would respond, but since we’re all totally different people, that approach doesn’t work—unless your intention is to cause even more pain than is already present.

Trite phrases, although they may be time-worn, aren’t helpful either. They may not be as harmful as implied pleasure (although some are actually worse), but there are better things to say. Try, “I’m so sorry for the loss of your (fill-in-the-blank with the appropriate relationship)”. Or perhaps just a handshake or a hug and a “What can I do?” If you know the person who has died, share a fond memory of them (just be sure you run that one through your head so you’re certain it actually should be shared). Then be quiet. Nothing gets us in trouble any faster than thinking we’ve got to keep talking when we’ve said all that needs to be said. Let the other person speak and follow their lead as to where the conversation goes.

Some folks can operate off the cuff and fare quite well. The rest of us need to put in some thought beforehand so our words to the grieving don’t make matters that much worse. Just don’t practice to the point that your condolences become scripted or sound rehearsed. The demonstration of genuine love and concern for those who are suffering is always a good starting point. Then let the grieving be your guide.

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Tangible Memories

Wed, 04 Jul 2018 17:41:00 GMT

The arrangement conference had gone as well as could be expected, given the circumstances surrounding his life and death. His family had fully anticipated this turn of events, so much so that his mother had even asked one of the directors what she should do if it happened since he was residing several states away.

Throughout the meeting, those making the arrangements had maintained their composure, sometimes laughing over the memories brought forth by the questions being asked, sometimes growing quiet as they reflected on their loss. They were remarkably prepared with pictures for the video and items they wanted to display—things that harked back to simpler, happier days. So many years before he had been a star athlete in high school, lettering several times in several sports, with the jacket and patches to prove it. His mother was holding it up, showing it to the director and speaking, with a twinkle in her eyes and pride in her voice, of his accomplishments then and how “the boys” didn’t even know there was such a thing as a letterman’s jacket . . .

And then she stopped. The twinkle faded as her hands gripped the jacket. And she began to cry, pulling the jacket to her face, sobbing into the collar, clinging to something that spoke so eloquently of the child she had lost.

That one small thing—that one tangible reminder of a longed-for life—gently but quickly tore down the protective wall that had been carefully constructed, allowing the raw emotions generated by so great a loss to escape. Although she regained her composure within just a few minutes, you could see a measure of relief. The depth and pain of the loss had been acknowledged; the failure to maintain control had brought about a cleansing that does not come through any other means.

No matter your relationship to the person who has died, there will always be something that will always serve as a reminder of their life and their importance in yours. Some people may choose to hide those objects away, because out of sight is out of mind. In their way of thinking the happy memories that now carry the pain of loss will be less likely to surface. But those objects can also offer comfort by reminding us of happier times and moments shared—by speaking clearly and eloquently of the person we loved. Although the comfort they bring will initially be accompanied by the overwhelming pain of loss, over time comfort will prevail and the pain, although never completely banished, will fade into a gentle longing. And you’ll be left with tangible memories you can see and hold, without fearing what else they might bring.

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Choose Your Weapon

Thu, 28 Jun 2018 02:19:00 GMT

Lately I seem to have been afflicted with horseflies. You know, those monsters that you can hear bouncing all around you . . . running into walls . . . buzzing overhead. Then all of a sudden . . . BAM!! They take a chunk out of you and you scream. When I was younger and a regular at the swimming pool, I learned real fast to dive, jump, or duck when I heard one. Otherwise . . .

Recently two ended up in my van—with me. Fortunately, I hadn’t started driving yet or there would most assuredly have been an accident. Instead, I had to figure out how to remove or demolish them without letting anymore in. That was a challenge since I seemed to be surrounded. The first one finally wised up and flew out of the window I had opened, but the other one . . . the other one was just stupid or obstinate or possibly both. He completely ignored all the open windows (and believe me, there were plenty) and kept bouncing off the windshield. In my search for a suitable weapon (my sandals would have been an excellent choice, if I’d actually thought of them) I found a branch from a pine tree. Ever so quietly, I slipped into the driver’s seat while he was hanging upside down on the windshield, wondering why he couldn’t get out. At what I thought was the opportune moment I smacked the glass with the branch—only to have pine bark and rotting wood land all over the dashboard. And I missed.

Eventually I realized I was wearing my weapon, pulled off one of my sandals, and waited until he stuck his head out of the dashboard vent where he was hiding. Side note—I tend to view my life as a series of sitcom moments. With cameras rolling I sit, waiting for a horsefly to stick his head out of a vent so I can smack it, or crush it, or do something to neutralize the threat. A camera zooms in for a close up of the villain and he’s sitting there laughing at me, waiting until I lower my guard so he can peek out then pull his head back in just as I swat. Like Whack-a-Mole, but with bugs. I actually did swing and miss a few times before I finally prevailed—after which I had to clean up pine bark mess.

Note to self: Never use a rotting pine branch as a weapon.

As I was riding down the road, contemplating my dashboard and listening intently, making certain there were no lingering varmints in my vehicle, it occurred to me that I had the perfect analogy to Grief. You know the loss is there but some days it isn’t so terrible. You can hear it buzzing, ever so softly, in the background, but it isn’t loud enough to alarm you or interfere with your life. But there are other days, days when that buzzing is too close, too loud, too terrifying to be ignored. The loss demands your attention. Actually, it demands your life, and the struggle to overcome is real and it’s hard and sometimes you wonder if you’ll manage to survive.

If a horsefly gets too close, I can usually escape, even if it means abandoning my vehicle and waiting it out. But Grief doesn’t offer that option. No matter where you go, you can’t escape the despair and the emptiness when they descend upon you. The loss alters your life and, as a result, Grief becomes a permanent part of it. Fortunately, there are a few weapons that will serve you well in the battle without leaving a mess in their wake. For those who believe, there is faith. Family is another, as are friends. And then there is time. The passage of time is one of the most powerful weapons you can have, yet even that can never completely neutralize the threat. But given enough of it, you can begin to heal.

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A World of Grief

Thu, 21 Jun 2018 02:37:00 GMT

Of late we as a people seem to have been pummeled with bad news and terrible situations. I say “of late” because I don’t remember life ever being this . . . distressing . . . disturbing . . .? Are those the words for which I’m searching? I’m sure there are plenty of others, but those may be the most appropriate for the time being, at least for me. And I say “we as a people” because it isn’t just one person or a school or a city or a state or even a country. It seems the world at large is undergoing some strange mutation that involves conflict and chaos and a failure to communicate adequately, just to name a few afflictions.

We’ve lost the ability to reason. We’ve lost the ability to compromise. We’ve lost the ability to view people through the lens of compassion. Please understand, when I say “we” I don’t mean everyone, but as a society people often collectively behave badly. And the “civilized” human race is beginning to feel more and more entitled, particularly when it comes to expressing their opinion, whether or not said opinion has been requested. In most instances that’s a constitutionally guaranteed right but unfortunately, that opinion is often expressed in a manner that includes violence or, at the very least, raised voices and rhetoric.

Now, before anyone thinks I’m about to plunge off a political cliff, rest assured, as much as I might like to use this platform to engage in some ranting, I won’t. Because that’s not what this is about nor is it how it should be used, but I have to lay the foundation before I can start building the blog. What it is about is situational grief—grief brought about not by the loss of a person or material possessions, or even a way of life. Situational grief raises its ugly head when the world around us devolves into chaos and we believe we are helpless in the storms.

Those storms can be real, such as the aftermath of natural disasters. When floods or earthquakes, tornadoes or hurricanes—even erupting volcanoes—devastate our planet, those directly affected by the loss of life and possessions will naturally grieve. But those of us who must watch from the sidelines can also grieve for those same losses, even though we haven’t actually endured any of them. We basically grieve for those who are grieving.

Those storms can also be metaphorical. Should you examine the political climate in our country and/or the world at large, and find the actions being taken are in direct opposition to your beliefs, you can grieve for those who are suffering because of those actions and, by extension, for our country or world as a whole. Our own feelings of helplessness just make the grief that much greater because we believe, as an individual, there is little we can do to change the situations. Again, we are grieving for those who are grieving.

There are so many problems in today’s world it makes it difficult to focus on anything but the negative—but that kind of focus is never productive. There are several ways to combat situational grief, some of which are practical and some of which, are . . . well . . . not so much. For example, you can’t hide from the world and remain oblivious. In theory that’s the perfect approach. In reality it ain’t gonna work, not unless you move to an uninhabited island with no WiFi. But you can take small steps to make your voice heard, to right the injustices you believe are taking place, and to offer aid to those in distress. That may mean working to raise funds for disaster relief or simply writing your own check. Don’t think you can make a difference that way? Look at all the kids who’ve managed to raise thousands of dollars for the homeless and other worthy causes. Not only have they directly impacted the problem, they’ve also served as an inspiration to others. It may take the form of reaching out to those who are suffering if they are close by or contacting those with the authority to take action. You may not agree with either the message or the method of the student activists from Parkland, Florida, but they aren’t going gently into that good night, to paraphrase Dylan Thomas. They are determined to be heard and to make a difference.

Any form of grief requires work to resolve. The type of grief determines the type of work required. If it is a loss due to death or divorce, counseling may be helpful and new ways to approach your altered life may be needed. If the grief is more all-encompassing, even global in nature, there are still steps you can take to work toward solutions. But instead of working to resolve your own personal grief, you’ll be working toward improving the world.

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Daddy’s Day

Wed, 13 Jun 2018 22:24:00 GMT

In case you’ve been living under a rock these past few weeks, allow me to mention that Sunday is Father’s Day—that day set aside to honor fathers for all their contributions to the world in general and family life in particular. So far I’ve received emails encouraging me to shop the specials and surprise my dad with any number of goodies, been reminded via the magic of television that his appointed day is just around the corner and I need to be prepared, hopefully with something more than a tie or soap-on-a-rope (the once ultimate Father’s Day present), and pelted with pop-ups and targeted ads on MSN and Facebook suggesting all kinds of lovely and thoughtful gifts.

I appreciate all of their helpful reminders and suggestions, but I don’t need to find Father’s Day presents anymore, just like a lot of other children in this world. I quit needing those on November 23, 2009 and, truth be known, I don’t suppose I ever really needed them at all. Dad was just pleased to be remembered and, in his eyes, a visit would have accomplished the same thing—and cost a lot less money. If he was nothing else, he was fiscally conservative.

It’s his absence that makes special days like Father’s Day so much harder than they once were. Where before the most difficult task was selecting a gift that was at least semi-appropriate and hopefully useful, now the hard part is watching and listening as the world celebrates Dad when mine isn’t present to participate. There will be the obligatory Father’s Day sermons where all the dads in attendance will be reminded of their duties to their families (which I’ve never understood—mothers get glowing commendations for their value and sacrifice while much of the time, dads are just told they need to step up their game). There will be Father’s Day lunches or suppers and visits made and cards given and then Monday will roll around and most everyone will settle back into their take-them-for-granted routines. Because dads are always there, doing the mundane dad tasks of life, without making a big deal out of their efforts.

But as one who no longer gets to participate in the festivities, I would like to encourage everyone who still can to forego that return-to-the-routine thing. What I wouldn’t give to have mine back—not as he was, but as he used to be—energetic and decisive, inquisitive and brilliant, with his dry wit and that mischievous twinkle in his eye, serving his family and his fellow man . . . and generally arguing his foes into submission with his interpretation of cold, hard facts and persistence. Well, that last part I could probably do without since I was often on the receiving end (head-butting was a common occurrence since we were kinda the same person . . .).

So, this coming Sunday, let’s all take the time to honor our dads—or their memories—and give them the time and respect they deserve. And then let’s continue to do that each and every day for as long as we’re allowed . . . which won’t be forever. Joni Mitchell may have been referring to paradise and parking lots—among other things—when she wrote Big Yellow Taxi , but she had it right when she sang, “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?”

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In Plain Sight

Wed, 06 Jun 2018 23:05:00 GMT

Several years ago, my son and daughter-in-law had gone Christmas shopping in search of, among other things, something for me. Now, some folks will tell you I’m hard to buy for. Those are the people who don’t know me. The rest know you can write a check to a charity or walk into a Disney Store or antique shop and pretty well be set. Needing one more small something, they chose the Disney option because they know I am a fan of most things Disney and all things Pooh . . . as in Winnie the.

They wandered about the store, examining those items they thought might appeal to me while also appealing to their Christmas budget. At last they settled on a cute little stuffed Winnie the Pooh dressed in blue pajamas and wearing what appeared to be a nightcap. After all, I didn’t have a Pooh in jammies so this one would add a unique member to my growing collection. They took their intended purchase to the cash register and handed it to the Cast Member (‘cause Disney doesn’t have sales clerks . . .). As she scanned him, the description popped up on the screen of the register.

“Hanukkah Pooh.”

They looked at each other then looked back at Winnie in his p.j.s and then burst out laughing. Those cute little designs on his jammies? Those were menorahs—the seven or nine branch candelabra used in Jewish religious ceremonies. That nightcap? It was a yamacha, the round cloth worn as a head covering by Jews. And that chunky little thing he was holding in his hand . . . or paw? A dreidel. A four-sided spinning top that is generally played with during Jewish holidays.

All the clues were there. In plain sight. And they missed every one of them until it flashed before their eyes on the digital read-out of the cash register. I still got my Winnie the Pooh in his “pajamas”, and we all had a good laugh over the story of how he came to live with me.

Now, re-read the first two and one-half sentences of the previous paragraph. All the clues were there. In plain sight. And they missed every one of them . . . I cannot begin to tell you how many times family members and friends have uttered almost those exact same thoughts, word for word, when someone they love chose to end their life. Looking back, they can see every sign that pointed toward that outcome. Key words here— looking back . “Hindsight is 20/20” is an old saying for a reason. It’s true. Often those telltale signs are so subtle, so insignificant when viewed alone, that the overall picture never forms. No one should ever hold themselves accountable for only piecing together the puzzle after it’s too late to change the end result—but, being human, that’s exactly what we do. Not only do we hold ourselves accountable but we also think we could have changed the outcome—if we had only realized the significance of what we were seeing.

When someone takes their own life, the shock waves are almost endless as is the blame that’s thrown at anyone close by. The grief is greater because of the manner of death, and the questions that arise are more emotionally charged than they might otherwise be. But in the midst of the mental and emotional chaos, while we ponder what we could have done to prevent this unthinkable act, there must also be forgiveness—forgiveness for the one who chose to die and for ourselves for not recognizing their struggle.

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It’s Nobody’s Fault

Wed, 30 May 2018 22:27:00 GMT

Every year my little one and her husband escape to various destinations right about Memorial Day/Guinniversary—‘cause those dates generally overlap. And every year I’m in charge of evening pet care at their abode—namely the feeding and watering of four cats and two dogs with a few other tasks thrown in for good measure. All cats reside inside so litter box cleaning is one of those few other tasks previously referenced.

Since they are currently wandering the streets of Disney World, a trip that began early Monday morning, my duties began Monday evening. Although they fed and watered everyone, there was the mandatory litter box check and the letting in of one dog for the night. The other one can’t be trusted for an overnight stay. The dogs were excited to see me—once they realized it was me. Before that realization they were just obnoxious and loud. I unlocked the door to the house, allowed them to rush in passed me, and came feet to face with Moe.

Moe is the largest cat they own, one they bottle-fed as a kitten because he was motherless and tiny. So Moe thinks he’s a people. Now I am also a cat person, and generally I get along rather well with most of the domesticated ones, but Moe and I have never been fast friends. He will study me carefully, sniff of my hand offered in friendship, look up at me with his big ‘ole cat eyes, and hiss. Then he runs off.

That night we went through our usual routine after which I retreated to the back of the house to check the food and water and clean out the litter boxes. Being a cat, Moe followed me, but at a safe distance, carefully observing my actions. I filled the food bowls, cleaned out two of the three litter boxes, and began to dismantle the third one. It needed more litter . . . so I was gonna put in more litter. It seemed like the obvious thing to do. But the top was obstinate and uncooperative and the longer I wrestled with it, the closer Moe got. I was focused on the stupid litter box for which my college degree had not prepared me, so I wasn’t focused on Moe. At least I wasn’t until he attacked.

Now I’ve never actually been attacked by a cat . . . I take that back. We have Callie Cat who has a hidden Murder button that I, on occasion, have accidentally activated. But other than that, most cats will play—perhaps rougher than I might like—but never out and out attack. Let me just say, if Moe had claws on his front paws (which, thank goodness, he does not), my left foot would have been shredded.

Not content with giving me heart failure, he continued to attack until I managed to get the bag of cat litter between the two of us. Eventually, I ran him out of the room, closing the door behind him so I could gather my wits—and find a weapon. Fortunately, hiding in the corner of a closet was a large, heavy cardboard tube containing a map of Middle Earth (at least I think that’s what’s inside). For the rest of my stay, that tube went everywhere I did, and I never turned my back on Moe. And for his part, he stalked me throughout the house . . . hiding around corners . . . and behind furniture . . . watching . . . waiting . . .

While barricaded inside the cat room, I texted my daughter to tell her Moe had attacked me and that I was trapped with him growling outside the door (mental pictures came to mind of the guy who called the police because he was trapped in his bathroom . . . or was it his bedroom . . . by an angry cat). In just a second my phone rang and her first question was “What did you do?!?!?”

Nothing. I did absolutely nothing out of my normal cat care routine. Maybe he was anxious because the dogs had barked so much initially. Maybe he didn’t like the way I was trying to dismember the litter box. Maybe he could smell my cats on me. Or maybe he just lost his ever lovin’ mind because his humans had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned him, leaving him at the mercy of this interloper. I would like to point out that last one would be from his perspective. His humans made all the arrangements so he would be well cared for and remain at home during their trip. But he’s a cat. What does he know?

Fast forward or rewind to life at the funeral home. We have families who walk through our doors every day, many of them lost in grief. Most of them have accepted the death and move through the process with grace and, occasionally, humor. But there are those few who are just angry. They don’t want to be here, they don’t want to meet with us, and they certainly don’t want to bury or cremate the person they lost. And all of that is nobody’s fault . . . except the person who died. If they just hadn’t died then none of this would be necessary. But it isn’t socially acceptable to yell at dead people. They can’t lash out at the person who put them in this predicament. So they take it out on the folks they must deal with at the moment. That may be the emergency or hospital personnel. It may be the neighbors or extended family. And it’s usually the funeral director. It’s all the people who are trying to help them when they need it but don’t want it.

Fortunately, we get that. We understand what grief and the stress of loss will do to a person. And although we don’t enjoy it when we’re on the receiving end of hurtful remarks and actions, we continually remind ourselves, that’s not who this person is. It’s the grief talking.

With a great deal of fear and trepidation, I ventured back to the House of the Angry Cat on Tuesday. That evening Moe kept a respectful distance, never offering to attack or even get close. I spoke kindly and gently (and, for my own peace of mind, carried my giant cardboard tube everywhere I went) and everything was fine. As it was with Moe so it can often be with people. When they are confused and angry, when they hurt the most, they need the opportunity to express those emotions. If you respond in kind, it only makes a bad situation terrible. But if you offer them kindness and compassion . . . and patience . . . they will eventually return the favor.

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Reflections On the Day

Wed, 23 May 2018 21:44:00 GMT

My Grandmother Rogers (aka Wa-Wa, which is what you get when trying to teach a two year old to say Grandmother Rogers) was born in December of 1899, a fact that made remembering her age incredibly easy. At each birthday she turned whatever the year was about to be. Needless to say (but which I’m going to say anyway), her life experiences growing up were far different from mine and far, far different from those of my children.

To her entertainment revolved around family, as did holidays and other special occasions. And family didn’t just include the living—the dead were equally important and often a part of the celebration . . . which is why celebrations often took place in cemeteries.

Those celebrations didn’t just center around Memorial Day or the hallowed grounds of Shiloh. Any cemetery could serve as a gathering place and often did on their particular Decoration Day or when celebrating the anniversary of a resident’s birth or death. Again, pictures were always made to commemorate the event and always against a backdrop of monuments rising from the earth.

Today, we’re not as apt to party on the graves of our loved ones, and most cemeteries frown on picnics within their boundaries, if for no other reason than the mess that’s left behind. But some Decoration Days still find families gathering around the graves of those who’ve gone on before, settling into their lawn chairs and visiting with others they may only see once a year. And on Monday Shiloh National Park will again host its annual Memorial Day service, complete with music and speakers and reflections on the lives that have been lost to the violence of war through the years. Every monument there will be graced with an American flag; after all, Memorial Day was the original Decoration Day, proclaimed to honor those who died in the Civil War. What better way to decorate the graves of our soldiers than with the flag of their country?

Most of us don’t have a problem remembering those we have loved and buried, but often we forget about those who gave their lives in service to our country, unless they were one of our own. Perhaps on this Memorial Day—this day meant for reflection on the somberness of war and the lives it claims—we can all take a few minutes to acknowledge their sacrifice and the ultimate price paid by their families—and to be grateful.

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I’ll Always Have Five . . .

Thu, 17 May 2018 00:41:00 GMT

His son had left this life tragically and much too soon. I never knew exactly what happened and I never asked. I figured if that was knowledge I was supposed to have then someone would supply it without me making a formal—and none-of-my-business—request. But honestly, the circumstances didn’t change the end result—a family left to struggle with loss they did not understand but had to accept.

Whenever he calls on business I always let the conversation run its natural course and, when I know the pleasantries and updates are over, I ask how he and his wife are doing, as well as the rest of his family. They have four other children and I know the loss of the first born—the big brother–has to be tough on everyone. During one of those conversations, while he pondered life as they now know it, he said something I thought was exceptionally profound. “Whenever anyone asks, I’ll always tell them I have five children. I’ll always have five.”

Note the tense of the verb in his statement. I’ll always tell them I have five . . . not I had five. It is his way of telling the world that this child is no less important—and no less his—just because he is no longer here. His absence from this planet does not diminish the life he lived or the position he occupied in the family.

Honestly, that’s true no matter how old a child is when Death stakes his claim. If they are newly arrived you have still anticipated that arrival for nine months. You have watched as they grew. You have planned and prepared as their birth approached. You have hoped and dreamed of their future, and although the watching and planning and preparing and hoping and dreaming may have been in vain, that child is still a part of you. When you start adding years of life to the equation, and all the memories those years can hold, the bond grows even stronger, and it will not be broken by Death. Because, you see, no matter the length of their life, no matter the timing of their death, that child is still your child.

And they always will be.

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A Bond Like No Other

Thu, 10 May 2018 01:12:00 GMT

There are a lot of events in life that we simply take for granted will occur. If you’re in high school, everyone just assumes there will be a graduation to attend. If you go to college afterwards . . . or enter the military . . . or attend a trade school . . . it is assumed that you will also complete that phase of life and celebrate the transition accordingly. Then there’s the new job and marriage and children—all events that are, for the most part, expected as a normal part of a normal life.

In the course of all this expectation, you just take for granted certain people will be there to help you celebrate each milestone. But a while back, a young friend of mine gave me a new perspective on the events of life and the people who always cheer you on. You see, her mother had been tragically taken from her months earlier and, despite her need and desire to be “the strong one” in the family, the loss and her struggle to lift everyone else up had taken its toll. We had closed ourselves off from the rest of the world while she shared thoughts with me that I’m not sure had been shared with anyone else. And then she said something like this . . .

“I always looked forward to going to college and graduating, getting married and having children. But I don’t anymore . . . I dread all of that . . . everything I’ve always wanted and now I dread it, because she won’t be here to share it with me . . .”

Even now, when I close my eyes I can hear the grief in her voice and see her struggle to make sense of the new life that had been forced upon her. In the course of that tragic event she not only lost her mother, she lost an important part of her future. And she knew it with such depth of clarity that it was overwhelming.

What she said was so obvious, but it was an obvious that had never occurred to me. My mother lived to see my graduation from high school and college, my wedding and my children. She lived to see their graduations and marriages as well. I had never contemplated what life would have been like had she not been there to share those moments.

Now it’s my turn to state the obvious—our mothers are an important part of our lives, a part that we take for granted will always be there until such a time as age deems otherwise. They are our guiding light, our teacher and our sounding board, the person we know we can turn to should the whole world crumble around us—and the person with whom we want to share life’s events, whether large or small. Granted, spouses or significant others hold a special place when it comes to sharing the trials and tribulations or joyous moments life can bring . . . but your mother and her love for you can never be equaled, and no one can ever take her place. It is a bond like no other, and when it is broken by Death, whether in your youth or as an aging adult, the hole that is left in your heart cannot be filled.

I’ve tried all kinds of ways to wrap this up, from catchy Mother’s Day quotes to words of wisdom and ancient sayings, but it all seems so trite when you think about someone who loves you beyond the ability of words to express. So I’ll simply end with this. Those of us who are fortunate enough to still have our mothers with us should honor and cherish them each and every day, not just once a year—because those of us who are missing that important piece of life’s puzzle wish we still could.

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It’s All In The Timing

Thu, 03 May 2018 02:32:00 GMT

In May of 1992, my husband’s 86 year old grandmother suffered a massive stroke. One day she was up and going and keeping great-grandkids and the next she was in a hospital room in Memphis, and the family was gathering to have the end of life discussion. Initially I had believed there was hope. When we first visited her we didn’t take our two children, simply because we didn’t know if the hospital would allow them on the floor. I remember the kids telling me they were going the next time, even if Kathryne had to get on Joseph’s shoulders so they could put on the stereotypical trench coat, hat, and mustache, and amble into the hospital as though they belonged. I relayed that conversation to “Miss” Emma and she threw her head back and silently laughed, much as she had done for as long as I had known her, but with the mute button pressed.

As the days passed, her condition deteriorated. From the beginning, my in-laws had taken shifts at the hospital, making sure someone was with her around the clock. But one day my father-in-law had to leave about an hour before my mother-in-law could arrive. And during that one hour, that only time “Miss” Emma had been left alone, she died.

At the time I believed she did it intentionally. I still do. I believe she waited until she was alone so no one who loved her had to witness her death. In the years since her passing I’ve had others tell me they feel the same, based on family members who seemed to do exactly what “Miss” Emma did—find the only opportune time to depart when no one else was present.

One such story involved three children, all of whom were present at their mother’s home, all of whom vacated the room while the home health nurse attended to business. Once she finished, the nurse found them to report and say good-bye and the grandchildren who had just arrived walked in . . . only to find that their grandmother had slipped away while no one was watching.

It happens more times than you might realize—and each time it does there is an enormous feeling of guilt on the part of those who have continually been at the bedside but left, just for a few minutes. In their minds that absence meant someone they loved dearly died alone. It can be a terrible burden to bear until you realize that perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . that person who had always taken care of you, took the opportunity to do so one last time.

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A Part Of You

Wed, 25 Apr 2018 22:46:00 GMT

Recently I had the opportunity to speak with someone I had not spoken to in years. They had previously lived in our area and we had attended church together . . . but then her husband began experiencing what turned out to be the early stages of Alzheimer’s. At that time they were living in a home nestled in the middle of 90 acres . . . 90 heavily wooded acres . . . with a four to five acre lake. She could read the handwriting on the wall and knew, for her sanity and his safety, they would have to downsize considerably, at least on the amount of property.

And so they did, selling a place with historical significance and literally hundreds of pink and white dogwoods, a multitude of azaleas in every color imaginable, and countless wildflowers—an untouched paradise save for the house they built on the water’s edge. It was a magical place that allowed for endless wandering and new discoveries on every adventure, a place that, once you were there, bound you heart and soul to the land and its history.

Life moved on and the years passed. Her husband’s health continued to decline and, once more, downsizing seemed a wise course of action. So the house was sold and they ventured into the smaller side of a duplex they owned in a larger city. When the adjoining tenant’s lease was up, they gave them notice and prepared to make what would hopefully be their last move—across a wall and into a tad more square footage. But there would not be any trails to hike, no historical structures to discover, no dogwoods within arm’s reach of the porch or azaleas and wildflowers setting the woods ablaze with color. There would be no lake to contemplate while sitting on the porch swing, coffee in hand, or birds to enjoy as they worked to maintain the property. But for her sanity and his safety . . .

As we talked that day and she related the details of life as she now knew it, her voice broke and I could hear the grief in her words. “I loved that place. I loved it so much. I’m an outdoors person and I always enjoyed hiking there—and it was so beautiful and so peaceful . . . But we can’t go back anymore. We used to, just to fiddle around and rake and clear the brush, but we can’t go back now. We just can’t . . .” And although I tried to assure her she had done the right thing by selling, and reminded her of how difficult it would have been to continue where they were, I knew that my words, though they were true, would not ease the pain of loss she was experiencing. And it wasn’t just the voluntary loss of their beloved home so many years ago. It was the loss of a way of life.

Most of us have something that Life—or Death–has taken from us, something that was so much a part of us at one time, but to which we can no longer return. Life can be cruel like that, asking you to work hard with the promise of better things to come, and then yanking the proverbial rug from under your feet. Whether it’s a place or a time or a person, the adjustment to the loss is never complete. It can’t be. Whenever something or someone so dear to your heart goes missing, for whatever reason, a part of you is lost as well.

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Together Again

Thu, 19 Apr 2018 01:43:00 GMT

Rosa Lillian Gardano was fourteen when she and her family traveled from their home in Olive Hill, Tennessee to Illinois. What should have been a pleasant and uneventful trip turned deadly when the car in which she, her mother, and her older sister were riding was involved in an accident near the town of Livingston. Her mother and sister, as well as the driver, survived and were hospitalized. Lilly did not. The date was July 27, 1972.

A local mortuary by the name of Lesicko Funeral Home was contacted. Her body was prepared and casketed then Bob Shackelford flew to Illinois in his single engine Cessna to bring Lilly back home to Hardin County. The following Sunday, July 30 ^th , friends and family gathered at the funeral home in Savannah to say their good-byes and Lilly was buried in the Memory Gardens, just a few miles outside the city limits.

Fast forward almost 46 years to March 19, 2018 when we received a call from Sierra Memorial Chapel in Riverside, California. During the intervening years, Lilly’s mother, Rosalina, had made her way west. Her life had drawn to a close and her sole remaining child, Lilly’s older sister, wanted her mother to be buried next to the daughter she’d lost so many years before. We started a record on Ms. Gardano and waited for word of flight arrangements, but a few days later we received another call. There had been a change of plans. Ms. Gardano would not be making her way to Savannah to join her daughter. Her daughter would be making her way to Riverside to rest beside her mother.

It only made sense. The last member of the family was residing in California. Why would you send your loved one three-quarters of the way across the country to be buried in a place where no other immediate family remained? And so it was decided.

The proper documents were signed. The necessary permits were acquired. And then we waited. We waited because a disinterment of this magnitude requires a lack of rain for more than a few hours, and blue skies and continuous sunshine were nothing more than distant memories at the moment. But finally the week came when it looked like Mother Nature was going to smile favorably on the task at hand. The airline was contacted and flight arrangements were made. Sierra Memorial Chapel was contacted and advised of our schedule. And then we started planning exactly how we were going to disinter a casket and vault that had been buried for over 45 years.

I’m not going to say it was easy. All three members of the grave crew were exhausted when the day was over. The funeral staff had to move Lilly from her original casket to the new one required by the airlines, something that’s hard to mentally prepare for when there are so many unknowns. But throughout the entire process, there was one goal everyone kept foremost in their minds. This child would be with her family again. There would be someone who loved her and who had mourned for her that would now be able to visit her grave regularly. And she would rest beside her mother instead of alone.

The disinterment took place on a Wednesday; on Thursday she was taken to the airport and flown to Ontario, California where a representative of Sierra Memorial Chapel received her remains. Lilly’s original casket was placed back in her original vault and reburied in her original grave. With permission from Lilly’s sister, the monument chosen by her family so many years ago will continue to mark the grave that once cradled her mortal remains. And the Lilies of the Valley that are cast in the bronze of her monument will serve as a reminder of the young girl who tragically lost her life at the age of fourteen—and of her family who never forgot her.

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Side By Side

Thu, 12 Apr 2018 00:54:00 GMT

He was a basket case when his wife died, so much so that a great deal of the decision making was yielded to others—others whose thought processes were not exactly what his would have been, had he been capable of thinking.

Now, years later, he was living with the regrets. When he walked into our office to get an estimate regarding services for himself, he was so distraught the staff actually worried about what steps he might take to relieve his misery. One of his greatest regrets was the location of her grave. There had been no available spaces to either side of her but, in order for her to be close to her other family members, he had agreed for her to be buried where he could not rest beside her. Instead, he would be buried at her head. He had even considered cremation for himself, although he didn’t like the idea, but if that was what it took to be with her, then that was what he would do.

The director left the room to total his estimate and, while in the office, relayed his story to the rest of us. It didn’t take but a moment for the question to be asked. Would he like for us to move her? Would he like for us to move her so he could be buried beside her? And then they could share a monument instead of her having her own and him having his. They could be as close as possible in death, just as they had been as close as possible in life.

So the director walked back into the room and asked the question. And when she did, he sat silently as a single tear welled up in the corner of his eye then slowly made its way down his cheek. Yes. Yes. That was exactly what he wanted.

And so the paperwork was signed and the monument quote was reconfigured to use her bronze plaque and his veteran’s marker on a single piece of granite. With a vase. He had wanted a vase but others had talked him out of it. Now there would be a vase. And then he left.

The next day he returned, and the man who walked into our office was a changed person. He talked more. He smiled more. He seemed genuinely happy—and grateful. His greatest regret was about to be resolved, and his greatest dread—not being beside her when it was his time to join her—was about to be erased.

Now there are those of you who will tell me it doesn’t matter. The person isn’t there anymore so what difference does it make if you rest beside them until eternity comes calling? And to you I will say this. Rationally, logically you are right. It probably makes absolutely no difference whatsoever . . . until you love someone so much that the thought of being separated from them by Death—and then in death—is almost too much to bear. This man’s grief was diminished by the thought that he could rest beside his beloved wife when Death claimed his mortal remains. For him—and so many others—that knowledge makes all the difference in the world.

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Never Enough

Wed, 04 Apr 2018 05:55:00 GMT

“Time is the most valuable thing there is. Since the beginning of time, there never seems to be enough of it. People try to beat time, but time always wins. Sometimes when you run out of time you end up doing time. And even if you’re rich you can’t buy more time – although some people will try. . . There is never enough time.“

So runs the dialogue of a 2016 Samsung commercial featuring cuckoo clocks, a woman being cryogenicly frozen in an attempt to cheat Death, two would-be thieves caught in the act, a restroom with every stall full, and a bomb hidden in a salsa can in a food truck. Oh, and Danny Glover in a couple of great cameos. The whole point being that their latest phone charges way faster than anything else on the planet so you aren’t wasting time waiting on your phone to be a phone again.

But if you ignore the visuals and focus on the audio, suddenly cell phones fade and reality becomes all too real . . .

“I thought I had more time.”

It was all he could say. The diagnosis had come within the last 48 hours and they were told weeks. Weeks quickly, and without warning, became days. There was no time to process the information. No time to discuss or prepare (as best one can for such) or adjust. And now there was absolutely no time at all. No time and all the time, but for all the wrong things. And all he could do was sit and stare vacantly, the events moving him beyond shocked to the point of numbness.

Even the time he thought he had would not have been enough. Couples who have been married to their soulmate for a literal lifetime will quickly tell you 60 or 70 years wasn’t enough. Time is a fickle creature, always teasing us with the hope of more and then tormenting us when it runs out. There are so many plans that never become reality, dreams that are dashed, and futures that move forever outside our grasp. So how can we exact our revenge on something so powerful yet so elusive? By making the most of whatever we are given.

People are placed in our lives for a limited amount of time, as we are in theirs. We can use that time foolishly, always believing there will be more so amends can be made and wrongs can be righted. Words can be spoken tomorrow that we didn’t take the time to utter today and acts of kindness and love can wait until a more convenient moment. But what if? What if time proves more of an enemy than a friend and life grinds to a screeching halt? We should always be aware that time may prove itself deceitful, leaving us to mourn what we thought was promised but which we no longer have. So today, if you take nothing more away from here than one solitary thought, may it be that you should treat every moment in life as though it were the last—the last time you greet a friend, the last time you say goodbye, the last hour you will spend with someone you love, the last time you will touch . . . or hug . . . or kiss. But instead of approaching those moments fearing there will never be another, rejoice in them. Lose yourself in the friendship and love of those around you so when the time comes that goodbye is more permanent than you imagined, the regrets will be few and far between.

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Transitioning and Such

Thu, 29 Mar 2018 03:47:00 GMT

The phone rang (as phones are prone to doing—especially around here) and the director answered. On the other end of the line was a hospice nurse in Atlanta, Georgia.

Nurse: “I’m calling to let you know we have a patient who is transitioning and the family wishes to use your facility.”

Director: “All right.

“Wait . . .

“What?”

I’ve been here almost 40 years and, to the best of my recollection, we’d never heard the word “transitioning” used to describe the act of dying, and no, he didn’t actually say that, but it was exactly what went through my head when I first heard the story. If you think about it, it makes perfect sense. Sorta. But something else it did was to provide the subject matter for a conversation with my husband and our daughter and son-in-law over supper one Sunday evening. Those are always good things and rarely ever productive.

I mentioned the call and my husband, the director who actually answered the phone, filled in the details. That, in turn, led to other recollections of ways to describe Death without actually using the D word. First up was Ernest Goes to Jail when Ernest P. Worrell learns he’s been sentenced to death row and he’s trying to wrap his mind around what that will eventually mean.

“. . . it’s over pal, you’re outta here bub, the groundhog’s are bringing you your mail, you’re picking turnips with a step ladder . . .”

That, in turn, led to fond remembrances of the Dead Parrot sketch by the comedic group, Monty Python. In this particular sketch, a gentleman returns to the pet shop where, not 30 minutes before, he purchased a Norwegian Blue Parrot that he has since determined was clearly deceased at the time. Despite all his efforts to convince the owner the parrot has departed and was in that condition at the time of purchase, the owner refuses to acknowledge this rather permanent condition, instead insisting the parrot is just resting or possibly pining for the fjords of Norway. The customer, having reached the absolute peak of frustration, lets loose with the following tirade (kindly keep in mind, the gentleman in question is British and, as such, tends to drop his Hs):

‘E’s not pinin’! ‘E’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! ‘E’s expired and gone to meet ‘is maker! ‘E’s a stiff! Bereft of life, ‘e rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed ‘im to the perch ‘e’d be pushing up the daisies! ‘Is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s off the twig! ‘E’s kicked the bucket, ‘e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!”

I have to say, there are a few truly creative manners of death description incorporated into that rant. “He’s a stiff! Bereft of life . . . His metabolic processes are now history . . . run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible . . .”

Of course, we’ve encountered our fair share of attempts at avoiding actually saying someone has died, the most common being they expired or they were lost. Whenever we hear that terminology we think of magazine subscriptions (wouldn’t it be nice if we could renew a person as easily as we can a periodical?) or organizing a search party (if someone is lost don’t you generally look for them?).

But if we listen closely we realize every term just listed, from Ernest’s to our own, is someone’s effort at softening the reality of Death (with the possible exception of the ones in the Dead Parrot sketch which were clearly meant to convey the parrot’s failure to thrive). Unfortunately, no matter how you say it, whether someone has expired or passed on or left us or gone to Heaven—or even completed their transition—the devastating truth remains the same. They are not here. And here is where they should be. And no matter what phrase or terminology you use to describe the act of dying or the state of having died, it will not lessen the pain their death leaves behind.

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In His Own Words

Wed, 21 Mar 2018 21:53:00 GMT

Years and years and years ago, my father served on the board of what was then National Selected Morticians and which became, much to his dismay, Selected Independent Funeral Homes. He simply preferred the initials NSM to SIFH. We won’t be discussing why, but he tried with some success to marshal the forces and circumvent the change, only to fail in the end. During his term on the board, he and my mother became fast friends with Jack and Sandy Reynolds from Connecticut—a friendship that lasted long beyond their service on the board.

Jack eventually contracted cancer which eventually became terminal which eventually led to his funeral and a trip to Connecticut by way of Florida on the part of my parents. They returned with a great deal of sadness, some very fond memories, and the “first of and last” Jack-In-Sert. For years Jack had entertained his friends with his Jack-O-Grams but this time he penned his last message to those in attendance. And what a message it was.

Being a funeral director he had planned or assisted in planning many a service, including, but certainly not limited to, those for his mother and father. He gave his dad’s a B+ and his mother’s an A, but he was determined that his would be “the mother of all funerals”. After identifying the players (ministers, musicians, pallbearers, etc.) and close friends (of whom my father was one) and praising his wife and children, he left his audience with some final observations, a few of which I want to share with you.

There was a list of things he wished to avoid in the afterlife; specifically mentioned were the media, Madonna, Michael Jackson, shopping coupons, and “blow in cards” that fall out of magazines. His preferred accompaniments included CNN but only when imperative, a nice library, and caring and supportive people such as those who cared for him during his illness. The last few paragraphs? Well, I’ll just let Jack tell you in his own words.

“Last thoughts, when I wrote the Social Security Administration, I had $400,000 in my account. How would you feel?

“At least the first living thing in my grandchildren’s household to die was their ‘Grammpy’, not a hamster/gerbil. They don’t have very grandiose funerals.

“My magazine subscriptions and I expire together. Perhaps this letter has seemed to you to be out of place, but not to me. Might even be considered to be flippant . . . That’s always been my style, a little bit of the unexpected, humorous and curt. But let me assure you of one thing, no one is sadder about this death than I.”

I’ll admit, I teared up a bit at that last line, mainly because I’m sure it summed up how many people feel when they have the luxury/curse of dying slowly. It gave him time to plan and to prepare, but also to grieve over what he would miss. He closed his missive with the following:

“Goodbye. God bless you all—My hour glass has run out and then some. Love and Kisses, JR”

But then he added a P.S.; as any good funeral director would do, he gave the mourners their final instructions.

“Process out together behind the piper, in proper order, and sing lustily, last thing you can do for me. Don’t forget “Abide with me”.

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Suffering In Silence

Thu, 15 Mar 2018 01:54:00 GMT

The arrangement conference had not gone smoothly, to say the least. The sole family member present had been polite enough, but the funeral director felt like he didn’t trust her ability. Maybe it was because she was young or because she was a she or just because, but for whatever reason, it had not been a pleasant experience for her and she feared he might feel the same.

There were several days between the conference and the burial, several which became a few more due to the prediction of rain on the originally chosen date. Anytime he came in the office there was this tension that filled the air, a condition to which we are not accustomed. Most all the families we serve trust us or grow to as we move through the process, but we didn’t feel that from him. He was always so stern, so business-like and abrupt in his manner. Perhaps that was just his nature, but occasionally there would be a faint smile or an attempt at humor, neither of which lasted very long.

The day of the service a few members of the immediate family arrived at the funeral home for their private viewing. Then the casket was placed in the hearse and the family filed to their cars, ready for the drive to the cemetery where the service would be held. There would be one speaker, no music, and a handful in attendance, but that seemed to be what he wanted. Throughout the service he stared straight ahead, no sign of emotion—almost as though he really wasn’t present—but the director thought she perceived the slightest hint of an internal struggle. The service drew to a close and the director dismissed everyone but, as they prepared to leave, he spoke. “My dad really liked this song and I’d like to play it for him.” And with that he touched the screen of his cell phone then laid it face down on the casket. As everyone stood quietly, the strains of an orchestra filled the cemetery and Lisbeth Scott began to sing Here’s to You .

“Rest forever here in our hearts. The last and final moment is yours . . .”

And as she sang he wept bitterly. When the music faded and the cemetery was once again shrouded in silence, he turned and thanked everyone for coming. He shook the directors’ hands and thanked them for their help. Despite the somberness of the day, his burden now seemed lighter.

She shared the story with me when they returned and I finally understood. It wasn’t anger or a lack of trust or some personality flaw we had observed in the days preceding the service. It was grief, pure and simple. It was an unwillingness to allow anyone to see his pain, so he hid behind a gruff exterior, slowly building a protective wall with each conversation and decision. Only when it came time to bid his final farewell did the pain grow greater than his need to hide it.

Often those who are trying to cope with loss believe they have to “be strong”—strong for other family members, strong so the world doesn’t watch them, strong because it’s been “long enough” or so others don’t feel uncomfortable in their presence. And sadly, those “others” often encourage them to do just that, but hiding our pain doesn’t make it go away. If anything, it just makes it more intense. So maybe, instead of encouraging those who are suffering to suffer in silence, we should give them permission to openly grieve . . . but that only works if they have given themselves permission first.

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Remember to Live

Thu, 08 Mar 2018 02:35:00 GMT

A few weeks ago this would have been our post, but it just didn’t seem appropriate given the violence at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. So today, on a much lighter note (and in recognition of the abundance of rain we’ve received lately), we present the following:

Yesterday I was scanning my list of blog ideas, trying to decide what conversation we would have this week since nothing immediate had popped up. You see, I have this ongoing list of ideas so when something doesn’t happen that I feel would be worthy of discussion, I have readily available options from which to draw. And although there has been much this week that would be entertaining, there has been absolutely nothing I felt comfortable sharing. So, you were about to be regaled with the necessities of beneficiary changes on life insurance when the present beneficiary is deceased. Doesn’t that sound exciting?

That changed when I scanned Facebook this morning and came across a post from a recently accepted Facebook friend. She was discussing a significant loss and how, even with the passage of some time, it was still fresh and difficult to comprehend. There was a lot of wishful thinking and some what ifs and I said to myself, “Self, there’s some good material there and a lot that I know others would understand.” So I thought I was set, until I started driving to work.

I was passing a local convenience store when a young man in his twenties came out carrying a small plastic bag. As he crossed the parking lot to his car he encountered a puddle, one that had formed in a small pot hole and which was directly in his path. Without breaking stride he very intentionally stomped in that puddle with his right foot then continued on to his vehicle. And I smiled.

I smiled because here was this allegedly responsible, semi-adult experiencing the joy of the moment. But as I drove on down the road, my brain began to question his action. Didn’t he have somewhere else he needed to be? As big a stomp and as sizable a puddle as that was, he had to be wet up to at least his knee. Wasn’t that uncomfortable? How was that gonna work when he sat down in his car? It was still cool and I could imagine how his cold, soggy blue jeans had to feel as he moved across the parking lot. I bet they even stuck to his leg . . . and then I stopped and reviewed my response . . . and realized I was thinking like a rational, logical, not-any-fun-to-be-had-in-a puddle adult. So I mentally slapped myself and promised I would not grow up. I may be forced to grow old, but I don’t have to grow up.

Now, there are those of you who may be wondering what in the world this has to do with Death. Well, I’m proud to say, absolutely nothing. See, although this blog is by nature death-oriented (which makes sense with it being on a funeral home website and all), there are times we need to be reminded to focus on what we do before that point of no return. There are times we need to be reminded that it’s often best not to force the round peg of life into a square hole. There are times we need to be reminded to find the small joys of life—the joys of the moment—and savor them.

Robin Sharma said “Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life” and I believe he’s on to something. Doing the same thing over and over may be comfortable and even productive, but there are puddles out there just begging for a good stomping. Before it’s too late, take some time and find yours.

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The Great Equalizer

Thu, 01 Mar 2018 02:32:00 GMT

It wasn’t incredibly busy last Friday—just your routine customers walking in, phone ringing off the wall sort of day. I happened to be in the business office that morning (as opposed to my semi-personal office) when the phone began demanding attention. The sole secretary was otherwise occupied, so I did what any self-respecting, responsible employee would do. I answered it. The conversation that followed went something like this:

Me: Shackelford’s, Lisa Thomas.

Her: (It sounded like an older woman on the phone, somewhat feeble but very certain of her mission.) I need to talk to somebody about moving my husband from that cemetery they put him in to my place.

Me: (In my head . . .“That cemetery they put him in?” That’s an odd way to phrase it. And who is “they”? If she’s the wife then she should have been “they”. Maybe answers will be forthcoming . . . ?) All right. I can help you with that. What cemetery are we discussing?

Her: (She gives me a description of the cemetery location [because she can’t remember the name] which shall be withheld in order to protect her identity. You’ll understand why shortly.)

Me: Yes. I’m familiar with that cemetery. And you say you want to move him to your property?

Her: I do. What do I have to do to get that done?

Me: (I ask about any children [according to her there are none] and then give her my “You won’t always own that land and then what happens to him?” speech before answering her question.) If you decide to do this, you’ll need a permit from the health department. Whenever you move someone from one cemetery to another or, in your case, to your property, you have to have a permit from the health department, and you’ll need someone to do the work. (I try never to assume it’s going to be us or to just randomly insert us into someone else’s process without an invitation.)

Her: Can’t I just do it?

Me: (Long pause on my part, then . . .) Well, I don’t know how stout you are or how big your shovel is, but even if you get all the dirt out, I’m not sure you can get him up.

Her: (Laughing) Probably not. I’m not very big. How much is that gonna cost me?

Me: It will basically be the charge for opening and closing two graves, one at the cemetery and one on your property . . . (At this point she interrupts.)

Her: But what if I don’t want him buried?

Me: (Longer pause on my part, then . . .) Do you have any neighbors?

Her: Yeah. There’s a house across the street.

Me: Well, I don’t think they’ll be real excited about having him just sittin’ out in the front yard. (At this point, all eyes in the office turn and look at me.)

Her: Oh, I’m not gonna leave him out in the cold. I’m gonna bring him inside . . .

It turns out she was never married to the gentleman in question—which explained why she didn’t get to decide where he would rest in peace. They were gonna get married . . . and he bought her a trailer . . . but he passed on before they could. She’d already called once, speaking with another of our directors, telling him that a nurse told her all she’d have to do is hook him up to an I.V. for a few hours and he’d be fine . . .

Now, after you pick your jaw up off the floor, I’d like to make a few points regarding this little lady and our conversation.

Grief doesn’t care if you’re a genius or have the I.Q. of a stump. It doesn’t care if you comprehend all facets of life and death or if you are clueless. It is the nature of mankind to form bonds with other living beings, and when those bonds are broken by Death or some other form of separation, the pain and suffering of grief will follow. In that regard, Death is the great equalizer, not so much for those he takes, but for those he leaves behind.

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I Have To

Wed, 21 Feb 2018 22:27:00 GMT

Last Saturday, a group of young people gathered on the steps of the federal courthouse in Fort Lauderdale, Florida for the sole purpose of making their voices heard. Why? Because they’d had enough. Actually, because they’d had too much. Just a few days earlier, fourteen students and three staff members of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School had been gunned down in cold blood—and if humanly possible, they weren’t going to let that happen again. They were heartbroken. They were angry. They were passionate. And they were determined to be heard.

One spokesperson who seemed to take the lead was a senior from the school named Emma Gonzalez. In an interview with The New York Times, she noted that people had criticized the students for speaking so soon after the tragedy. She was told that instead they needed to take time to grieve. Her response?

“ This is the way I have to grieve . I have to make sure that everybody knows that this isn’t something that is allowed to happen.”

Ms. Gonzalez and those who are a part of the same effort have something in common with previous victims of tragedies—they don’t take their grief lying down. The students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas and other schools across the country have turned their grief into goals. They have redirected their pain into a purpose and their anger into action. And their determination will make them a force with which to be reckoned. It is how many people choose to deal with loss and its aftermath.

It was the course of action chosen by Candace Lightner after her thirteen year old daughter, Cari, was killed by a drunk driver on May 3, 1980. Cari and a friend were walking to a church carnival when she was struck from behind by a three-time repeat offender who had been released from jail just two days before, having served time for his fourth DUI. Candace Lightner campaigned tirelessly to change the drunk driving laws in her home state of California, always carrying her daughter’s picture with her, putting a face and a name to the horrific tragedy. Her efforts resulted in the founding of Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), which was incorporated on September 5, 1980—slightly over four months after Cari’s death on what would have been her fourteenth birthday. The efforts of MADD are responsible for raising the legal drinking age to 21 and lowering the blood alcohol limit for impaired driving to .08—a law that had passed in all 50 states by 2004. By 2015, MADD had helped save nearly 330,000 lives. All because one woman had enough and was determined to bring about change.

It was the course of action chosen by John Walsh after the kidnapping and murder of his six year old son Adam on July 27, 1981. Not content to simply mourn the loss of their son, John and his wife, Reve, founded the Adam Walsh Resource Center, a non-profit organization dedicated to legislative reform; the Center eventually merged with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Unwilling to stop there, John and Reve organized a political campaign which eventually led to the creation and passage of the Missing Children Act of 1982 and the Missing Children’s Assistance Act of 1984 . That was followed by the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act which was signed into law by President George W. Bush on July 27, 2006. Thirty-six years later, John Walsh is still testifying before Congress and state legislatures on crime, missing children, and victim’s rights issues. All because he is determined that his son will not have died in vain.

These people, and so many others, did not let their grief disable them. Instead, it defined them, shaping them into people of purpose and determination who vowed to make a change in the world. Many of them have managed to do just that, and whether or not you agree with the positions they have adopted and the change for which they are working, one thing is undeniable— this is the way they have to grieve.

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Days Like Today

Thu, 15 Feb 2018 03:04:00 GMT

I don’t know what to say. I had this all planned out. Actually, I had it all planned out at least three times. At first I thought about doing a public service announcement regarding how dead people can’t collect on life insurance policies when they’re named as the beneficiary. It seemed like a good topic since most people never think to check things like that after a spouse or child dies. Then I read a Facebook post Wednesday morning from someone who recently suffered a significant loss. It was a reflection on how that loss is still so fresh and was filled with wishful thinking and what ifs—and observations that were worthy of note. But that topic was laid aside as I drove to work and witnessed a young man in his early twenties making excellent use of a puddle in a parking lot. It made me smile and I’ll probably save it for later since I was almost finished. But this afternoon the news broke of yet another shooting at yet another school and, although the number of deaths has not been confirmed as I write, it appears that as many as seventeen people have perished . . . and now everything else seems so trivial in comparison.

I know there are answers. I just don’t know what they are. I could advocate for proactive measures against bullying and preach about the importance of treating mental health problems and scream for gun control and demand armed guards at every school—all solutions I’ve heard in the last few hours—but there has to be something done. I just don’t know what, and in the helplessness of the moment I find myself crying for those whose lives have been cut short by another senseless act of violence, and for their families who must now learn to live without them. And then my thoughts turn to my own children and my grandchildren and I am once again reminded that they can be snatched from me without warning.

I don’t know when violence became an acceptable response to anything. I don’t know why taking a life—or multiple lives—became an everyday occurrence to which I fear we are growing accustomed. Something can only happen so many times before it becomes commonplace and an accepted way of life. But for now there are still those who, like me, know nothing of the ones who died, but mourn their deaths and grieve for their families.

As dark and depressing as all of that is, I know there also has to be light in this world. There are good people out there who are doing good things every single day in an effort to make this world better, even if it’s just their little corner. But the news media doesn’t cover that and we tend to lose sight of them when we are slapped with events such as mass shootings. It’s almost impossible to remember the goodness when you are reading words like “numerous fatalities”, “horrific”, and “catastrophic”.

There are days when this blog is lighthearted and maybe even funny, and days when it serves as a source of information that folks may not want but that they really need. And then there are those days when it can do little more than acknowledge the heaviness of the air that surrounds us and the heartache that engulfs us, days when all we can do is watch and wonder why. And when it will stop. There are those days like today.

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With a Grain of Salt

Thu, 08 Feb 2018 02:10:00 GMT

Last year my husband’s uncle died. His name was Joe M. Thomas. My husband’s name is Joseph E. Thomas, but everyone knows him as Joe. Can you see where this is headed? Coincidentally, when the hospital called to release Joe M. to us, Joe E. was the person answering the phones after hours. We were sitting in the Mexican restaurant having our traditional Sunday evening meal when he took the call, greeting the caller in his usual manner . . . “Shackelford’s. Joe Thomas”.

There was this long pause on the other end of the line . . .

The nurse in charge of releasing Joe M.’s remains was amazed and then afraid when someone with the same name took her call. Afraid because she feared this was a family member who was unaware of the death; amazed because, come on . . . what are the odds? And that, my friends, is the entire point of this missive.

We went to great lengths to circumvent the confusion that we knew was preparing to pounce after the announcement of Joe M.’s demise. On our website, we specified that he had reached the ripe old age of 90, but it didn’t matter. Evidently, everyone thought Joe E. was hiding his age really well. People called the funeral home, tearfully bemoaning his death and wailing in doubt about how we could ever continue without him. I guess if there was a silver lining to all the confusion, at least Joe E. heard the things most of us don’t get until after we’re dead and gone.

It wasn’t until we got Joe M.’s picture on the website that the calls slowed down. But you can’t put a picture on a recorded obituary information line . . .

And that, people, brings me to my point. Most everyone who heard the name got their daily dose of exercise by jumping to conclusions. They didn’t read the related age. They didn’t call to confirm or wait until more information was available. Joe Thomas was dead and they only knew one Joe Thomas so it had to be him—and with that certainty, the news spread like wild fire. Never mind that at one time there were at least three in Savannah, one of whom was a doctor. (Don’t even get me started on the calls we got at home asking us for a sight unseen diagnosis. I would tell them my husband worked at the funeral home and I didn’t think they wanted us just yet. They’d laugh and agree, but one lady still asked if I knew what time the clinic opened.)

When it comes to the word around town, especially a small town, there are three points to always remember:

If you pay attention to, and follow, those three points, there is a good possibility you won’t find yourself guilty of believing, and then spreading, false information about an alleged death. And, amazingly enough, this also works quite well in other areas of life.

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The Perfect Moment

Thu, 01 Feb 2018 03:04:00 GMT

I saw a meme once that said their mind was like someone emptied the kitchen junk drawer onto a trampoline and, right now, I get that. It has been an extremely stressful month filled with too much pain, far too much loss, and enough disappointment to deter even the most optimistic person from getting out of bed.

This Sunday looked like it was pretty much gonna ice the cake—or break the camel’s back. Feel free to insert any appropriate old saying or cliché of your choosing. The last service of the day was scheduled to begin at 3:00, but car trouble on a family member’s part delayed things until well after 4:30. We knew the sun would be setting soon, and the dark is not your friend when trying to fill a sizable hole on a hillside. I worried about the grave crew and what would be required of them, but we all understood the situation wasn’t really under any earthly being’s control, so we tried not to tie ourselves in a knot. Knot tying doesn’t help anyone (unless possibly while camping or on a boat), least of all the folks who were able to make it to the service on time and were now called upon to patiently wait.

As I had predicted, we left the building just before dusk. Fortunately, the cemetery wasn’t too far away. Unfortunately, it was still far enough that the sun was well on its way to setting when we arrived and parked. Normally, I wouldn’t be standing in a cold, dark cemetery, but I was charged with making pictures for family members who lived too far away to attend. So, there I was, shivering so that I was certain the pictures would be a total blur. I had not come prepared for cold. It wasn’t cold when I left the house, therefore, it should not be cold now. But it was and my sweater didn’t feel nearly as thick as it had earlier in the day.

The minister read a scripture and another minister said a prayer. Then one of them spoke briefly with the funeral director and the funeral director spoke briefly with a member of the grave crew. Together, our two employees removed the boards that supported the casket and set the lowering device in motion. As the casket slowly began its descent, those who had made the trip to the cemetery began to sing, ever so softly, Shall We Gather at the River . I looked up . . . just in time to see the sun setting the sky aglow as it sank behind the trees. I was the only one there who had that vantage point, the only one there who could see the beauty of the moment, and as I stood watching the casket move almost imperceptibly into its final resting place, accompanied by the strains of an old and well-worn hymn with the sun casting its last, fading light through the trees—I felt it. That perfect moment. That perfect calm. That perfect peace. The chaos of the world had retreated, banished by the love and faith that surrounded that grave.

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A Profession of Faith

Thu, 25 Jan 2018 04:50:00 GMT

“Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.”

It’s a song I learned at the earliest of ages, one that is universally recognized as a child’s profession of faith. But on Wednesday morning, it became so much more. As the music began and the sweet voices of the children filled the room, the grief and pain that hung like a cloud found its own voice. You heard the intake of breath as the mourners realized what was playing—and then the audible sobs that rose from almost everyone there. The piercing cries of the grieving blended with the music. Men and women alike rose from their seats and walked out, unable to contain their tears and unwilling to disrupt the service. The women wept bitterly and clung to each other. The men strode quickly through the doors and into the sunshine, searching for the brisk morning air. One of the ministers, unable to leave the stage where he was on display for all to see, bowed his head and covered his eyes in prayer . . . or in tears . . . or both.

It was, perhaps, the most difficult moment of a difficult service—and the most liberating, for it gave everyone there permission to visibly grieve, to express the depth of the pain that consumed them. But why that song? There had been others that were just as meaningful to many in attendance. Why the song of children, sung by children?

Perhaps that is the very reason. That innocent expression of faith served as a forceful reminder of the innocence that had been lost. In the unnatural sequence of events where parents and grandparents survive, children were being buried that day—and not just children defined by their age. And though they might not comprehend the magnitude, even the youngest in attendance knew that something terrible had happened. The tragic event that brought them all together stole a part of their innocence—of everyone’s innocence—for it reminded the adults of how cruel life can be and how unexpectedly its tragedies can come, and it told the children that life is not always good.

Despite Death’s callous nature and all-consuming power, I choose to believe that, on this day, he did not prevail, for in the midst of their grief, those who were suffering the most turned to one another and drew strength from their faith. As one of them so beautifully put it, “I’m choosing not to dwell on what I’ve lost, but to look at what I still have, and to be grateful for what I had.” Despite Death’s best attempt at destroying far more than the four lives he claimed, he failed. He failed because the words of a simple child’s song—one that gave voice to their pain—was also a profession of their faith.

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Beyond Understanding

Thu, 18 Jan 2018 03:51:00 GMT

In the early hours of Sunday morning, the unthinkable . . . the unimaginable … happened and a family of four lost their lives. Their deaths have devastated our community and brought that same community together as nothing else can. A loss this great defies comprehension, but those who can are lifting up the families of this family in every way possible, through emotional support, financial assistance, and perhaps the greatest measure of all, through prayer.

There is no way to understand such loss or to be accepting of it without questioning why it happened—not the actual circumstances that led to the event, but the reason why bad things happen to good people. And there is absolutely no way to begin to understand what these families must be facing and feeling at this moment. There are some things that would seem to be beyond human endurance and surely, surely such a loss would be at the top of that list.

Through social media word of this tragedy spread quickly, and just as quickly people reached out to help, a response generated by their own grief. Whether you knew anyone involved or not, you could not help but be deeply touched by the horror of what had happened, and deeply saddened as you looked at the faces and heard the stories of those who died.

As terrible as the loss is for their families and as great as their needs are now for comfort, support, and some measure of understanding, there are others who are also suffering, though not nearly to the extent of these family members and friends who are devastated beyond words. I’m referring to the firefighters who arrived as quickly as possible, believing they were coming to save lives and property, only to realize they could do neither. I’m thinking of the first responders who rushed to the scene, intent upon rendering any aid they could, only to stand and hopelessly, helplessly watch—and the investigators who are now working to provide answers for the grieving families. And yes, I’m thinking of the funeral directors and other staff members who, in the coming days, will do everything in their power to support and guide these families, knowing all along it is not, and never will be, enough.

In the midst of so great a loss it is easy to overlook others who are also suffering. At this moment there are other families who have lost people precious to them, under circumstances that are not natural, but whose losses are overshadowed by that Sunday morning tragedy. They also deserve and need our comfort and compassion and we as a community must not forget their grief.

If you are a praying person, then I ask that you do just that, lifting up all of these families and those who serve them at every opportunity. And if prayer is not your chosen avenue of support then please keep them close in your thoughts. And no matter what kind of person you may be, hold your children tighter, tell those around you that you love them—and remember, you never know. You just never know.

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The Forgotten Ones

Thu, 11 Jan 2018 02:34:00 GMT

The holidays had been difficult but not impossible. They had gotten through them as a family, sharing memories and laughter and, occasionally, tears. And they had tried to include her as much as possible—‘her” being his girlfriend, the young lady to whom he planned to propose at Christmas. But his tragic death in July had put an end to any plans he might have had and certainly to any future they would have had together.

They included her and her family in their Christmas Day meal. They encouraged her to be open to the possibility that there could be someone else in the world who, one day, would mean as much to her as their son did. After all, he would never want her to be alone in life. But that openness takes time and she simply hadn’t reached that point.

They are often the forgotten ones, girlfriends and boyfriends who are on the path to a more permanent relationship but who suddenly find themselves alone. Not only have they lost their best friend, the person with whom they spent the most time, and their potential spouse, they’ve also lost their future. The wedding they were planning will never happen. The children they would have had together, the family they would have built, will never be. They will not grow old together because they will never be together in that kind of relationship. Those nevers take away their hope and their anticipation—and every one of them haunts their dreams and churns their waking moments into emotional chaos.

Although these people and their loss may initially be acknowledged as equal to that of the family, I’m afraid we tend to view them differently after a brief passage of time, the idea being they still have a life ahead of them. If they’re young, then they’ll find someone else and it will all be okay, or at least better, because they’ll have someone with whom they can share their life. If they’re older, then they’ve probably already had opportunities to experience love and commitment, so at least there’s that. We minimize their pain because we see, what to us, are obvious remedies. It almost becomes the replacement puppy syndrome. If you lose a pet, you still have that love and attachment to them and you still miss them terribly, but if you get another pet—say, a new puppy or a tiny kitten—then their playfulness and adorable nature can make you smile again and seems to lessen the pain of your loss. Some folks tend to view this type of loss through the same lens. It would be nice if it were as simple with people as it might be with puppies, but it really isn’t. Other people may come and go, others may kindle a relationship that ends in marriage or a life-long commitment, but it takes a special person to live with the ghost of their predecessor and there will always be those haunting memories of what might have been but which Death cruelly snatched away.

So many times our perspective changes how we respond to someone else. If we’ve walked their path it’s easier to understand how they might react and what they might be feeling. That doesn’t mean we know exactly what they’re experiencing—and we should never believe that it does. But it should give us a significant measure of compassion for and patience with them. On the flip side of that coin, when we haven’t experienced that pain, we shouldn’t judge how someone responds or how long it takes them to adjust to their loss and be open to new relationships—especially when the relationship for which they are grieving never had the chance to become what it was intended to be.

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Thank You

Wed, 03 Jan 2018 23:34:00 GMT

It was New Year’s Day, but that hadn’t stopped Death from making several visits throughout our little communities, so while a great deal of the world slept in that morning or claimed the recliner and the remote, several of our locations had employees clocked in and hard at work. In Savannah the schedule called for seeing three families plus dealing with whatever else might occur, so as the directors led the way through each arrangement conference, those of us in the office answered the ever-ringing phone and tried to enter and process as much as we could, knowing the next day would be equally busy—and the world would no longer be on holiday.

Occasionally, someone would rattle the exterior office door, trying to enter the building but quickly realizing that door was locked. You see, since it was a holiday the office wasn’t technically open for business, so the doors were secured to reinforce that notion. But since the main front doors were unlocked to accommodate the seemingly constant stream of folks, it didn’t take much effort on anyone’s part to find another way in. Then we’d hear the door from the foyer to the office open and one of us would turn to offer assistance or information or both.

There is no possible way I can begin to describe the surprise and absolute delight that we all felt when one of those turns found Billy Allegood at our counter. There’d been no time for taking a break and certainly very little time for eating, and here at our counter stood a wonderful man with a bag full of McDonald’s hot apple and strawberry pies. Of the four people present at that moment, not a one turned down a pie—a pie with its tender, flaky crust, still warm in its little box—and we even thought enough to reserve one for the director who was finishing up the last arrangement conference. We thanked him over and over and I’m pretty sure he could see gratitude written all over our tired faces. He told us how much he appreciated us and how much he loved us and, with a “God bless you”, he was out the door and on his mission of making his little corner of the world better.

That one act of kindness was all it took to help us through the rest of the day. Those few sweet words, a small financial investment on his part, and I’m sure a great deal of his time, brought more comfort and encouragement than he will ever know.

Superstition has it that what you do on New Year’s Day, you’ll do all year long. We understand that’s a part of our business and we know we can be called upon at any moment, day or night, to leave the comfort of our place of work or home, and go to the aid of someone who is experiencing one of life’s most difficult trials. But what a blessing to have the Billy Allegoods of the world who care for the caregivers and offer encouragement to everyone they meet! Whether it’s the doctors or nurses or EMTs, the firefighters or law enforcement—or the folks at the funeral home—there are days when we all need that kindness shown. So to Billy Allegood and those in this world who share his mission—thank you.

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The Resolve to Resolve

Thu, 28 Dec 2017 00:49:00 GMT

Ah . . . To-Do lists. I love them dearly and depend upon them more and more as the years fly by. I’ve ceased to view them as a crutch and now consider them an essential part of daily life. My problem is, no matter how many lists I make, I either lose them or forget to look at them. At the end of the day . . . or week . . . or month . . . or year, I find all these things that are left undone that I truly intended to address, but which were chased from my noggin’ by more immediate matters.

That observation brings us to the infamous “New Year’s Resolution(s)”, those pesky creatures that fill you with hope on January 1 and guilt not long thereafter. Whether they involve diet and exercise, decluttering and organization, or a kinder, gentler approach to life, we have every intention of doing better and being better . . . and, if we’re lucky, it lasts about a month. Old habits are hard to break and it takes real strength and will power to wrestle some of them into submission.

And that observation brings us to the realization that we are human and imperfect and, more often than not, unable to follow through in some very important areas of life. That kinder, gentler thing? How many of us allow life with its trials and tribulations to run over us, shortening our tempers and destroying our patience with those around us? That diet and exercise nonsense? Maybe those changes could lead to a better, longer life with fewer health issues and more pain-free time spent with family and friends instead of confined to a house or hospital bed. And that decluttering and organization mess? Don’t even get me started. That’s my greatest downfall and if I don’t follow through on that one this year, my contributions to this blog may cease ‘cause I’ll have been crushed by an avalanche of paper from my desk (which is probably where all of my To-Do lists are hiding) . . . or stuff from a closet at the house. Oh, I can blame it on my father since this seems to be hereditary in nature (at least on my side of the family) or I can say I just don’t have time to put everything back or up or whatever is appropriate, but the truth is I’ve fallen into a terrible habit that I need to break, if for no other reason than to preserve what little sanity I have left.

We’re at T minus less than a week and counting until a new year pounces upon us, providing us with a clean slate for insurance deductibles and lifestyle changes. Take advantage of the opportunity and permanently make the changes that will make your life, and the lives of those you love, better. I could give you a detailed list that would probably include saying “I love you” more, yelling less, slowing down and enjoying life, and having the discussions with your family that are truly important. But everyone’s list has to be their own or it doesn’t work, so I’ll just leave you with this. No matter how long life is, it is still too short. Make the most of it while you can. Happy New Year, everyone. May it be filled with peace, and joy, and love—and the strength to endure when it is not.

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A Sacred Trust

Wed, 20 Dec 2017 23:32:00 GMT

This past Thursday, a couple of hundred folks gathered in Savannah’s chapel to remember someone—or several someones—they lost during the year. Our Commerative Tree was magnificent and a collective gasp rose from those in attendance when it was lit. There was the opportunity to laugh and the freedom to cry and a lot of both taking place during the service, compliments of our speaker who did a wonderful job reminding us that we have a very important task in this life.

She set the stage for that reminder by relating a conversation she had with a young couple. The husband had been diagnosed with what proved to be a terminal illness and, in the course of their discourse, she asked him about his greatest fear. Without hesitation he responded, “That my son won’t remember me.” His son was fifteen months old.

With a calming reassurance she told him, “Oh, but he will. We will see to it that he does.” And today, that is the point on which I wish to dwell.

The reason my children know very little about their Great-grandfather Rogers is because I never knew him and his name was rarely mentioned as I was growing up. He died the year before my parents married, the result of a heavy equipment accident while building dams for TVA. That and the fact that he had 23 or 24 brothers and sisters is really all I know of him. It’s difficult to share a story you’ve never heard. But the reason they know so much about their Great-grandfather Shackelford is because I grew up with him and I have spoken of him often. They know the story of his life, of his accomplishments and the things he enjoyed. They know how much loss he suffered and how he persevered. And they know his face for there are pictures of him in our home. To the best of my knowledge, there is one picture of my Grandfather Rogers and it is currently residing in what was once my bedroom in what was once my parents’ apartment. Since my mother chose not to share his life with me, I will never be able to share it with my children and they will never be able to share it with theirs.

We are the keepers of our history, the guardians of our heritage. We have a sacred duty to tell the stories of our ancestors, for they created many of the traditions we celebrate during this season and throughout the year. When we fail to do that then we allow their memories to die with them and, eventually, we lose a significant part of our past. There is no longer anything that connects us to who we are and how we arrived at this point in time. Oh, there are ways to uncover that history, but it isn’t the same as hearing the stories as they are passed from generation to generation.

This is the time of year when we tend to reflect more deeply on those who are no longer with us. I hope, as you think of their lives, you will share their story with those who surround you now. We are the link between past and present, and we have a sacred duty to not only preserve that link but to prepare our descendants to do the same—for as long as we remember, those who came before us will never truly die.

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Life’s Music

Thu, 14 Dec 2017 07:34:00 GMT

I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately because: 1. We’re baking cookies and that calls for all the traditional Christmas carols by all the traditional artists—and John Denver with the Muppets and Pentatonix (John Denver sings with the Muppets but not with Pentatonix . . . they didn’t exist when he did), and 2. It’s time for the annual Service of Remembrance and I need 17 plus minutes of something(s) to play during the presentation part of the service.

I’m sure that last one sounds simple but, as I’ve said before, it isn’t. There are so many good songs—and so many that you think are good until you actually listen to the words. Then you find out they aren’t at all appropriate on so many different levels. I’ve been told I need to listen for the tone the song sets and not the lyrics because people don’t listen to the lyrics. Well, I’m a people and I listen to the lyrics and I can’t be the only one.

In the course of all this listening I’ve danced around the kitchen to Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters singing “Jingle Bells” (no mental pictures, please), sung along with the Muppets “Twelve Days of Christmas”, and shed a tear or two with the likes of Kathy Mattea and Jim Croce. And through it all, I’m reminded of something that I’ve known for years, but rarely ever verbalize. Music is an important part of life, even if we don’t acknowledge that importance.

Throughout the centuries music has been used as the most basic form of expression; history has been passed from generation to generation through songs memorializing great events or people. Couples often have “their song”, mothers sing their children to sleep, a heartbroken teenager—and often a heartbroken adult—will find that one song that sums up their sorrow and put it on repeat for hours on end. On the other side of that coin, they may find one that lifts their spirits and choose happiness instead.

However, I can’t imagine a time in life when music is needed more than at death, and I’m not referring to the songs chosen for the funeral service. Although those are important and should be selected thoughtfully and with the life being honored in mind, the greater contribution can come before Death ever calls and then long beyond his visit. You see, music—something so simple and so commonplace—has the power to bring peace to the journey of the dying—and comfort to those left behind, for it gives voice to their grief when their own words fail them. As Victor Hugo so aptly put it, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a more accurate description of grief.

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Sleighs and Reindeer

Thu, 07 Dec 2017 00:06:00 GMT

Monday night was Savannah’s annual Christmas Parade, an extravaganza of light and sound that is traditionally held on the first Monday night of December—unless it rains, and then it’s usually rescheduled to a date that conflicts with our Service of Remembrance or staff Christmas party. Of course, there’s the marching band and the Dance Team from the local high school, the Girl Scouts and the Boy Scouts, the Shriners on their motorcycles, and floats provided by area churches and businesses—and folks start lining the parade route hours beforehand so they have a vehicle close by in case the weather turns bitterly cold or they just get tired of standing. The streets through downtown and heading east are closed, traffic is rerouted around the world, and for about an hour everyone comes together to celebrate the season.

This year’s parade followed the usual format and the weather cooperated rather nicely. What little rain decided to fall did so earlier in the day and the temperature didn’t drop drastically so no one went home with frostbite. As I stood watching with my daughter and son-in-law (my husband had been in attendance but was required to leave, compliments of Death who has never had any respect for Christmas traditions), we began to see flashing lights in the distance—the lights that signal the end of the parade and the approach of ole St. Nick himself. He always manages to make it to the parade and they always have a sleigh and reindeer ready for his ride through town. When I could finally see his float, complete with his sleigh and reindeer (only five of whom were able to join him that night), I was a little . . . well . . . puzzled. It was certainly a lovely sleigh and he was dressed all in red in the most marvelous suit imaginable. But his sleigh was on the float (which was actually constructed on the back of a flatbed truck) with Santa’s back to the cab of the truck. In other words, Santa was flying down Wayne Road backwards. Kinda like getting the cart before the horse, but with a sleigh . . . and reindeer . . .

Now, my dad used to have a small station wagon with a third row of seats that sat back to back with the second row, so anyone riding there was looking at where they’d been instead of where they were going. I only occupied that seat one time—on the road to and from Cades Cove in the Smokey Mountains. I can’t begin to tell you how sick I was by the time we returned and I promised myself if I just survived the trip I would never again make that mistake. I’m hoping Santa had a stronger stomach than I did, and that the lack of curves on the journey led to a lack of motion sickness on his part.

I’m sure there was a perfectly logical explanation for the position of the sleigh. Perhaps the cab of the truck served as a shield from the wind, or maybe they could better secure the sleigh by placing it up against the cab instead of on the end of the bed. Or maybe they got it all ready and realized it was backwards when there wasn’t enough time to change it. Whatever the reasoning, it didn’t detract from Santa’s appearance or the excitement felt by the small children in attendance. It just made people like me wonder why.

I get that a lot some days—that wondering why thing—and it seems lately we’re doing more pondering and head-shaking at the home than we once did. Families will walk through our doors already distressed over losing someone they love, but now even more so because someone in the crowd has decided the worldly possessions of the deceased are up for grabs, and they’ve started removing valued family heirlooms from the house . . . or cash from the bank . . . or items from the safe deposit box because “Mama wanted me to have that”. Maybe she did, but I’m not sure I understand the need to confiscate someone’s material possessions before we’ve taken the time to honor their memory and celebrate their life. People are more than what they have accumulated in this world and, although the material possessions have to be dealt with at some point, that point really shouldn’t be until after the funeral when everyone is ready to tackle the task and in agreement as to how said task should be tackled.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much that can be done to change those people who feel entitled to take what they want with no regard to other family members or the loss they have suffered. Greed often rears its ugly head at the most inappropriate times, and death is perhaps the most inappropriate time of all. Oh, you can notify the bank so the accounts are protected and you can change the locks so great-granddaddy’s picture from 1872 doesn’t disappear from the nail it’s occupied for the last 50 years, but then the person you are trying to deter will probably accuse you of doing the very thing you wish to prevent. The love of money will fracture a family faster and more easily than anything else when Death comes to call. How sad it is when someone puts the cart before the horse . . . or the sleigh before the reindeer . . . and focuses on what’s in it for them instead of what is no longer theirs to hold.

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Jean Lillian’s Journey

Wed, 29 Nov 2017 23:41:00 GMT

Back in 1953 her family anxiously awaited her arrival—hers and that of her twin brother. Of course, in 1953 there was no way of knowing they would be a girl and a boy. The technology didn’t exist that allows such common knowledge today. Times were very different and, in this instance, the parents would be as surprised as everyone else.

Their births on October 8 ^th were met with excitement and joy, both of which were short-lived, as was Jean Lillian. Her brother survived, but she died the next day without her mother ever even holding her. As I said, times were very different then; the common thought in the medical profession was that bonding should not be allowed—much less encouraged—since the child would never be going home with the parents. It would be easier that way. They didn’t realize that a mother and a father will hold that child in their hearts forever, whether or not they are allowed to hold them in their arms.

Their home was in Grand Prairie, Texas at the time, and she was buried in a cemetery there, but a year later the family moved to Tennessee, leaving Jean Lillian and a piece of their hearts in Texas. Over the years her mother would talk about her baby, the child she had to leave behind. The pain of that separation was obvious to her three remaining children, and together they decided Jean Lillian needed to be with her family, to rest beside them in death since she was never allowed to join them in life. Their father had already died, and when their mother’s health began to decline, they realized the time had come.

As nice as Texas may be, things are not always as simple there as one might hope. There was paperwork and red tape and governmental officials who had no allowance for older people who were trying to navigate through such . . . officials who got in absolutely no hurry to process the aforementioned paperwork. She died with her family’s promise that Jean Lillian would join her here, but also knowing that mission had not yet been accomplished.

For a whole host of reasons, it took two years before the stars aligned and everything was in place. As luck would have it, Jean Lillian’s sister and her husband were traveling and could go to Grand Prairie as a part of their trip. The funeral director in Tennessee made the necessary arrangements with the funeral director in Texas, and the funeral director in Texas made the necessary arrangements with the cemetery. He documented the process so Jean Lillian’s family could be there, even if only through the pictures he provided. What remained of her remains were carefully casketed and given to her sister, as was the monument that had marked her grave for 64 years. And so began her journey.

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the Bellis family gathered around a child-sized grave and watched as her casket was gently committed to the earth. They sang and they prayed, they grieved and they rejoiced, for their sister . . . their aunt . . . their cousin now rested beside her parents, and their family was once again reunited. Even though she never lived in Tennessee, Jean Lillian was finally home.

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Thankful, Grateful, Blessed

Tue, 21 Nov 2017 19:30:00 GMT

Kindly allow me to state the obvious. The holiday season is upon us. I don’t know how it happened since I’m pretty sure I did this Thanksgiving thing like last week. But here it is, in spite of my best efforts to slow the passage of time.

If we’re honest about it, the next month or so will actually fly by faster than the previous 10.5, (unless you’re a small child, in which case it will approximate eternity) and before we know it, there’ll be Christmas and then New Years and then it starts all over again.

But tomorrow (unless you’re reading this on Tuesday evening—then it will be day after tomorrow) we will celebrate Thanksgiving—that meek, mild-mannered little holiday that is generally overshadowed by all things Christmas. So, in honor of the holiday that almost isn’t, I’d like to offer a few thoughts for your consideration.

1. True gratitude rests in the little things, those tiny blessings of life that we often don’t even consider, like waking up in the morning or having a for real bed to snuggle into each night. Or how ‘bout watching the seasons as they melt into each other, or teaching a child how to make straw paper worms or milk carton tanks or helicopters out of maple seeds and seeing the joy that comes from such small things? When we can open our eyes and recognize those blessings—and so many others—for what they truly are, we will find ourselves far more content with life. The material things won’t mean as much because we will have found those things which have true worth.

2. The people around us are our greatest treasure. They may annoy us and harass us and generally be royal pains on occasion, but those very people are the ones who will be there when we need them. They are our closest family members and dearest friends . . . the people we are most likely to lash out at when life lashes out at us. How sad that we will treat total strangers with more respect than the people who love us beyond words. Realize they will not always be with you and, when they are gone, it is too late to tell them how much they meant. Say it now, not just with words, for words often come too easily. Show them.

3. Life is too short to be anything but content, even when trials and tribulations afflict us. As cliché as it may sound, there truly are no mountains without the valleys; no joys without the sorrows. The strength to prevail can flow from many different sources: from God, if you are a believer, from others, if you will only allow them to walk with you, and from within, if you have taken the time to fill your mind and heart with positive and uplifting thoughts beforehand. I call it the pixie dust philosophy. If you’ve ever watched Peter Pan, you know pixie dust was essential to flying. But so were happy thoughts—and without those happy thoughts, all the pixie dust in the world wouldn’t lift you off the ground.

4. A life of service is a life well-lived. Every day we meet people who are struggling, whether physically, mentally, or emotionally. Every day we have the opportunity to bless someone’s life through our words and deeds. But we have to look at them long enough and listen to them closely enough to recognize that opportunity when it knocks. Hurrying through life will only shorten your time on this earth and leave a legacy that no one will remember. Do you want to be immortal—or at least live long beyond your death? Then serve others. They will keep your memory alive through their own gratitude.

As we gather with family and friends this season, please be mindful of those who are facing this joyous time of year with dread. The first holiday without someone is the worst, and often the second isn’t much better. In the midst of our celebrations, may we remember to include them while being respectful of their continued grief. And while we can, may we live our lives so that others will count us as a blessing.

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Day Is Done . . .

Wed, 15 Nov 2017 22:22:00 GMT

Day is done . . . gone the sun . . . from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. All is well. Safely rest. God is nigh.

It’s a beautiful melody, a haunting melody often played by a single trumpet or bugle and often played at the saddest of times to honor one who served their country. Many of you may not recognize the words, but if you heard the melody to which they are set, you would have no doubt as to the song you were hearing. Since 1891, the sounding of Taps has been included in most military burials. Composed or adapted (there is still a question as to whether the tune was original or a variation of an earlier song) by Brigadier General Daniel Butterfield, it was used to signal lights out for the first time in July of 1862. Within months, both the Union and Confederate troops had adopted the melody as their own.

Its first use as a funeral rite came of necessity rather than intention. Not long after Butterfield wrote the call, Captain John Francis Tidball used it to honor a fallen member of his Battery A of the 2 ^nd U.S. Artillery. The corporal, whom Tidball declared to be “a most excellent man”, would normally have had shots fired across his grave three times; however, the battery’s advanced position, buried deep in the woods during the Peninsula Campaign, required more discretion than three volleys would allow. So it came to Tidball that the playing of the bugle call intended to signal lights out would be a fitting tribute to his fallen soldier. And thus began the tradition that is still practiced today.

If you’ve never been present when Taps is played at the end of a funeral service, there is no way to adequately describe the experience. It’s as though the world grows quiet and for that brief instant, the only sound heard is the haunting strains of the soldier’s last call. It may be the military’s way of honoring their service, but for those in attendance it brings to mind the sacrifices that were made for something greater than self.

This past Saturday was Veterans Day, a day set aside to honor those who have honorably served in our armed forces. The majority of them returned home, but not always unscathed. There may have been experiences that changed them forever—experiences that led to a very different person returning—which then led to adjustments on the parts of their families and friends. Those adjustments were not always easy and, sometimes, not always possible. Since our country’s beginnings, well over 50,000,000 men and women have served. Of those, over half served during times of war—and over 1,000,000 of them did not return alive. Some did not return at all.

We owe these men and women and their families a debt of gratitude that we will never be able to repay. It’s a debt we should always honor, not just once a year . . . and not just over their graves.

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No Magic Words

Wed, 08 Nov 2017 23:20:00 GMT

You know how in the movies and on television, when a writer is trying to write and nothing is working and they’re using a for real typewriter, they rip the paper out of the carriage, wad it up into a crumpled ball, and toss it into a wastebasket that’s already overflowing with wadded up crumpled balls of typing paper? Well, if I was using a for real typewriter, my wastebasket would already have been emptied twice and would need it again. That’s how many times I’ve started this and then pushed the delete button and just held it down, watching as the cursor ate my efforts.

There’s a reason for that, a very good reason actually. Sometimes, when Death makes his presence known too violently or too abruptly or too much—or all of the above—you just go numb. It’s the mind’s defense against the pain and the anguish, against the emotional and mental chaos that is lurking around the corner, waiting to jump out and engulf you. And numbness does not lend itself to expression.

As I compose this little epistle, it is only Tuesday but this week already feels as though it has lasted far too long. It began last Friday with the sudden and completely unexpected death of a friend—which was followed by a senseless act of horrific violence that took the lives of 26 innocent people, a third of whom were children, in a town I’ve never even heard of but which I know is suffering terribly and will never be the same. And then I have watched and listened as another friend struggles with the approaching season and the anniversary of something that never should have happened. But it did. And her world is still upside down.

What do you say to the people left behind? What kind of comfort can you possibly offer when someone is hurting beyond what anyone should be required to bear? There are no magic words that will make it all better. A mother’s kiss won’t stop the pain like it once did when we were young. A really powerful magic wand might be helpful, but those seem to be in short supply these days. But you can listen. And you can hold them when they cry. You can tell them how deeply sorry you are for their pain and you can offer to be there whenever they might need an ear . . . or a shoulder . . . or both. But you better mean it when you say it.

Please don’t tell them it will be all right. It won’t. Please don’t tell them their loved one is in a better place. It doesn’t matter. They aren’t here. Please don’t tell them it will get easier with time. Even if it proves true for them, that doesn’t help now. And please, please, please , don’t tell them God needed another angel. How selfish does that make Him?

And whatever you do, please don’t forget them when the funeral ends and everyone else goes away. For them there will be an avalanche of firsts to face: the first birthday of the one they lost, their first birthday without them, the first Thanksgiving and Christmas—and the first anniversary of their death. Every one of those firsts and so many more will be gut-wrenching. Every one of those firsts can easily send them back into the depths of grief and depression. Without patient, understanding people who will help pull them back up, they can easily lose themselves as well as the one they loved.

This is a hard time of year for a lot of folks, and Life certainly isn’t trying to make the path any easier. Please be aware of those around you and their struggles. Even if we choose not to help, we at least shouldn’t make it any harder than it already is.

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Not For Praise or Pay

Thu, 02 Nov 2017 02:01:00 GMT

“I just feel guilty! I feel like it’s my fault I didn’t see this and I didn’t do something to prevent it. I’m his caretaker and I failed.

“It’s eating me up . . .”

She’d gone home and found him. Obviously something was terribly wrong but she had no real clue as to how wrong it actually was. What followed was a helicopter flight to another hospital, days of sedation and testing—and not nearly enough answers.

If ever there was a group of people who approach superhuman status, it would be those who choose to fill the role of caretaker. Although there are professional versions who are equally worthy of admiration, I’m referring to those nonprofessionals who have dedicated their lives to caring for someone they love. They willingly devote their time and attention and energy to someone whose condition may demand more and more of them as the days pass. Depending on the ages of everyone involved, there may be additional responsibilities such as other family members and work. Still, they try to be ever watchful, to anticipate and meet every need, and usually they reach a point of absolute physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion long before their task is done.

It’s no wonder the caretaker often dies before the patient. The physical demands can be overwhelming, especially if the person in their care is unable to tend to their own needs. Mentally they try to stay alert, perhaps wondering if the decline they see can be prevented or at least delayed. There are medical decisions to be made, often with the end result being the difference between life and death. Are they doing enough? Are they doing too much? As difficult as it is to consider, they may be asked to determine if it’s time to let go or if there is still a quality of life worth preserving. Emotionally they are on an endless roller coaster with each health scare forcing them to acknowledge that one day their dedication will no longer be needed.

When that day comes—and it will if their task doesn’t get the better of them—they often look back and wonder what they missed. What small, insignificant change took place that they should have seen, that would have foretold the future and allowed them to change it? And the more they hit replay the more they will blame themselves for not preventing the inevitable.

Caretakers are an amazing group of people, a group that selflessly dedicates themselves to bettering the remaining years of another human being, not for praise or pay, but for love. How sad that many of them so often feel as though they’ve failed, especially when their role finally ends. That sense of guilt can be accompanied not only by a sense of loss but of being lost. So much of life has been invested in caring for another that the freedom brought by death seems strangely unnatural. Suddenly the ties that bound them no longer exist and they may actually feel guilty for feeling as though the weight of the world has been lifted from their shoulders.

It’s been said that it takes a village to raise a child. Well, I’m going to expand the village’s responsibilities and say they’re also needed when that child becomes an adult who can no longer care for themselves. No matter how much you love someone, the task of caring for them due to illness or incapacity becomes a very long and desolate road when it’s traveled alone. We’ve all known people who have willingly made, or are making, that journey, and we’re always there for them when their journey finally ends. How much easier would it have been for them if there had been help and support along the way?

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Just. Stop. Now.

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 22:43:00 GMT

You’ve read the stories. You’ve seen them on Facebook and various news sites and stations. You’ve watched the commercials and seen the videos posted to social media. All of them have one message—avoid distracted driving at all costs. Now, if you think you’ve had enough of that subject, feel free to skip down to the last paragraph because that’s the part I really want you to remember. But if you have the patience of Job and a love of statistics, you may continue to your destination via the scenic route.

Recently Kyle Stock, Lance Lambert, and David Ingold published a lengthy article on the subject that was picked up by several websites—an article filled with all manner and kind of statistical evidence in support of technological abstinence when behind the wheel. For example, road fatalities, which had been declining for over 20 years, suddenly jumped by 14.4 percent over the last two years, while smart phone usage increased from 75 percent to 81 percent over the same time period. Coincidence? Probably not. And what about the nature of these deaths? The increased number of victims is often made up of bicyclists, motorcyclists, and pedestrians—people who more easily become invisible when your eyes leave the road and focus on a phone. Pedestrian deaths alone increased 22 percent in the last two years—and honestly, those deaths could just as easily be attributed to distracted walking as distracted driving.

Sadly, the statistical evidence available (only a very small portion of which has been mentioned here) is most certainly much lower on paper than in reality. The use of the technology has far outpaced the ability to analyze and record that usage and its consequences. Although actually speaking on a cell phone, even hands-free, is dangerous, most Americans have abandoned talking for texting, tweeting, and over-sharing on Facebook and Instagram. Seventy percent of the driving population was engaging in that behavior in 2015. Two years later that percentage had jumped to 80. Zendrive, Inc., a company that analyzes smartphone usage for commercial insurers, found that, out of three million drivers, 88 percent used their cell phone while driving. Do the math, folks. That’s 2,640,000 people on the road that aren’t completely focused on the 4,000 pound machine they’re supposed to be controlling or anything that happens into its path. And that didn’t count the phones that were in a fixed position for hands-free usage.

The statistical evidence in favor of avoidance is abundant, but unfortunately, the people who are guilty don’t seem to care, or they don’t believe it will ever happen to them. There are various technologies that can stop smartphone usage while driving, but the use of those technologies is voluntary in nature, and again, the people who are guilty aren’t going to voluntarily surrender access to their hand-held cellular device. Until we begin to see distracted driving through the same lens as driving under the influence, the deaths will continue to mount. And no volume of statistical evidence is going to put a dent in that. It’s going to take concentrated effort on the parts of automobile manufacturers, smartphone providers, and lawmakers to halt the carnage.

So, here’s the part I want you to remember. Here’s the take-away from today’s message and it comes from someone who has seen the devastated families mourning the unnecessary loss of life:

You are not immortal. You are not invincible. At some point, you will die, and that should be later rather than sooner. There is no text message or shared moment that is worth your life or, heaven forbid, the life of the innocent person you kill. Just. Stop. Now.

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If It Looks Too Good To Be True . . .

Wed, 18 Oct 2017 22:26:00 GMT

So, just out of curiosity, have any of you ever Googled “cremation providers in _____________” where the blank is your city and state of residence? If you haven’t, why don’t you take a minute and do that now? Go ahead. I’ll wait . . .

Reflections of Life

Thu, 12 Oct 2017 02:22:00 GMT

“His face glows with sheer happiness and peace; radiating sunshine overflowing into the lives of others, not tarnished by the worry and fret of this world. His smile is seen as frequently as the dew in the early morning, spreading contagious affects to those saw it. His laugh is nowhere near melodious. as a matter of fact, some might think it to be obnoxious for it is loud and bellowed from deep within his belly and may or may not even sound like Elmo’s but I love it nonetheless. His eyes, when you peer into them, you can see the passion, deep sincerity, ecstatic joy, and unmeasurable love from within his soul. When things got hard, his hug was comfort and serenity. Those loving arms would engulf you in a bone-crushing manner and you’d be safe and all worry of harm floated away from your mind. His hands, though they are rough and worn out from hard work, when they held mine, his hands became as delicate and gentle as a rose petal. His short legs are not to be underestimated for they are well-built. They have carried him from this place to that place and never seem to stop moving. His love is an ever-flowing fountain that shows no sign of drying up and when it comes to my mom, his love knows no limits. His mindset is that of positivity even when many others might’ve found him fanatical for thinking in that way. His words are encouraging and never would he be caught uttering harsh ones. His life was that of service and helping others. His presence has not left even tho his last breath has. He was always there and will forever be.

“And as his daughter, I will forever and always hold him close to my heart; in a place locked by memories and sealed with a “daddy’s little girl” kiss. We love you, Dad.”

Whenever we meet with a family we always hope they will make the service their own, that the decisions they make will be governed by the life they are gathering to commemorate. Why? Because every life is unique and that uniqueness deserves to be recognized and celebrated. It is what defined them while they lived and it is what we will remember in death.

The opening paragraphs here are a prime example of what can happen when a family chooses to make their service a reflection of that life. When I first read those words on the inside of his memorial folder I just stopped. And then I read them again. You could see the enormous personality that had been lost and you could feel the pride and love this child held for her daddy—all because they decided to write their own tribute rather than choose one from those we had available. Her words held far more meaning than any we could have provided because they came from her heart.

During a funeral service someone’s personality can be allowed to shine in so many different ways, whether through the choice of music or the message, the memorial folder or personal items displayed, or perhaps even activities that involve everyone in attendance. When my dad died we all sang for the first fifteen minutes of his service because he loved music and he loved to sing. And we had to use Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “My Way” somewhere because he made the office secretary promise she’d harass us into submission on that point. And he actually closed his own service by singing “May You Always”—a recorded version someone had from a church talent show years before.

Although all of those things were reflections of my father’s life, they wouldn’t be appropriate choices for many. Fortunately, that’s not a problem since the options are truly endless. People have chosen caskets and register books based on favorite colors or how someone made their living. They’ve brought handmade quilts or paintings to display, picture albums or newspaper clippings and certificates of recognition—one woman had been a dancer during the 1940s so the family asked if music from that era could be played during her visitation. We’ve gone to the cemetery with the casket in the back of a mule-drawn wagon or a vintage El Camino. We’ve been led by fire trucks and antique pick-ups or a slew of motorcycles. There was the Christmas themed funeral in June and the balloons released because the day of her funeral was also the day of her birth 85 years earlier.

I could go on . . . and on . . . and on . . . but you get the picture. A family’s desire for a unique service is a delight to any good funeral director. You see, we want that service to honor your loved one while meeting your needs because, as I have often said, the funeral may be about one particular person but it’s for everyone they’ve left behind. What better way to celebrate and honor a life well-lived than with a service that truly reflects that life?

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Be Prepared

Wed, 04 Oct 2017 01:47:00 GMT

After eight long years of managing not to leave town for any extended periods of time, my daughter convinced me to go on a “girls’ trip”. Various destinations were proposed and Williamsburg, Virginia was finally the agreed upon choice. That seemed to be more restful than Disney World (which I dearly LOVE but I didn’t have time for a vacation after my vacation so I could recover) and less time consuming that flying across the country to some inn on the cell-serviceless coast of Oregon where each room is themed after a famous author (I would have chosen the Arthur Conan Doyle room ‘cause, of course, Sherlock Holmes).

As I began to prepare for our departure I also began to realize why I had avoided leaving town for the last eight years. There was SO MUCH STUFF that had to be done, or taken care of, or finalized, or whatevered before I could run away. And it wasn’t just work stuff. Things had to be ready for the kindergarten class that I teach at church each Wednesday night (except for this one), ALL the laundry had to be done so I would have clothes to pack. Oh . . . and packing. There had to be packing . . . all the packing. Fortunately, not as much packing as for some other trips since this one required one pair of nicer pants and a multitude of blue jeans. Exactly my kinda trip.

But it was the work stuff that almost did me in. I had a to-do list a mile long with everything timed to the minute as to how it could all be accomplished. Unfortunately, the minutes ticked off much faster than the items on the list and, one by one, those lowest in priority just dropped off completely.

As I scurried around, trying to prepare for the end of life as I knew it—at least for a week—I just stopped and sat down. I had reached a point where my frustration level was through the roof because life—and death—just kept interfering with everything I was trying to accomplish. If anyone had so much as looked at me wrong I would have either burst into tears or eaten them alive. The direction taken would have depended upon the moment.

As stressful as it was (for me anyway) to prepare for a less than one week trip, there are journeys that require far more effort and induce far more stress. Unfortunately, the preparations for that much longer, more permanent departure are often left undone by everyone involved.

Setting aside any spiritual considerations, there are so many directions that observation can take. Are we discussing the one leaving or those who will be left behind? Is the journey imminent or simply being contemplated as a part of life? If you are the one departing there are matters which only you can finalize. Do you need a will? If so, do you have a will? If not, why in the world not? Are powers of attorney in place so folks can act on your behalf should you reach a point where you no longer can? Have arrangements been made so your family will be able to cover your funeral expenses and any other bills you may have? Those things and so many more can be taken care of if you have the time, but too many people wait until it’s too late to plan, too late to prepare for the inevitable.

Now, if you’re one of those who will be left behind, your preparations will take a completely different path. Your greatest adjustment will come in accepting the inevitable and then finding your way in life after Death comes to call—and honestly, there isn’t much way to prepare for either of those. Unfortunately, depending upon your relationship to the traveler there can be so much more required of you than just coping. There may be a home to empty, paperwork to process, family matters to settle. As a matter of fact, there may be SO MUCH STUFF that you simply get lost in it all.

No one has to travel any of these paths alone. There may be other family members and friends who can make the journey with you. There are professionals who can assist you in every area, whether it’s an insurance agent, attorney, funeral director, or grief counselor. And, although you may not realize it, that last one can help everyone involved, including the one facing Death. If you don’t think that person grieves, too, then you need to think again.

I believed a week would surely be enough time to wrap up loose ends, pack a suitcase or two (disclaimer—the photo accompanying this post is not representative of my luggage), and literally fly away for a week. And I was wrong. Don’t let the most important trip—the truly inevitable trip—catch you by surprise. I knew my plane left at 7:00 AM on Sunday morning. That gift of certainty isn’t ours where Death is concerned. Take the time now to be sure your family isn’t left in a mess when you leave. Take the time now to be prepared.

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Never Looking Back

Thu, 28 Sep 2017 00:38:00 GMT

It was late last Monday when I finally decided the day had been enough and I was heading for home. I made my way across town—which takes all of five minutes—turned on my street and then into my driveway. And there, half way between the street and the house (total driveway length = 2/10 of a mile . . . you can do the math), sat a kitten. My cat radar was on high alert even before I discerned that it was a kitten rather than a possum . . . or a raccoon . . . or a fox . . . or an armadillo . . . all of which inhabit our property. Of course, it helped that it was sitting in such a way that my headlights caught its eyes, giving them that eerie glow that only cat eyes in pitch darkness can produce.

I stopped the van, killed the engine but left the lights on, and got out. Speaking softly and moving slowly, I began my approach, expecting it to dart into the woods at any moment. I could not have been more wrong. The little thing uncurled from its little cat wad, stretched as cats are prone to stretching, and came strolling over to me. There was no fear of humans, no hesitation until I repeatedly proved that I was worthy, just absolute trust . . . and hunger. It jumped into the van so I drove to the top of the hill, took it inside and fed it, all the while muttering over and over, “I can’t have nine cats. No one has nine cats . . . no one except crazy old cat ladies . . .“

Wait a minute . . .

Now, upon a review of the circumstances, I can say without a doubt someone dropped that cat on our property. How can I be so certain? Kindly consider the following evidence: It had no fear of humans so someone had played with this kitten and domesticated it. Anyone who has ever tried to make friends with a feral cat can attest to this. Also, we live in the middle of 42 acres. Nothing just “wanders up” to the middle of 42 acres . . . except Callie Cat who showed up on the back steps at 2:45 one morning. But every rule generally has an exception.

It is especially disturbing to me when someone just dumps an animal or, heaven forbid, animals on someone else’s property. Maybe it makes them feel better; they can convince themselves it will be found and someone will keep it and love it and care for it. They never want to think it will probably end up deceased from any number of causes.

Unfortunately, far too many times people are abandoned, too. Oh, their care may be arranged, but the familiar faces of family are replaced by those of paid caregivers. It’s difficult to fathom how someone can take a parent or a spouse or a sibling, place them in some sort of facility, and just walk away, never to return. Please, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I know there are circumstances where people we love have to enter nursing homes and assisted living facilities simply because their needs have become greater than one person or even a team of people can meet. My issues come when no one ever looks back until time for the funeral—and sometimes not even then.

Are there people in our lives who don’t deserve our time and attention? *sigh* Probably so, but the Golden Rule tells us to “Do unto others as we would have them do unto us,” not as they did. Even if they’re the worst human beings on the planet, the laws in the State of Tennessee still give the legal next-of-kin not only the right but the responsibility to see after the disposition of their remains. If you choose not to, that is certainly your decision, but it’s very helpful if you let everyone know immediately so the proper documents can be executed and we can move on to the next next-of-kin. Otherwise, there’s going to be an awful lot of waiting when somewhere down the kinship line there might be someone not only willing to function, but begging to be allowed to do just that.

So what’s the moral to the story? If for whatever reason there will be no one willing or able to care for you when Death comes to call, kindly find someone outside the line of kinship who will accept the responsibility and make them your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare—and provide the funding so they’ll actually be able to accomplish the mission. You can’t change someone’s willingness or availability to function, but you can certainly make other arrangements when your crystal ball tells you there will be problems in the future.

And by the way . . . if anyone needs a really sweet, rather affectionate kitty, I happen to know of one that might be available . . .

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It’s Always The Little Things

Wed, 20 Sep 2017 22:14:00 GMT

It had been a while since I’d seen him, unless you count the night he was pushing his buggy across the parking lot at Wal-Mart, and that was only from a distance. I remembered thinking about how his wife once made those trips, but her illness and then her death had forced him to shop for himself—just one of many mundane, daily tasks he was now called upon to perform.

On this day business required that we meet—his business, not mine. I was in need of his services so an appointment was made, one I didn’t particularly relish keeping. But in spite of my apprehension, I also looked forward to seeing him. He and his wife had been good friends with my parents for more years than I could possibly remember. Seeing him again reminded me of that friendship and gave us the opportunity not only to visit but to reminisce as well. He recounted tales of my dad I’d never heard and spoke of his admiration for my mother and her insistence that everything always be done just so. I thought of their friendship and the years it had spanned—and how sorrowful my parents would have been at the death of his wife had they not preceded her. She was such a kind soul, gracious and with a true gift for making people comfortable in her presence. The world had grown a little dimmer with her passing and I knew her absence weighed heavily on him.

The time came for me to leave and, just before I headed out the door, I turned and impulsively told him I needed a hug. He wrapped both arms around me, as I did him, and we stood for a moment, I believe each of us drawing comfort from the other over shared losses. As we separated, he looked at me, eyes red with emotion, and said, “It’s the hugs I miss the most. Every morning she’d come down the stairs and hug me before I left for work. I miss those hugs.”

It’s the little things, people. It’s always the little things that mean the most, certainly when you have them, but especially when you don’t.

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War and Peace

Wed, 13 Sep 2017 22:28:00 GMT

This past weekend, little ole Savannah, Tennessee played host to a rather special guest, The Moving Wall. For those of you to whom that name is unfamiliar, it’s a half sized replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.—a replica that’s been traveling across the nation for over 30 years. The powers that be planted it in the Tennessee Street Park, just blocks away from the funeral home, and saw to it that the park remained open around the clock for as long as The Wall was there.

It certainly proved to be a draw. During the day you rarely ever saw a vacant parking place and the park was overflowing with families and folks who came to see something they might otherwise never be able to view. After all, it’s far easier to see a replica in Savannah than the real thing in Washington. At least it is if you live in Hardin County.

I wanted to go, but since I’m an aspiring hermit, I wanted to go when very few other people were there. Besides, it’s hard to photograph something when it’s hiding behind a flock of folks. So I waited. I waited until 10:00 on Saturday night, then, with trusty camera slung over my shoulder, I walked through the park gates and turned left.

The Wall had been installed just a few yards from the main entrance, but leading up to The Wall were banners—five of them, to be exact—that pictured our Hardin Countians who lost their lives during that conflict. Three of them were solemnly posed for the camera, proudly wearing their dress uniforms and looking as though the weight of the world was on their shoulders. One, however, was dressed in his fatigues and grinning from ear to ear. Another was only a grainy shot from combat—a picture that only his family and closest friends would ever have recognized. Their names and dates of birth and death—and their location on The Wall—were included.

I recognized the first name, not because I knew him but because I know his son. We were in band together in high school; I was a woodwind and he a percussionist. Somewhere along the way I had learned of his father’s death, something that was foreign to me for, even though I was raised in a funeral service family, the people we buried did not die in wars. Accidents? Yes. Natural causes? Yes. By their own hand? Sadly, yes. But not wars.

He died in combat in 1966—over 51 years ago—but when the opening day arrived, his family was there. Their pictures were all on Facebook showing them gathered around his banner and laying a wreath beneath his name on Panel 4E, Line 103. I walked to that panel and found him. Then I backed away and took in the full extent of the display. Over 59,000 names were there. Over 59,000 lives that were lost in a war very few people understood but that so many people condemned. And sadly enough, when the survivors returned, they were not accorded the honor and respect their sacrifices demanded. It took years before we as a country began to appreciate the horrors they endured—and began to acknowledge the grief and loss suffered by the families whose loved ones came home in body bags.

It was hard to stand there and contemplate the loss of life that spanned two decades. That war started before I was born and officially ended one year after I graduated from high school. As with any war there were those who rejoiced when their son or daughter, husband or wife, brother or sister, came back to them safely . . . and there were those whose lives were never the same because their family was broken by Death. As I stood there, reading line after line after line, I came to realize just how appropriately named this monument really was.

There is no way to write about war without feeling the despair it brings . . . and for that I apologize. But life and death are almost always painful when they collide, especially in times of war, and sometimes we need to feel that so we can better serve those who have been directly affected. I say that as an introduction to the following quote, a quote I found while researching the Vietnam era for this post. It can be seen on a website called thewall-usa.com and comes from someone who viewed, first-hand, the destructive nature of war, addressed to those who suffered with him.

“If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go. Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have taught with their dying and keep it with your own. And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.” ~ Major Michael Davis O’Donnell, January 1, 1970 while stationed in Dak To, Vietnam

Major O’Donnell is listed as killed in action on February 7, 1978. He died in a helicopter crash in Cambodia at the age of 32. His body was never recovered.

To all those who have ever served and were fortunate enough to survive—but especially to those gentle heroes left behind—thank you.

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Judge, Jury, and Executioner

Thu, 07 Sep 2017 02:10:00 GMT

You see it on Facebook all the time, people who are posting their rant of the day because something somewhere didn’t go to suit them. Occasionally though, you’ll find someone who has tried their best to deal with the mess they’ve been handed but has finally reached their breaking point and Facebook seems the only safe way to vent. And, on even fewer occasions, that venting stems from grief and is directed toward someone who has very little comprehension of the ventor’s suffering . . . but that didn’t stop them from weighing in on the “quality” and “appropriateness” of the other person’s grieving.

So, here’s a news flash—actually, several news flashes. Not everyone who is grieving mopes around and cries every time you talk to them. Not everyone who is grieving is so obsessed with their loss that nothing else matters. Not everyone who is grieving refuses to eat, loses weight, can’t sleep, or withdraws from life. If you’re going to describe grief, the only statement that will hold true in every circumstance is that it’s personal. Grief is different for everyone and that difference is determined by a host of factors including, but most certainly not limited to, your age and prior life experiences, the age of the deceased, the cause of the death, the depth of the relationship, and any residual guilt the survivor may be harboring. And folks, that’s only the beginning.

But some well-meaning individuals—or busy bodies whose noses have a terrible time staying on their faces and out of everyone else’s business (take your pick)—have a need to observe and then condemn. They become the judge by laying out their own set of rules for grieving. As the jury they observe the one who is suffering from loss with the intent of determining their degree of compliance with the aforementioned rules. And when that person—who may already be drowning in a sea of despair—fails to meet their standards, they don the black hood of the executioner and whisper behind their back about their happy face, or stolen moment of joy, or lifestyle after loss. Worse yet, they may confront that struggling soul over what they perceive to be disrespect for the person who has died. So, why don’t we just see if we can make their life even more miserable?

If I sound angry or disturbed—or both—it’s because I am. I have never successfully read anyone’s mind or heart. I have never successfully walked a mile in their shoes and I will never be able to. Many people who are grieving struggle just to function, so when they find a moment where life will allow them to smile, I have no right to condemn it. I don’t know how many other moments passed before that one arrived. If they have the opportunity to enjoy themselves, no matter for how long, I have no right to find fault. I don’t know how many hours they have cried or wrestled with the loneliness. So I have a very difficult time understanding how some people simply cannot understand.

Hopefully the next time you see someone that you know is trudging through grief, you’ll smile with them when they feel they can. Hopefully you’ll be grateful when they find a moment of joy instead of insisting that moment be stifled. Someday when—not if, but when —you are required to travel the same path, you will want that same compassion from others. Just don’t expect it if you aren’t willing to give it.

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Change Your Corner

Wed, 30 Aug 2017 22:54:00 GMT

One of the first things we did when we began renovating the building in Savannah was to move the lounge downstairs. That means the general public no longer has to hike up fifteen steps for a Coke—and the office secretaries no longer have to endure the stomping since the former lounge just happened to be directly over the present office.

The new lounge is much larger and much nicer with a full-sized fridge and a counter dedicated solely to coffee and a separate seating area with an alcove where the vending machines reside. And we added televisions in an effort to provide entertainment for the kids and distractions for the adults. Since the new lounge is basically divided into two rooms—I’ll call them the vending room and the coffee room—we can offer two viewing options. The vending room caters to the kids and is usually playing Disney Junior. The coffee room is geared more toward the adults so we generally have that one tuned to one of the 24/7 news channels. Like folks are not already depressed enough . . .

I usually make at least three trips a day through this oasis, mainly because I run on caffeine. But lately it’s been a depressing journey. It’s as though the whole world is intent upon taking a one way trip to the theological nether regions in the metaphorical hand basket. If it isn’t Hurricane Harvey trying to wash Texas off the map, it’s terrorists trying to take out crowds of people in the most innocent of settings, and if it isn’t terrorists then it’s some crazy person half-way across the globe trying to blow everyone else up—or at least make the rest of us think that’s what’s going to happen. And I can’t help but watch as I stand there, filling my cup to the brim. It’s like the proverbial train wreck. You don’t want to watch but you can’t look away.

The hardest event to fathom—at least for me at this moment—is the devastation in Texas. I cannot begin to imagine the loss and the fear and the grief they must be experiencing and I hope I never have the opportunity to attain that knowledge. The scale is so grand and the thought of recovery so distant—I ’m sure right now survival is the primary if not the only goal for everyone that has been touched by this tragedy. And what can I do? I’m a doer. I fix things . . . or at least I try. But there isn’t a magic wand in the world big enough to erase the damage and the nightmares and the agony of those involved.

Fred Rogers had the answer to that question, or rather his mother did. I’ve said it here before, but today it bears repeating. To quote him directly, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “ Look for the helpers . You will always find people who are helping.” And she was right. In every situation I mentioned earlier, there have been helpers, those people who rushed in with little or no regard for their own wellbeing, because they knew someone was in need. So what can I do? Traveling to Texas doesn’t seem a realistic option although I can send supplies and donate funds. I can’t battle the terrorists of the world or alter the thinking of someone in another country who seems bent on destruction. But I can improve my little corner. There are people I meet every day who are fighting battles of their own, people who may need nothing more from me than a kind word to give them the strength to persevere. If we all focus on changing our little corner—making it better by being better—then we really can make a difference . . . one corner at a time.

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Total Eclipse

Wed, 23 Aug 2017 21:06:00 GMT

Unless you’ve been living under the proverbial rock lately—as in for the last month or so—you might have heard something about a total eclipse that was supposed to occur on Monday, August 21, 2017. Since the path of the eclipse crossed the United States, we had several million people flying in literally from all over the world to watch, at the most, approximately two and a half hours of gradual darkness turning back into gradual normal.

There were eclipse parties and schools that did not convene, little to no productivity at businesses, not to mention all day coverage on the Weather Channel (that’s where I heard the description “total totality” used . . . for real . . . the guy actually said “total totality” . . . I guess that’s opposed to partial totality . . .), and dire warnings about your eyeballs bursting into flames if you looked directly at the sun without special glasses. Said glasses seemed to be available in every shop and on every street corner, but for some unknown reason (probably genetic procrastination), I didn’t get mine until 7:00 PM on Sunday evening, which I tell myself is better than Monday morning.

Beginning about 11:30ish, my daughter and I would periodically mosey out the back door of the building, walk into the parking lot, and turn toward the sun. With glasses in place, we would tilt our heads back and move them around until we finally located the object of our fascination. At least that’s how it went after the first attempt. That time, as I prepared to step off the carport and onto the asphalt of the parking lot, I went ahead and put on my secret spymaster glasses—then promptly walked into the bumper of the hearse. Wearing those things was the equivalent of being totally blind. The only thing—and I mean the ONLY thing—you could see while wearing eclipse glasses was the eclipse. I guess that should have gone without saying.

Since I am constantly looking at life events and equating them to death (‘cause that’s kinda what I do), it occurred to me these spiffy glasses (that are only good for one eclipse since you have to throw them away after three years and the next one isn’t scheduled until 2024) were a perfect analogy for how we treat loss.

You see, too often when we lose someone we love—or much of anything else, for that matter—we focus so much on the loss we can’t see the blessings that are still ours to cherish. For example, when someone’s house burns their first response is always “I’m so glad everyone is all right; I can replace the stuff . . .” but when the initial tide of gratitude begins to ebb, and they look around at the charred remains of their life, it’s impossible not to be overwhelmed by how much is gone. When a parent loses a child with others still at home, it’s a devastating blow that will change them forever. There is no amount of blessing counting that will ever alter that. However, if that parent focuses solely on their loss to the exclusion of those who still remain, the children who survive will lose both a sibling and a parent.

Grief has a way of permeating every area of life, drawing every thought and activity to a fine point—a point that, with laser precision, directs our focus solely on what we have lost. As difficult as it may be, we can’t let it so drastically alter our vision that all we see is what is no longer there.

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The Light In The Window

Wed, 16 Aug 2017 22:14:00 GMT

There are nights when darkness falls and the stars scatter themselves about the sky and I’m still plodding away at my desk because the day has run amok and the night is all I have left to accomplish something. Anything. By that point I’m not too picky.

On this particular day the boys had come by after school . . . or maybe they were just out and about. Time loses its meaning after a while but it was definitely before they all ran away to Memphis. As we started down the service hall—that special place that leads to almost every other room on the main floor of the building—Anderson began jumping with excitement. “Can we go in the secret room? Can we?! Not that secret room but the other secret room? The one with the toys?! Can we!? Please?!?!”

The first secret room, the one Anderson didn’t want, is the lounge. It’s a secret because I showed them how to get in from the hallway instead of going around and using the public entrance. They were amazed and wanted to know how I knew you could do that. Point to remember—young children are easily impressed. The second secret room, the one with the toys, is beyond a door on the other side of the lounge—the one that opens into the remains of what was once my parents’ apartment. Across the landing and up the stairs and you’re in the sitting room that separates two bedrooms, one of which belonged to my brother and one that would have been mine had I not married before the apartment was ready for residing.

They wandered all over the upstairs, playing with what are now vintage toys, using my mother’s recumbent bike that still occupies its appointed spot in the sitting room, and generally being amazed that such a place existed. Then it was time to go and we headed downstairs; they climbed into their trusty van and drove away and I went back to work.

As I backed off the carport much later in the evening, preparing to make my way across town, I happened to glance up at what would have been my bedroom window had I remained single just a tad longer. And the light was on. Well, crap. The cost conscious side of me demanded that I pull back up on the carport, park the van, unlock the door, enter the building, turn off the alarm system, lock the door behind me, walk through the lounge, unlock the door to the apartment, climb the stairs, turn off the light, and repeat the process in reverse. The practical side of me that had worked all day said the light could just burn all night. But before I got down the drive, I stopped and looked back.

Suddenly the realization washed over me that, years ago, this light would have meant someone was at home. Someone was upstairs, preparing for bed or rummaging through the closet hunting tomorrow’s clothes. Someone who had not been there in so very long, but for just a moment, had returned.

I put the van in park but left it running with the lights on (like that was gonna be helpful in case I needed to quickly escape from something), pulled out my camera, and pointed it toward the window. A few pictures later I packed it away and then just stood, looking, remembering the moments of family that light represented . . . the times I still miss on certain days . . . the times I find myself longing for more and more as I grow older.

And then the police pulled up asking what business I had in the funeral home parking lot at that time of night . . .

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Grief Holes

Wed, 09 Aug 2017 21:08:00 GMT

About a hundred years ago, when we lived on Carrington Street, I decided I wanted a rose bed. I’d done my homework and knew what I needed, the first step being the actual bed. So I talked with Dave Hayes who headed our grave crew at the time and asked if he might, on a not much going on at the home kind of day, bring the backhoe to the house and dig out the space for the bed. That seemed like a logical and fairly efficient approach. Then I could fill the hole with top soil and peat moss and all kinds of goodness so my roses would be happy. Kindly keep in mind there weren’t a lot of landscaping services back then and there certainly weren’t Knock-Out Roses that are basically foolproof. Nope. I was going for the spray them with chemicals, watch out for aphids, comes in a plethora of varieties and colors roses—the kind that require about as much attention as a small child.

Dave arrived on the scene, bobcat in tow, and I showed him where I wanted the bed. We discussed the size—length, width, and depth—and he set to work while I went back inside. A bit later he let me know he was through and headed back to the funeral home so I stepped out to view the beginnings of my dream to reality project. Length-wise and width-wise he was right on the money, but that hole was deep enough that all the bags of dirt in Savannah wouldn’t have filled it. If I had jumped into it, I couldn’t have climbed back out. I finally decided he went on autopilot and dug an oversized grave in my side yard.

Every morning I stood at the kitchen window, washing the breakfast dishes and wondering what I was going to do with that hole. Every night I pulled into the driveway from work and looked at that hole as I drove passed, wondering how I was going to fill it. I would walk to the edge and look down. I would contemplate how much dirt and peat moss would be required. Then one day, while standing at the kitchen sink, I noticed all the cats gathered round that hole, contemplating it much as I had done. So I walked outside and joined them, only to find the neighbor’s dog staring up at me.

I had to get a ladder so I could get back out of the hole after I climbed in to rescue him.

At that point I knew, despite how pleased he was with the original effort, I would have to ask Dave to come back and fill in at least half to two thirds of the hole. And he did. And then I bought all the dirt and all the peat moss and all the everything else I needed and put it all together and mixed it up and ended up with the loveliest place to plant roses that one could possibly imagine—except for the fact that our grass was from Bermuda and this wasn’t a raised bed.

Over the months that followed the dirt would settle and I’d add more. The grass would creep across the invisible boundary and I’d reach into the soil to find the roots and rip it out. There was spraying and removing of the dead blooms and winterizing and watering when necessary, and my efforts were rewarded with some beautiful roses. But although Dave and I filled that hole back up, it was never quite the same as it was before he took the bucket to the undisturbed earth.

Today when I scroll through Facebook I see those who have lost someone they loved deeply literally crying out for help because the pain is more than they can bear. They walk into our office and the tears flow uncontrollably. They have these giant holes in their lives, holes dug by loss and grief, and they’re standing there looking at them and not knowing what to do. They just know they need to—they have to—do something to make the pain bearable. When we mention our grief counselor, when we hand them his business card or a SUNRISE brochure, they thank us with the assurance they’ll be all right.

But they just keep staring at the hole.

There is absolutely no shame or weakness in admitting you need help. If anything, it is a sign of strength to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, you can’t conquer the world by yourself. Please, please, please , if you are struggling with loss, call our grief counselor, David Coy, at the number on our website. Or call us and we’ll give you David’s number, or we’ll call David and ask him to call you. If you know someone who is staggering under the weight of grief, share this information with them. There is no charge for his services and no time limit as to how long or how often you can utilize them. Slowly but surely, he can help fill that hole in ways you cannot accomplish on your own. Will life ever be the same again? No. I never claimed he was a miracle worker. But like my hole turned rose bed, he can help you change the character of the loss so that one day, when you contemplate what was once a vast, empty space, you’ll see hope instead of heartache.

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A Time To Mourn

Wed, 02 Aug 2017 21:19:00 GMT

I opened my email on a Sunday afternoon to find one from a business friend of mine, odd timing to say the least since he never emailed on weekends. But the subject line caught my attention far quicker than the 11:11 AM time stamp – “Loss of my son . . .”

He falls into the category of business friend because that’s how the friendship began. You know, you have school friends and church friends and work friends and all different types of friendships, depending upon how and where that friendship began. Ours started as a business relationship that morphed into a friendship as the years passed. Calls that once consisted only of a professional update began including conversations about work and family, politics and world news—those topics which are often discussed among friends. Will I ever go to his house for supper? Nope. Will he ever come to mine? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean the bond of friendship isn’t there.

His email was heartbreaking and I cannot begin to imagine the strength it took to compose. In a tragic, unforeseeable accident, the life of his firstborn had been taken. Very few details were provided, but the details were frankly none of our business. Those of us on the receiving end were advised of the death, given the funeral arrangements, and told when he would be back in the office. The time frame seemed so short and between each line I could feel the anguish of a father preparing to say goodbye to his son.

A few days later a mutual friend told of a conversation they’d had. In 48 hours there had been a trip to Jackson, Mississippi to sign paperwork so the body could be released—something a phone call would have accomplished. There had been a stop at his home to gather his personal belongings and then the trip to the funeral home to make the necessary arrangements, not to mention time spent at work tying up some loose ends. In other words, our friend was busy with the busyness of death. He was dealing with all the activity required by death but not with the loss, using that activity to stifle the pain. And my friend was concerned for our friend. No time was being taken to process the loss, and we both knew Death would demand his due. If the time was not given now it would most assuredly be demanded at some point in the future.

All of us have methods of coping with the unpleasant and traumatic events of life. For me it’s cleaning or playing hours of Text Twist. If I’m cleaning I’m physically distracted from the problem and exhausted when I finish; if I’m playing I‘m mentally focused or I’m starting over ‘cause I didn’t get the six letter word. For my friend, staying busy kept him from thinking and feeling. It kept the pain at bay but that also meant it delayed the onset of grief. When we do that, when we push grief aside and immerse ourselves in avoidance, we only delay the inevitable. Take the time, mourn the loss, feel the pain. Cry when you need to and never make excuses for the grief you are bearing. As I told my friend when he called several days after the service, there will always be bad days; they will just be farther and farther apart as time passes—but only if you allow yourself to grieve now.

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Groundhog Day

Wed, 26 Jul 2017 22:23:00 GMT

If you’ve seen the movie “Groundhog Day” then you can skip this paragraph and the next one and go straight to the analogy beginning in paragraph three. If you’ve never seen the movie, or it’s been a while, or you just wanna see how I spin it, then I would recommend continuing. To summarize (for those of you who are described by the second sentence), T.V. weatherman Phil Connors (aka Bill Murray) finds himself stuck in a time loop on Groundhog Day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, where he has reluctantly (to say the least) gone to cover the Groundhog Day festivities. Each morning he awakens to the radio playing Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” and the pronouncement that it is February 2 ^nd . . . Groundhog Day. While trying to escape from this twilight zone, he discovers there are actually no consequences for any actions he might take—because no matter what he does, he will always wake up on February 2 ^nd to “I Got You Babe” blaring from the clock radio.

The one advantage to this otherwise terrible ordeal is that Phil remembers everything from his prior February 2nds. No one else seems to be aware of the repetitions except Phil who eventually figures out how to use his advance knowledge for good, saving a few townsfolk in the process and cementing a romantic relationship with lovely Rita who is not a meter maid but rather the news producer played by Andie MacDowell. In the end, Phil gets the girl and finally wakes up on February 3 ^rd .

It’s a cute plot with an actual moral at the end but we all know that’s the magic of movies and not reality. Or is it? Believe it or not, there are people who must repeatedly address the same issues on an almost daily basis, and those issues are never pleasant. Take, for example, the daughter who learned her mother, who suffers from dementia, had stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Being quite elderly and unable to make her own medical decisions due to her deteriorating mental condition, her family elected not to pursue treatment but to keep her comfortable and as pain-free as possible. The news was broken as gently as it could be and, although it was difficult to comprehend, there seemed to be a measure of understanding on the part of her mother. There were tears and hugs and reassurances and the day drew to a close. But the next morning her mother questioned why she felt so bad and what the doctors had said and what could they do so she could feel better. And again the diagnosis was shared and again there seemed to be comprehension . . . and tears . . . and hugs and reassurances. But the next day the questions came again . . . and the day after that and the day after that.

Eventually her daughter decided it was enough. In fact, it was too much, too hard to continually relive the pain of telling her mother that she was terminally ill. For her it was a constant reminder of the loss she was facing but for her mother it was always fresh and raw and devastating. So when the same questions continued to arise, rather than offer yet another explanation of her illness, her daughter chose to remind her that she was, after all, over 90. She wasn’t going to feel like she did years before. And with that her mother was satisfied and the daughter finally escaped her own torturous Groundhog Day.

It is difficult to share the journey toward death with someone you love, even more so when they are incapable of grasping that the journey is theirs and that the destination is in sight—and constantly having to pull out the map and review the route will take its toll on even the strongest person. There comes a time when the map should be folded (as best one can fold a map) and put away so the scenery can be enjoyed. Because you see, like the good citizens of Punxsutawney, being blissfully unaware of the future allows one to enjoy the present.

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Pat and Becky

Thu, 20 Jul 2017 01:23:00 GMT

Every once in a while, I venture down to Florence, Alabama, and when I go I always pass the house that once belonged to Arthur Patrick and Rebecca O’Kelly Rogers, my great uncle and aunt on my mother’s side. It was a small, white frame house, surrounded by the fields that Uncle Pat farmed for years, neatly maintained by Aunt Becky and always welcoming. As a child I made the trip with a great deal more frequency since the only place my mother could find clothes to fit my toothpick-sized brother was Rogers Department Store in Florence. If we behaved (which you know we always did . . .), there was a trip to the soda fountain at Woolworth’s afterwards. That’s where I developed my life-long love of vanilla sodas. But I digress, as I so often do.

If summer was drawing to an end and school clothes were required, we would return to Savannah with a trunk full of watermelons, graciously loaded by Uncle Pat from the ginormous pile that rested beneath the oak in their front yard. Aunt Becky would always invite us in, always offer her hospitality, and always seem genuinely happy to see us. She was slight of frame with her graying hair pulled back in a bun, a direct contrast to my uncle who seemed to tower over me. They were good, hard-working country people who spent a lifetime in the same place and never strayed far from each other. Times had not always been easy and they had borne more than their share of heartache with the loss of four of their grandchildren to a house fire in September of 1941. Three of them died as a direct result of the fire. Their daughter was pregnant with the fourth and lost him as a result of the trauma. Although Myrtle and her husband went on to have another son and three more daughters, I knew the loss of her first family had to weigh heavily on them, and there would always be reminders of the children and their fate, but Pat and Becky never allowed their pain or their grief to make them angry or bitter. If anything, I think it must have made them kinder . . . gentler . . . and closer than they already were.

They had been married almost 71 years when Aunt Becky died on November 10, 1986; Uncle Pat grieved himself to death, following her on January 3, 1987. I remember him leaving the cemetery after her body was committed to the earth, a daughter to each side, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief as he crossed the grounds. I knew then it would only be a short time before he joined her. They had never been apart for very long.

Every time I drove to Florence, I passed the road to Macedonia Cemetery, and every time I told myself I was going to turn right. A little over a month ago I finally did. It was a winding country road that led to another winding country road—but fortunately for my directionally challenged self, there were signs pointing to the church that sat next to the cemetery. It took a bit of searching but I finally found their resting place, marked by a monument of pink granite. Standing there, I read their names and dates of birth and death—and marveled at what I knew lay beneath my feet and how strongly I felt their presence. They were a part of my history, a history I didn’t fully appreciate until long after they were gone. Whenever I would take the kids to Florence, I would note the church where their funerals were held. I would always call attention to the little, white frame house and tell them of their great-great aunt and uncle. It may be my history, but it is theirs, too. And I wanted them to know that history.

As I stood in the cemetery that day I was humbled by the people they had been and the life they had lived, and saddened because I wanted to know so much more. The years melted away, and at that moment, more than anything else, I wanted to spend time with them again—time to listen . . . time to learn . . . time to understand and appreciate the value of their presence in my life.

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And So It Ends

Wed, 12 Jul 2017 22:27:00 GMT

I have written this in my head at least a thousand times over the last month, a snippet here, a paragraph there, but I never got very far because, if I ever finished it, then it would be real. If I didn’t there was always hope something might change.

But come Saturday morning, July 15, 2017, my son and daughter-in-law and their three children—my grandchildren—will pack up the bulk of their worldly possessions and head to Memphis where, after a literal lifetime in Savannah, they will take up residence. My daughter-in-law will continue teaching high school English. My son will exit funeral service and enter insurance, and my grandchildren will enroll in a new school and a new day care—and live two and a half hours away instead of two and a half minutes.

For 35 years, with the exception of college, Joseph has been within minutes of me. For the last eight, my grandson Wilson has been equally close . . . as has Anderson for six and Cora for two. That all ends this Saturday. Suddenly, what never seemed likely is not only possible but absolutely, undeniably real. I always tried to teach Joseph to be his own person, to make his own decisions, but now that he’s chosen to practice what I preached I find myself wishing I hadn’t done such a good job.

Before I continue being all pitiful, there are a few things I want to clarify. I am eternally grateful they will only be in Memphis and not Alaska or Australia or some other too far for me to drive in a day destination. I am eternally grateful they are all alive and well and that this isn’t good-bye but see you later. But I’m spoiled. I’m accustomed to gathering at La Potosina every Sunday night and then taking the boys home, shooting basketball with Wilson and playing Hide-and-Seek in the house or a rousing round of Trampoline Tripping where I sit in the middle and the boys run in circles while I try to catch them and tickle them mercilessly. I love the surprise visits after school when the boys beg to use the paper cutter and typewriter or roll down the upstairs ramp and play in the selection room (and no, they aren’t allowed in the caskets)–or when I’m called upon to fetch Cora from day care and her face lights up when I walk through the door. But this has been a week of lasts—the last Sunday night to take them home, the last game of Hide and Seek where Cora and I secret ourselves in the closet under the stairs and Anderson runs around like a little maniac asking everyone if they’ve seen Mona. Friday will be Joseph’s last day at work. After a dozen plus years he will exit the building with no plans to return as a Shackelford employee.

The community has definitely been abuzz with speculation as to why they are leaving. Some say we’ve sold the businesses (I asked to whom and how much did we get . . . and why am I still here?). Some say we are planning to sell the businesses so he got while the gettin’ was good (an equally false assumption on the part of the general public). How ‘bout working with your family . . . ALL of your family . . . is tough even on good days? How ‘bout maybe Joseph wants to be Joseph instead of my father reincarnated? How ‘bout there are a whole host of reasons that have nothing to do with an allegedly disappearing job and everything to do with wanting to improve life for yourself and your family while doing it on your own terms?

Life and death will continue as they always have—and we will continue to do what we’ve always done—try to care for the families who come through our doors to the best of our abilities. I just won’t be seeing the flashes of my father as frequently as I once did. We won’t have Joseph’s deft hand in the prep room or his reassuring ways with the families, but we have other equally qualified, equally good, compassionate folks who work with us. They just aren’t my son.

I’m told I will be the designated munchkin chauffeur this Saturday, so in just a few days I’ll be loading up the grandkids and carrying them two and a half hours away—and permanently leaving them there. In just a few weeks the house to which I’ve routinely traveled to serve as babysitter and playmate will be occupied by strangers. The world will not end and life will go on. It’s just going to be very, very different. And I’m just selfish enough that I don’t like that kind of different . . . especially when it turns my world upside down.

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Through No Fault of Their Own

Wed, 05 Jul 2017 21:34:00 GMT

I blamed the Bunny Bread man. If he hadn’t parked where he did, she would have seen the oncoming traffic. If she had seen the oncoming traffic, she wouldn’t have pulled out. If she hadn’t pulled out, he wouldn’t have hit her. And if he hadn’t hit her, she wouldn’t have died.

He called the evening of her visitation and I was the one who answered the phone—he being the gentleman who hit her, not the Bunny Bread man. He didn’t know what to do. She had pulled out in front of him and there simply wasn’t time to stop. He tried—he really tried—but he just couldn’t stop. He wanted her family to know that. He wanted them to understand how much he regretted his part in her death. He wanted to talk to them, to explain how it all came about. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat.

And every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—the face that, in the split second before impact, looked up at him in horror when she realized what she had done.

You never know how families will feel about a person who directly, but through no fault of their own, causes the death of someone they love. There can be forgiveness and mercy and understanding or there can be anger and hatred and bitterness. There can also be a combination of it all. I didn’t know which family this was and I couldn’t subject them—or him—to that kind of uncertainty. If all went well then everyone would benefit, but if it didn’t then a terrible situation would just be that much worse.

I suggested he send them a letter, a letter that expressed his condolences and his deepest regrets over the situation. If he wanted to he could include his phone number so they could contact him should they choose. By giving him a means of speaking to her family without directly confronting them, it was as though I had given him a glimmer of hope. He was grateful and hung up saying he would do that . . . he could do that . . . that’s what he was going to do. I don’t know if he ever did, and if he did I don’t know how her family responded.

There were two other pieces of information I imparted before ending the conversation—the name of our grief counselor and his phone number. Although we expect those who have suffered a loss to grieve, I’m not sure we always realize those who may have accidentally brought about that loss will suffer as well. This man was so guilt-ridden he had ceased to function; the normal activities of life were impossible for him. He was literally haunted by the person whose death he brought about and was grasping for anything— anything —that might provide some relief from the overwhelming knowledge that he was directly responsible for her death. The fact that it was an accident over which he had no control didn’t matter. The end result was the same.

We must be careful when we decide to judge someone in these circumstances, especially if we’re leaning toward a guilty verdict. I had a hard enough time when I hit a raccoon on the way home from work; I cannot even begin to imagine how it would feel to take a human life—and I hope I never do. Through no fault of their own, that person’s life will be changed forever . . . and not in a good way. In situations such as this—when the death is truly an unavoidable accident—we should be as kind and compassionate to the person responsible as we are to the family who suffered the loss. Forgiving yourself is extremely difficult when the rest of the world refuses to follow suit.

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The Guilt of Feeling Guilty

Wed, 28 Jun 2017 16:48:00 GMT

It was late in the evening. As best I remember, the sun had set and I was at home when my cell phone rang. The appointed keeper of the funeral home phones was calling to give me a number . . . a number that belonged to a very distraught individual who was presently standing in one of the cemeteries we own, demanding to speak with “the person in charge”. I always hate it when they use those words. It generally means I’m gonna get an earful and that’s never pleasant.

I wrote down the number, changed the settings on my phone so it didn’t show mine, took a deep breath, and called. I’m not sure it even rang one complete time before he answered and proceeded to complain loudly because the flowers he’d left just a few days before were now gone. He knew there were rules about flowers on the ground and he understood it made mowing more difficult, but there’d just been so much and he hadn’t had time to buy a monument. He just couldn’t bring himself to do that right now but he was going to just as soon as he could but he just thought surely we could leave them for a few more days . . .

And then he stopped. He stopped and I heard him sobbing—sobbing while seated on the graves of his wife and daughter in the middle of the cemetery as darkness fell. His daughter had overdosed, his wife had died of cancer. The first was a shock, the second expected—and one within just a few weeks of the other. As he sat there crying he kept saying over and over, “I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t protect her. I’m her dad and I’m supposed to keep her safe but I couldn’t.”

I have never wanted to wrap my arms around someone so much in all my life, but that’s a little impossible when you’re nine miles apart. We talked for a while, me assuring him I knew he’d done everything he possibly could and him sharing the lengths to which he had gone to try and save her. Me telling him he couldn’t force her to accept the lifelines he offered and, as hard as it was, reminding him the final decisions were hers—and him assuring me he knew that, but he didn’t feel that. As the conversation began to wane, I offered to contact our grief counselor and have him call, but he declined. He just needed to talk. He just needed someone to listen. He thanked me but thought he would be ok. And with those words we parted and I just hoped he really meant it. The next morning we found his flowers and placed them back on the graves—with a note to ourselves that sometimes there should be exceptions to rules.

Death and Grief walk hand in hand. When Guilt joins the party the road to adjustment just gets that much longer and that much harder. Not only must the loss be acknowledged and eventually accepted but there is also the perception that we are somehow responsible for the death of another human being—a human being about whom we cared deeply. The fact that there may be no truth in that perception is meaningless. As long as we believe it, that’s all that matters.

I’m not going to tell you that guilt is easily dismissed, because it isn’t. I’m not going to tell you that time will bring about a new perspective, because it may not. I am going to tell you that guilt can never be bottled up and held in secret in the hope that, if you don’t acknowledge it, it will just go away. That doesn’t work for an ostrich and it won’t work for you. If ever there is a time to literally talk something to death, it comes when guilt rears its ugly head. Sharing your feelings with those you trust will allow them to offer the reassurance that you aren’t the root of all the evil, and over time that thought can replace the overwhelming feelings of failure—as long as you are willing to forgive yourself for being human.

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Cleaning and Scrubbing

Wed, 21 Jun 2017 22:39:00 GMT

“Cleaning and scrubbing can wait ‘till tomorrow, for babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow. So quiet down cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep. I’m rocking my baby, and babies don’t keep.”

I have always loved that poem, especially when my little ones were little. It was like some random poet was giving me permission to ignore the mess, at least until the dust bunnies threatened to carry us away in the middle of the night. But one Sunday morning, that verse took on a whole new meaning.

We were singing the last song—for which we are all required to stand (I guess it gives us a head start on getting out of the building and finding lunch . . . and makes certain we are still awake)—and I was doing my usual survey of my surroundings when my eyes fell on her. She was just a few feet away; we both occupy front row seats but in different sections. As she stood with her visiting daughter to one side and her ailing husband seated on the other, I noticed she wasn’t singing. She always sings. Without fail. It’s one of the reasons they changed locations in the auditorium. They couldn’t see the screen very well and that’s where the words to the songs always appeared . . . as well as the Power Point for the sermon. But you can listen to a sermon without visual aids; it’s really hard to sing a song if you don’t know the words. As I watched, her hand moved to her face, brushing away something just below her eyes, and I knew. It’s also hard to sing when you’re crying.

When that final song ended and the final prayer was said, I made a bee-line for her pew, wrapped my arms around her, and asked if she was all right. The floodgates briefly opened as she lamented the fact that her daughter had to help her clean her house. She had never had anyone clean her house. She had always done it herself. But now she couldn’t. Her husband’s declining health required most of her time and attention—and when she wasn’t focused on him she was simply too physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted to even think about cleaning.

We talked for a few minutes with me telling her it was her children’s time to step up and pay for their raisin’, to return the favor for all those long nights of worry and years of tender, loving care. I also told her to milk it for all it was worth. Maybe she could even get them to paint the house and mow the yard and plant a garden. She laughed—which was my goal—and I moved away to allow other, equally observant congregants to speak with her.

But her words echoed in my mind; I knew her distress didn’t stem from an inability to clean her house or the steady rotation of children coming to help. Her anguish grew from everything she had lost and the uncertainty of a very certain future. The man upon whom her life had centered for sixty plus years was no longer the man she had married. Slowly but surely he was becoming her fifth child, the victim of a disease that was stealing his memory and would eventually steal the life they had enjoyed together. The day would come when she would have all the time in the world to clean and scrub and do pretty much anything else she wanted. And she knew that. She just didn’t know when.

How does one acknowledge grief when the tangible evidence of what you’ve lost is still very much alive? It doesn’t seem logical to grieve the loss of someone who’s sitting right next to you. But if anyone ever believed that grief made sense then I have some ocean front property in Arizona I’d like to sell them. Loss is a master of disguise, appearing in so many different shapes and sizes that it is often unrecognizable when it arrives—and that arrival is often long before the advent of death itself.

So guess what? There are more important things in life than clean houses—unless you encounter mutant dust bunnies. There are times when the everyday routines must take a back seat to the more pressing demands of life . . . like caring for someone you love. When those days come and you look around and see all that must be left undone, just remember . . .

Cleaning and scrubbing can wait ‘till tomorrow . . .

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Happy Father’s Day, Dad

Wed, 14 Jun 2017 23:13:00 GMT

Sunday morning ministers across the nation will mount their pulpits to address the fathers in attendance. They will encourage them to assume or continue to fill their leadership roles in the family. They will remind them that they are the heads of their respective households, the spiritual guardians and the providers of all necessities—and that they best see to it they fill these God-given roles.

Have you noticed the difference between that message and the one that’s spread on Mother’s Day? Where mothers are applauded for what they do, fathers are often lamented for what they don’t. Although that message probably does apply to a select few, most of us are blessed with dads who get it and are doing the best they can to meet all the parental requirements—and usually managing to do it in their own unique way. So, in recognition of the upcoming recognition, I’d like to ask for your momentary indulgence. If I may, I’d like to introduce you to my dad—a man everyone knew as the quintessential undertaker but also a man who often took that “unique” thing to a whole new level (including, but certainly not limited to, making the office secretary promise she’d tell us we had to play Sinatra’s version of “My Way” at his funeral). And someone I miss more and more every day.

To the best of my recollection, Dad had three hobbies: working, flying, and price shopping for gas. That last one did, on occasion, result in us being stranded since a few pennies could be saved if we just made it to fill-in-the-blank station. One such time was on a country road in the middle of nowhere coming back from the committal service of my aunt’s father. The needle had dropped far below E but he drove right passed the only station between us and town because he’d seen a lower price somewhere else. If not for the kindness of a nearby farmer, we’d probably still be sitting on the side of the road.

His love of flying was a practice not necessarily confined to airplanes. Once he took his 1983 Datsun (1983 because any car worth having had to be at least 10 years old and have 100,000 miles on it) to the mechanic, complaining of a weird noise coming from the engine, a noise the mechanic never heard . . . until he let Dad drive. He came back assuring the others at the shop that my dad was right. You started hearing it up around 80.

I’m sure there were many times he cried in his life, but I only saw three—four if you count when he took us to see “Blazing Saddles” (after which he immediately apologized for having done so . . . with tears of laughter still streaming down his cheeks). The first was over a cat we owned that managed to dart in front of the wrong car after church one morning. We lived right across the street from a rather large congregation and the person probably never even knew they hit her. One of the members offered to provide a name but Dad didn’t want to know. He was afraid it would change how he felt about someone who was probably a friend and that friendship was more important than the knowledge. The second time was at the death of a child—a child he didn’t know who died of sepsis. He stood at her casket as he waited for her parents to arrive, touching up the make-up that covered the evidence of her illness and wiping away his tears with the ever present handkerchief that resided in his back pocket. The third was at the death of his brother.

My father could converse with anyone about anything and for years I thought it was because he knew something about everything, but I finally figured out that wasn’t the case at all. He just knew how to listen. As a matter of fact, he spent an enormous amount of time doing just that—unless you disagreed with him on some point he deemed to be extremely important. Then he would debate you into submission. His ability to listen and his qualities as a professional and a person were attributes recognized by his peers—recognition that placed him in several positions of leadership on the state, national, and international level. Not bad, my mother used to say, for someone from a small town in West Tennessee who stood in the corner at social gatherings with his arms folded behind his back.

Everyone’s well-being came before his own. He was always last in line at church fellowship meals and the first one to grab a wet cloth and start wiping down the tables when everyone finished eating because, above all, he was a servant. My father, like bazillions of other fathers in this world, was perfectly imperfect. And despite all his eccentricities and imperfections, he loved us and sacrificed for us and was by far the greatest man I have ever known—and I’d bet every penny I have that almost any other child I asked would say the exact same thing about their dad.

So this Sunday, if you attend church and the minister starts discussing fatherly responsibilities and how every dad should strive diligently to fulfill them (implying that perhaps they are not already engaged in that practice), think of your own and know that, in spite of all their imperfections, they love or loved you unconditionally. If you are blessed enough to still have them with you, realize it will not always be that way and honor them for the sacrifices they quietly and willingly make. And if you no longer have your father physically in your life, be grateful he was yours for a while, and know that you are who you are in large part because of him.

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Ninja Undertakers

Wed, 07 Jun 2017 22:01:00 GMT

Honestly, I don’t know a funeral director in this world who springs out of bed in the middle of the night and, with ninja-like speed, throws on his or her clothes and dashes out the door on a death call. As a matter of fact, it’s probably more like they roll over, stare at the ceiling for a minute or two, then slowly push the covers aside, and stumble around in the dark trying to find their shoes before exiting the house. Granted, in some metropolitan areas there may be people who are hired strictly to do the night work, who are ready to go at the ring of the phone, but in rural areas the people who work all day are generally the ones who may also be called upon to work all night.

I’ve answered my fair share of late night calls over the years, especially before the days of call forwarding and cell phones. Back when I was a young whippersnapper (you can drench that in sarcasm if you’d like), I had to move into my parents’ apartment and sleep in their bed so I could be next to the phone in case it rang. We did have two employees who actually had land lines for our primary number that ran to their houses. They would plug in the phone when it was necessary for them to answer it. But most of the time, I just temporarily changed addresses. That was especially important when the funeral home also operated the local ambulance service. I remember waking up one night half-way through a phone call with the highway patrol. They were giving me directions to a wreck . . . directions I was actually writing down . . . and which I insisted upon reading back to them since I had absolutely no idea what I had heard or if my subconscious had accurately recorded it.

Fortunately, I’ve never had to actually get up, get functional, get dressed, and leave the house to drive to some place I may never have been and speak coherently with people I may not know who have suffered a loss I may not be able to comprehend. That’s why I so admire and appreciate the people who work with us and do that on a regular basis—sometimes all night long. That’s why it’s so important that you be absolutely certain when you call the recorded obituary line at 3:00 in the morning that you’re actually calling the recorded obituary line and not our for-real, answered by a living, breathing, probably asleep human being number. There are a great many funeral homes, large and small, rural and metropolitan, that have enlisted the aid of an answering service for after- hours calls, but not Shackelfords. Nope. We still roll over and answer that phone, no matter the time of night.

Believe it or not, funeral directors do actually sleep. They go home at 5:00 PM, if the work allows. And they stay away from the building on Sundays if there are no families with which to meet, or funerals to work, or calls to make. So if you dial our number at 7:00 on a Friday night to see if your burial dues needs to be paid, there’s a real good chance we aren’t going to be able to answer your question. If you call at 2:00 AM asking “who y’all got down there”, we hope you’ll understand if we don’t sound real happy to hear from you. If you decide to pay us an unexpected visit after 5:00 PM or on a Sunday, please don’t be surprised if you find the door is locked, the lights are out, and no one answers when you ring the bell.

I guess the whole point of this rambling missive is to remind everyone that funeral directors are people, too. They eat and sleep—although not always without interruption. They have families of their own with whom they enjoy spending time—when work doesn’t call them away. They have feelings that can be hurt when families are distressed by circumstances over which we have no control, and they ache for the people who must pass through our doors because they know they can help . . . but they cannot heal the pain of loss. Still, they get dressed every morning—and sometimes at night—and come to work with no idea of what the day might hold, but prepared to do whatever is asked of them. So maybe the next time you run into a funeral director, you could smile and shake their hand and say thank you. And when they ask for what, just say “Everything”.

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We Choose Love

Wed, 31 May 2017 22:31:00 GMT

“We lost him in a senseless act that brought close to home the insidious rift of prejudice and intolerance that is too familiar, too common. He was resolute in his conduct (and) respect of all people. In his final act of bravery, he held true to what he believed is the way forward. He will live in our hearts forever as the just, brave, loving, hilarious and beautiful soul he was. We ask that in honor of his memory, we use this tragedy as an opportunity for reflection and change. We choose love.”

So read the statement of Namkai Meche’s sister, a statement issued in response to his death at the hands of another—a death that came about because he chose to protect someone he’d never met from the violence perpetrated by a madman.

It is not my intention to discuss the events as they occurred or to even comment on the situation of our world as a whole or our country specifically. That’s not why I’m here and that’s not what this blog is about. What I do want to note is his family’s reaction to his untimely and unnecessary death.

“We ask that in honor of his memory, we use this tragedy as an opportunity for reflection and change. We choose love.”

It would be so easy to be bitter, to be filled with hate and anger over this young man’s senseless death, but his family has chosen to at least attempt a higher road. Despite their best efforts and intentions, there will be moments when hate and anger will win, but by publicly professing a stance far removed from those emotions, they have shown the world a better way. They have also told Death he does not win.

Whenever loss comes suddenly and violently, those who survive have a choice, often a choice they don’t even realize they are required to make. They can respond in kind, reflecting the attitudes and actions that took their loved one, or they can choose love and try to turn a tragedy into a lesson—and then into an act.

By choosing love they have also accomplished one other, very important feat. They have denied profound grief a permanent home. By choosing to respond positively to their loss, the anger and the bitterness and the hatred that could so easily infest their lives will not be allowed to poison their souls. That choice will allow them to adjust and to move forward. When Death comes violently, choosing love rather than hate takes away the power of the person responsible; their actions no longer control the lives of those who are left behind. Instead, those who choose love choose to respect the memory of the one who was tragically taken. They choose to honor the life lost by embracing their own.

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A Day To Remember

Wed, 24 May 2017 22:31:00 GMT

This coming Monday is officially Memorial Day, the glorious ending to a slightly extended weekend that for years has marked the beginning of summer, even though summer is still a ways away. There’ll be grilling and picnicking and bar-be-queing and all sorts of frivolity—but in the course of all the fun, maybe we need to pause and remember.

This day didn’t start out as a celebration. It began in 1868 when the Grand Army of the Republic, an organization of Union veterans, determined that on this day they would decorate the graves of those Union soldiers who died in battle. The South had their own traditions, observed at their own time, but as the years passed the traditions merged and all Americans who gave their lives in service to their country were honored. Those observances gave birth to the holiday’s original name, Decoration Day—a name that was widely used until 1882. Even then, the designation “Memorial Day” did not become common until after World War II. And it was always celebrated on May 30 ^th , no matter on what day of the week that might fall.

But the powers that be saw fit to take advantage of the holiday, along with three others, to create the long weekend we have all grown to know and love. The Uniform Monday Holiday Act , passed on June 28, 1968, issued a change of address for the observance, moving it from May 30 ^th to the last Monday in May. And thus was born the three-day weekend.

Although the vast majority of Americans are probably thrilled with their upcoming day off, some veterans’ organizations aren’t so much. Their objection might seem difficult to comprehend, but their argument may be valid. By taking a day meant to honor those who sacrificed themselves for the greater good and using it as an opportunity to legitimately miss work, they feel the true meaning has been lost. To quote the Veterans of Foreign Wars in their 2002 Memorial Day Address:

“Changing the date merely to create three-day weekends has undermined the very meaning of the day. No doubt, this has contributed a lot to the general public’s nonchalant observance of Memorial Day.”

So, are they right? Have the smell of meat on the grill and the beckoning of the lake or pool pushed the true meaning of the day from our minds? Sadly, for many the answer is yes. We forget that we have this day because there were men and women who died in service to our country. Pay attention to that, please. This day honors those soldiers who died while on active duty, not those who served and survived. Their recognition comes on Veterans Day. We forget those families who sent their sons and daughters and husbands and wives and brothers and sisters into battle, praying for a safe return that never came.

If you truly want to understand the meaning of our upcoming holiday—and you’re close enough to a national military cemetery—I suggest you take a walk through the grounds. Move slowly and read the inscriptions on the monuments there. If you’re at Shiloh you’ll find the majority of the graves for those killed in action during the battle are marked with only a number. If their names were known they were never inscribed on the stones that stand row after row after row, gleaming in the sunlight or resting beneath the sweeping boughs of ancient cedars, bearing silent witness to the horrors of war and the loss it brings.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with an extra day of relaxation, of fun with family and friends. But at some point this Monday—perhaps as the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon and the festivities wind down—please take a moment to reflect. Think about those who gave all so you can enjoy the day—and hope that future generations will not be called upon to do the same.

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