It's how you finish

On Tuesday of last week many members of our family converged on the Atlanta area to pay respects at the funeral of my Aunt Linda.

It was a typical summer day, more or less stifling, if not strictly in temperature then certainly in humidity.

Pop-up thunderstorms wandered wetly across our paths continually, both while traveling and for the hours we spent in Atlanta.

Her service was held at the church she attended.

TG and I did not make it to her visitation the night before, at the funeral home, but by all reports it was a crowded affair. My aunt touched many people.

The family convened in an area apart from the church's main meeting room before the funeral on Tuesday, and that was crowded too. I saw folks I hadn't laid eyes on in forty years.

My aunt's grandson, Nathan, was the main speaker for the service and he did such an excellent job. I hope when I'm gone, my grandson will eulogize me half as lovingly as Nathan praised his Mamaw.

And I hope he'll be telling the truth, as Nathan was.

Nathan could have said lots more nice things about her, but he was bound by time constraints.

My cousin Deg, Aunt Linda's only son, had prepared some remarks but, after reading a few sentences, he found himself unable to continue.

Deg handed his paper to his nephew Nathan and left the platform to be comforted by his wife and sisters.

Nathan delivered Deg's remarks with just the right amount of respect, pathos, and humor.

What Aunt Linda's son had written about his mother were poignant reminiscences of the kind that only grown-up children remember at such times.

She was a sweet and devoted mother.

At one point a bit of family lore was revealed to those in attendance who didn't already know it: Aunt Linda's first baby, my cousin Donna, came along nine months and three days after Aunt Linda's wedding to Uncle Don.

"Those three days were always very important to Mamaw," Nathan said. 

It was a relief to laugh through our tears.

But the best part came at the end.

My aunt's pastor, who had consulted with Aunt Linda on every detail of her funeral service, read some Scripture passages that she had wanted us to hear.

Then he explained that the next and final thing that would happen had been specifically requested -- insisted upon, actually -- by my aunt.

We were asked to stand and, when we did, three musicians emerged from the wings.

I knew instantly what was about to take place.

They were a Dixieland jazz ensemble and, coming down the center aisle to lead the family out of the church, they struck up a rousing rendition of When the Saints Go Marching In.

You know, like they do for funerals down in New Orleans. All loosey-goosey-like, with the clarinet just wailing.

My aunt in the final moments of her service wanted to be true to her Louisiana roots, and she wanted those she counted as loved ones and friends to leave that place not grieving, but rejoicing.

She accomplished both. Everybody was clapping and singing and smiling. My Uncle Dody waved a handkerchief as he did a little jig beside my mother, his only remaning sibling.

They're bookends now: the oldest and the youngest. It is as hard for me to imagine saying goodbye to one of them, as I know it has been for them to say goodbye to their brother and sister.

Once in the lobby, Dody grabbed the hands of Aunt Linda's great-granddaughter Bella, and began to dance her around.

Naturally I was brandishing the camera but I managed to keep up. The band continued to play songs like I'll Fly Away and Just A Closer Walk With Thee.

Aunt Linda would have loved it. I can just see the light in her eyes and hear her laughter, see the way she would have clapped her hands and tapped her foot.

Because she did something at the conclusion of a full and blessed life to which we all should aspire: she ended well.

She knew it's not how you start, but how you finish.

 This was her smile on Mother's Day 2013.

=0=0=0=

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. ~ I Corinthians 15:26

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? ~ John 11:25-26

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. ~ Revelation 21:4

=0=0=0=

Happy Thursday ~ Happy Weekend

=0=0=0=

Forty-five degree angle

The day started well. We had high hopes for a pleasant daytrip with good food, gorgeous weather, plenteous photo opportunities, and sweet togetherness with loved ones.

I was preparing to dress when my phone rang.

"She's gone!" my weeping mother wailed.

I knew she meant that flights of angels had sung her only sister, my beloved aunt, to her rest.

It was expected, but not so soon.

When it came to my aunt's final days (make that moments) on this earth, somebody (make that several somebodies) in the healthcare profession did not exactly read the tea leaves accurately.

They had "given" Aunt Linda more time than she ended up having with those who loved her.

Perhaps she simply chose not to take it.

But since we believe eternity is but a step from time, a breath beyond a paper-thin wall, it makes little difference now.

She's gone from us but she is present with the Lord. We can live with that as long as He wills.

As for me, after hanging up with my mother I felt faint and unwell. A small but determined cloud of depression slid across the sky and stationed itself directly above me, where it would remain all day.

It sapped me of strength. It seems all I've done for the past several months is go to funerals and the dentist.

The thought of trudging to one more funeral made my teeth hurt along with my heart.

Through my tears I told TG and Erica that we needed to slow the day down a bit so that I could compose myself enough to become presentable.

Have you ever tried to apply pirate eyeliner while crying? 

Basically it can't be done.

I called Audrey and Erica called Stephanie. It was decided we'd meet up in Asheville an hour or so later than orginally planned.

TG, Erica, and I ended up leaving the house approximately forty-five minutes past the time previously scheduled.

The trip went okay until we encountered fierce traffic and were delayed another forty-five minutes.

Eventually Asheville was reached. We were the last to arrive. TG dropped Erica and me off when we sighted the rest of our group standing on Lexington Avenue, patiently waiting.

TG was gone briefly to park the car. Shortly after he joined us, somebody said it: "Boca is closed."

"No! Their website is still up!" I might have blurted out.

But they were right: the mouth (that's what boca means in Spanish) was closed. We were obliged to find somewhere else to eat.

I dredged my memory bank for names of restaurants in downtown Asheville. "Let's try Mayfel's," I suggested.

Audrey consulted a map via her iPhone. "It's about four blocks away, on College Street," she said.

We began walking. I met a dog whose name was Clara Belle.

I say Lab-Rottie mix, could use a few extra scoops of kibble. What say you?

Also I saw the prettiest dress in a shop window, and wished I were wearing it. Yes, even with the purple tulle ruffled crinoline and the purple purse, which I felt imbued the costume with unexpected wit.

We were heartbroken when we passed the place where Boca used to be. According to temporary signage, it will soon be a joint named The Local Taco.

I would have named it Loca Taco but that's just me. Crazy.

Presently we stood before the black-and-white-striped awning decorated with fleurs-de-lis, and the red railing encrusted with vintage kitchen implements, that signified our arrival at Mayfel's.

The hostess whose job it was to stand behind an antique pulpit and greet hungry comers was missing, but soon reappeared. She seemed dinstinctly disinterested not only in where we ate but even in whether we ate.

"It will be forty-five minutes and you probably won't get to sit together," she said without preamble or sympathy.

We quasi-declined but then dithered on the sidewalk, sort of watching a surly busker who only stopped playing standards on the trumpet (accompanied by a boom box from which wafted matching elevator music) long enough to upbraid passers-by who he apparently was convinced were staring at him.

"You'll blink first!" He taunted those who looked his way for longer than four point five seconds.

I was afraid to attempt taking his picture. Not really. I am not afraid of taking any picture. I didn't want his picture. So there.

There was a Tupelo Honey Cafe a few doors from Mayfel's. I didn't drive two-plus hours to eat at an overrated chain restaurant but you know what they say: Desperate times.

I walked over and went inside. The hostess was even less engaging than the one at Mayfel's.

"The wait is forty-five minutes and there is absolutely no chance your party will be seated together," she said, tucking her chin to her chest so as to glare at me over her cheaters.

I heard: "We don't care where you eat and we do not push tables together here, for anyone."

Fine, I thought. That's fine. Forty-five seconds from now I will have forgotten you. Make that four point five seconds.

I returned to our hot, hungry party of eight.

"We might as well walk over to Early Girl," I said. Where I was sure the wait would be forty-five minutes.

Audrey whipped out her iPhone. "It's right around the corner, on Wall Street," she said.

We began walking. When making the turn onto Wall Street I saw the giant laundry iron and, just beyond it, the landmark Flatiron building.

Forty-five steps more -- give or take -- and we were at Early Girl.

A screen door lets you in, and on bright days it's extra-dark inside until your eyes adjust.

When I could see -- after about forty-five seconds -- what stood before me was an angel.

That's how sweet was the smile, and how kind the eyes, of the Early Girl Eatery hostess.

"Hello and may I help you?" she said in the nicest voice you can imagine. Her tone contained her smile, which had yet to abandon the face it lit.

I told her we were eight, three of them children, one a baby.

She wondered aloud whether we preferred a booster seat or a high chair for the toddler. Clearly she had correctly made the assumption that, this being the day before Father's Day, we wanted to be seated together.

"It will be about forty-five minutes," she told me, but she said it as if, had she possessed the ability, she would have done anything in her power to change it.

I thanked her and told her that was no problem. I went to sit down in a chair provided for waiting customers, and as soon as I did, to my horror I felt sick and began to cry.

All my life I have been at the mercy of my tears which, like the Ghost of Christmas Future, are mercurial, appearing in their own good time.

I've learned to stanch them by pressing my tongue hard against the back of my bottom teeth, and sniffing deeply. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. This was not one of those times.

My girls were busy with the children. I did not have a tissue in my purse. I saw some napkins at the hostess station and lurched up there to grab one. 

The angel's kind eyes met my blurred ones. I explained we'd had a death in our family that morning and that I was feeling sad.

She reached out and hugged me across the counter, and expressed genuine sympathy for our great loss.

I went back to the chair where I had been sitting. Erica appeared beside me.

"It's only going to be five minutes, Mom," she said. "They've already figured out somewhere to seat us."

And they had. The angel and a colleague had put their heads together and decided we needn't wait forty-five minutes to eat. It was after all, by this time nearly two-thirty in the afternoon.

But before she crossed another "t" or dotted another "i" a la Bob Cratchit, the angel brought me an ample quantity of small, square, soft beverage napkins. "For your purse," she said, gifting me with yet another beatific smile.

And she also brought three ice waters in cups with lids and straws, for the children. One of the cups came to me (the baby didn't need his) and I drank so thirstily, you wouldn't believe. It tasted like nectar.

If just a cup of water I place within your hand ... I sang in my mind.

We were seated and our server was a living doll. Even so she might as well have served me sawdust, although I do remember that what I ordered was delicious.

Baby Andrew was given toys to occupy him. Allissa cadged a princess and posed her like a pirate atop the cup of water.

After TG had opened his Father's Day cards, we left Early Girl Eatery. The hostess angel bid us farewell as graciously as she had greeted us.

I looked behind her to spot wings but saw none. Sometimes they are invisible.

Out on the hot bright street once again, we waited for TG to take Stephanie to her car while the other two girls and I waited with the babies.

I crossed the street to make the acquaintance of a dog named Leah.

Leah was of great interest to Baby Andrew while he could observe her at a distance, but when her owner brought her nearer, the boy sort of lost it.

He was all infant indignation and nothing we said could change it.

Leah was truly perplexed at the baby's reaction and had to be consoled. I completely understood.

Then it was time for hugs and kisses all around, as Stephanie headed back to Lenoir with her brood.

Audrey and Erica followed TG and me a few miles away to Riverside Cemetery, where another angel awaited.

I hoped I would see her, anyway. I had after all been promised more than a glimpse.

Alas however, hopes which spring eternal can be dashed in an instant.

Josh, the cemetery caretaker who had promised to "clean her off all the way," had apparently forgotten his promise within forty-five seconds of making it.

Because she was approximately forty-five percent visible.

And it was completey the wrong time of day to be taking her picture anyway, with harsh sun glaring directly on her right side.

I was so tired and hot and sad at this juncture, I could hardly remember how to take a proper picture anyway.

Ah well. I don't imagine she's going anywhere.

But we did go somewhere. TG, Audrey, Erica, and I found a shady place to sit and enjoy a cold drink, and chat awhile before facing the long roads home.

We had to prepare to attend a funeral. I'll tell you about that in a few days.

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday ~ xoxo ~ Happy Week

=0=0=0=

Linda Jean Sandifer Greene

August 6, 1940 ~ June 15, 2013

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.

=0=0=0=

Please pray for my mother and the family in the homegoing of my beloved aunt.

Back to Boca and the angels of Riverside

Tomorrow we are going once again to Asheville, North Carolina.

TG, Erica, and me.

Audrey and -- we hope -- Stephanie will join us there for lunch. We'll probably go back to Boca, since it was so good when we visited last year.

Sunday is Father's Day. It's also TG's and my thirty-fourth wedding anniversary.

With so many options, it's a cinch we'll find something to celebrate.

I have another reason for returning to Asheville, however, besides the beauty of the place, and the great variety of restaurants, shops, and historic sites, all of which tend to beckon.

It is Riverside Cemetery, which, like most vintage cemeteries, interests me a great deal.

Riverside is special in part because the American author, Thomas Wolfe -- who wrote his masterpiece Look Homeward, Angel and a few other books -- along with most of his family members, is interred there.

Like my own father, who was born in October of 1930 and died in September of 1968, Thomas Wolfe -- born in October of 1900 -- died a few weeks before his thirty-eighth birthday, in September of 1938.

It was Thomas Wolfe's father, W.O. Wolfe, who imported from Italy an impressive inventory of seventeen marble angels.

Mr. Wolfe was a gravestone cutter with a small shop right in the middle of late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Asheville.

In the final pages of Look Homeward, Angel the angels play a significant part.

Today, several of those angels adorn graves at Riverside Cemetery. A number of others are scattered in cemeteries throughout Western North Carolina.

I have photographed all of them except one: the angel that is perched atop the McElveen family mausoleum at Riverside. I have not had so much as a glimpse of her.

And the reason I have never even seen her, much less taken her picture, despite the fact that I have visited Riverside several times?

She is always thickly covered with exceptionally diligent climbing ivy. As is most of the small mausie she decorates.

The last time I was there -- six months ago -- I sort of whined to the caretakers that every time I showed up, the angel didn't.

"Why don't you clean her off already," I might have said.

One affable chap told me that next time I planned to visit Riverside, I should call ahead and make sure they had opportunity to take their clippers out there and do a big reveal of a small angel.

"Just give us a few weeks' notice," he said.

So, earlier this week I called. I spoke with a courteous fellow named Josh. I told him the reason for my call.

"Saturday," I said. "I'll be there on Saturday and I sure would like to see the McElveen angel."

He was so nice. "No problem, ma'am," he said. "I'll take care of it."

And I know that he will.

So much about my father is hidden to me. I never knew him. I can't seem to get much information out of anyone who did, either.

There is no one to call, to clean off the years and bring any of it back.

I am sorry to be maudlin but those of you with missing parents will understand: certain holidays can be difficult.

But it will bring me joy to see my daughters enjoying time with -- and honoring -- their father tomorrow.

I hope if you still have your dad, you are able to lavish him with love and attention.

And if you don't or for some reason you can't, I truly believe there will be angels standing near. Even if we cannot see them.

=0=0=0=

There is one voyage, the first, the last, the only one.

Yet, as he stood for the last time by the angels of his father's porch, it seemed as if the Square already were far and lost; or, I should say, he was like a man who stands upon a hill above the town he has left, yet does not say "The town is near," but turns his eyes upon the distant soaring ranges.

~From Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe~

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend ~ Happy Father's Day

=0=0=0=

Go Melanie

A few weeks ago my daughter Stephanie sent me a link to this YouTube.

Every year Melanie's special ed class at Hudson Elementary School in Hudson, North Carolina, participates in a Special Olympics games day.

Melly loves it. I mean, LOVES IT. Being in the sunshine with her classmates makes her happy, happy, happy.

Those of you who read this blog regularly will recognize Melly in stills throughout the video.

Allissa can be seen too -- orange skirt, pink top -- almost always with her hands together, either in excitement or applause.

But at 3:08 there's the money shot: Stephanie running Melanie a few steps from the starting point of a short race, then walking away as Melly gets going.

The one holding Melanie's other hand, all the way? Why, Allissa, of course.

Who I believe enjoyed the event and the day even more than Melanie, if that is possible.

I am grateful to God for Melanie's dedicated teachers and her classmates. And I am grateful to God for Melanie.

You're probably not crying yet like I do every time I watch my grandgirls sprint across a few feet of asphalt, but if you have time to watch this next one, it will do the trick.

Most likely you've seen it before but it's worth seeing again: Team Hoyt running a triathlon.

Enjoy your health and freedom while you have it. So many are making do with so much less than most of us take for granted.

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend

=0=0=0=