Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog

No Rhyme or Reason

Thu, 27 Apr 2017 00:51:00 GMT

Spring has sprung. In all of its pollen-filled, inconsistent glory, it has arrived. Like many others with whom I am acquainted—and most any Shackelford—my nose is keenly aware of the transition. When I was about the age of seven my loving parents (I questioned the loving part at the time) took me to an allergist in Memphis. I’ll spare you the gory details but let’s just say it involved a summer’s worth of trips and over 500 needles. At the end of the torture, I was required to take allergy shots for years and now pop Benadryl twice a day. It’s a wonder I don’t fall on my face.

Fast forward to adulthood. My father and I were both experiencing the same uncontrollable nose thing, so we found a different allergist (‘cause the other one was just for kids, and we were WAY beyond that) and set appointments 15 minutes apart. This time it was only a morning of torture, but we responded so consistently that the doctors began betting six-packs with each other that my dad—whose test results were running about 30 minutes behind mine—would respond to the different allergens just as I had. Amazingly enough, this man who gifted me with approximately 99.99% of my DNA reacted in exactly the same manner, without exception. I need a sarcasm font for that. Long story short, (too late, you say) we’re both allergic to a specific kind of oak tree. Not enough of a problem to produce the problem we had.

That’s because, although the years of shots and constant medication had shooed away my allergies and he seemed to have outgrown his, we both suffered from vasomotor rhinitis—a fancy way of saying our noses have minds of their own. Tiny little minds that know only one thing. If ANYTHING in the environment changes, the nose is required to malfunction.

Now if the weather goes from hot to cold, my nose runs. If the weather goes from cold to hot, I sneeze constantly. If it’s sunny and the rain comes, my nose clogs up. If it’s raining and the sun comes out, my nose finds some other way to misbehave. But if the weather ever does anything consistently for an extended period of time (say, like more than a DAY), there is relief. Granted, it’s temporary in nature, but I’ll take it and be grateful. So will my co-workers who have to listen to me sniff and constantly clear my throat.

It finally occurred to me the other day, while I was looking for a box of Puffs (because in my humble opinion they’re SO much softer than Kleenex), that my nose is the perfect analogy for grief. I know. You probably think that’s a stretch, but hear me out.

Anyone suffering from loss will quickly tell you there are good days and bad days and you can never tell which will be which because the change can come so quickly. All it takes is one trigger—a song on the radio, the smell when you walk into a room, a fleeting memory that darts across your consciousness and disappears—to take a day of peace and turn you into a puddle. There is no rhyme or reason, no way to predict when the trigger will come or even what that trigger might be. All you know is that it’s out there . . . waiting . . . and it will find you despite your best efforts to hide. For the rest of your life, those triggers are waiting. Fortunately for most of us, time diminishes their ability to impact us, but it never truly takes away their power.

Those of us with drippy noses know there are things we can do to at least slow down the faucet; with enough medication and tissues, we can survive the onslaught. But those who are trying to navigate through grief are not as fortunate. Their only remedy is time—and even that will never completely take away the pain.

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A Place of Peace

Wed, 19 Apr 2017 22:25:00 GMT

Easter and the week preceding the day are busy times around my house. Our church has taken to having the preschool egg hunt on the Saturday before and even if I’m not there my duck-shaped shortbread cookies better be. That’s a three day process that gets time-consuming toward the end. It takes a while to ice three or four dozen ducks with a paint brush. Yes, you read that correctly.

I’m also usually putting up the last of the Christmas stuff. Close your mouth and put your eyes back in your head. It’s not scattered all over the house but neatly packed away and hidden in one of the bedrooms. You see, I keep having this fantasy that I’m going to find someone who will build us this magnificent garage/storage facility so I don’t have to haul everything up the pull-down attic stairs . . . and come Easter I’m dragged back to reality. So the stairs come down and the stuff goes up a box at the time. This year I did five or six a night so it wasn’t as dreadful as it could have been. I have a lot of Christmas stuff. So it took a whole week of nights.

The kids (as in the adult kids originally and now the grandkids, too) always come over for our annual egg hunt with the eggs hidden inside the house. That way the weather doesn’t interfere and I don’t find chewed up plastic eggs scattered about the yard, compliments of the dogs. The first year I suggested said hunt, and asked if there was any interest on the part of my adult children and their spouses, my son asked if there was money involved. And thus began the tradition. That’s another reason not to hide them all over the yard. At least in the house I stand a chance of finding those left behind before the lawn mower does.

However, there are downsides to indoor egg hunts, especially if you own an abundance of cats. Easter couldn’t come in the fall or winter when they’re growing more fur. Oh, no. It has to be in the spring when they’re shedding their winter coats. Although the cats do not permanently reside in the house, they’re in enough that a thorough vacuuming is required before any company arrives. That’s definitely necessary when you’re hiding eggs everywhere so no stone, or stuffed animal, or blanket, or decorative pillow is left unturned.

By the time the day—and the week—are over, I’m pretty well shot as far as being functional. My body is frazzled and my brain isn’t too far behind. And my internal clock is a mess since my whole system has gone into overdrive trying to get everything done that I think needs to happen. Granted, probably no one else would care if they found the occasional wad of cat hair (ok, maybe they would care about that, depending upon where they found it) or the Christmas stuff was still stacked in the bedroom. A lack of duck cookies, however, would probably be considered a travesty.

So when the day is over and we’ve eaten our Easter supper at the local Mexican restaurant and I’ve delivered my grandsons home and played for a while, I have one more stop to make before ending the day. Most people might be soaking in the bathtub or vegetating on the couch in a daze.

I’m headed to a cemetery. Savannah Cemetery, to be exact.

There is a sense of peace there that I cannot begin to explain, a sense of permanence that no bulldozer is going to destroy and no man-made structure is going to displace. I can wander ‘mongst the graves and commune with those whose spirits have long since left this earth. I can read the words lovingly carved in the stones that mark their resting places and come to an understanding of how great their loss really was. Here time means nothing; it has stopped for those whose bodies have made this their earthly abode, and for me it slows to a crawl.

For centuries the burial grounds of our ancestors have been considered sacred and those who desecrate those sites evil. When you walk those grounds in the quiet of the evening you can understand why and there is a peace that begins to flow through you, replacing all that has been hurried and hectic. It is at that moment—as the sun settles into the trees and the world grows still—that you realize the brevity of life and how precious the memories are that you leave behind.

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Of Love and Desperation

Wed, 12 Apr 2017 22:05:00 GMT

“Brother Srygley, his own heart bleeding and almost breaking, in strictest confidence submitted a strange suggestion to some of us. The mere suggestion was all sufficient. The sun set, the moon rose, the stars appeared, midnight came. The bereaved, childless mother slept. The stillness of death reigned supreme over the community. Little Mamies grave was emptied; her little white coffin was opened. The sweetest curl that kissed her marble brow was clipped—a precious, tiny treasure for which the mother sighed. The coffin was closed and gently lowered into the grave; the grave was filled. At the proper time and in the proper way the curl was given to the mourning, moaning mother; but she never knew the story I have just revealed.”

Those words were part of the eulogy of F.D. Srygley, given by his friend T. B. Larimore at his funeral on August 3, 1900. They brought to mind a time and an event known but to a few—those who had aided and abetted a plan borne of love and desperation at the sight of his inconsolable wife. Their firstborn child, a girl they had named Mamie, had died and was buried at Mars Hill, Alabama where they lived at the time. Her mother Ella was but a child herself, having given birth to Mamie at the age of 16. One year and slightly less than three weeks later, Ella was once again childless and mourning the loss that did not seem bearable. As the sun set on the day of little Mamie’s burial, her precious child’s curls came to mind, deepening the already unbearable grief that consumed her. If she had only thought to save one curl . . . just one! How much it would have meant. What a comfort it would have been. But in Ella’s mind she had nothing left of her child.

Her husband, himself broken with grief, approached his friend with only a suggestion, but that was all that was needed. Under the cover of darkness, Srygley and Larimore, along with some others Larimore had enlisted, went to the cemetery, removed little Mamie’s casket from its resting place, and retrieved the much longed for curl. Later Srygley presented it to his wife who never questioned how he came to have it but accepted it with gratitude. A little over two years later Ella joined her Mamie in death.

Today Mamie’s grave can be seen at Gresham Cemetery in Lauderdale County, Alabama while her mother rests in Savannah Cemetery in Savannah, Tennessee. Mamie’s father—Ella’s husband—is buried in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Nashville. The story of Mamie’s death, Ella’s grief, and her husband’s willingness to do the unthinkable in order to comfort her, was never revealed until F. D. Srygley died. Only then, as Larimore memorialized his benefactor, biographer, and lifelong friend, did he recount the depth of Srygley’s love for his Ella and the lengths to which he had gone to ease her pain.

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You Can’t Do Battle With a Ghost

Thu, 06 Apr 2017 00:40:00 GMT

Whenever there is a special day coming up at Memory Gardens, I try to find time to walk the cemetery, just to satisfy myself that everything is as it should be. If it’s Memorial Day or Veterans’ Day, I want to be certain we haven’t missed putting a flag on someone’s grave, and since we don’t have a definitive list, sometimes that’s a challenge. If it’s a family oriented holiday or our unofficial Decoration Day, I’m looking for graves that may need a little attention.

I’m rarely ever there alone; it seems someone is always coming to visit or tend to the grave of someone they’ve lost, especially at Decoration. And, since I’m an observer of people, I generally do just that.

Over the years I’ve noticed one couple in particular. They always come together, caring for two graves that are side by side. One is the grave of his daughter, the other of his first wife. When I saw them and realized why they had come, I thought to myself, “This is a wise woman indeed. She knows you can’t do battle with a ghost.”

Too often marriages that occur after the death of a spouse turn into a war zone. The new husband or wife feels threatened by a memory and the widow or widower may not help matters any by always referring to their deceased spouse and comparing one to the other. Often the new spouse is moving into a home built around another life with tangible reminders of that life scattered everywhere. Step-children must be acknowledged and sometimes even raised which can become yet another challenge if the parent and step-parent are not united in their approach.

But in this instance, she understood. This was someone who played an extremely important role in her husband’s life—the woman he had loved so deeply that he chose her above all others—the mother of his children and someone with whom he wanted to build a future. Unfortunately, Life does not always cooperate with our plans and his had been drastically altered. She understood that by acknowledging the importance of her predecessor she could build a new life with her new husband. She wasn’t taking someone’s place; she was creating her own.

Both parties must be committed to overcoming the challenges for second marriages to work, especially when Death is the instigator. Instead of two becoming one you may be actually blending three or four lives, depending upon the history and previous relationships. The Ghost of Marriages Past can either insure success or bring about absolute failure—and the outcome depends on how each party treats the ghost.

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Be Prepared

Thu, 30 Mar 2017 00:54:00 GMT

In case you missed it, we had a bit of rough weather on Monday. Actually, that might be an understatement given that tornadoes were involved with at least a foot of rain and hail. Oh, and wind. I forgot to mention the wind . . . but I guess that’s kinda understood when I use the word “tornadoes”.

At the funeral home everyone was looking for a safe place to park their vehicle. I even called my daughter and suggested she bring her relatively new car to our carport since her garage is currently in use as a construction area for their bathroom renovation. After all, hail can do a number on a car or truck and no one really wants to drive around with dings and dimples all over the top of their ride.

Fortunately, most everyone’s stuff survived unscathed although one employee did lose several sheets of tin off the top of his barn. They managed to blow over his house and end up in the front yard. Or maybe it was the side yard. I guess that would depend on the location of the barn relative to the house. Wherever the tin landed, it was far, far away from where it should have been.

Now most of us have insurance to cover any damage to our property, probably even from acts of God or the wrath of Mother Nature. But at the very least, if our house blows away we have something in place to begin putting it back—and to replace all the stuff inside. The same goes for vehicles damaged in accidents or valuable livestock used for showing or breeding—or many other items that could easily make up a mile-long list. As a matter of fact, in the mail today we received a brochure from HoleInOneInternational.com offering to insure almost any kind of prize we can dream up for any kind of event. Why, for as little as $150.00 we can give away a trip to Hawaii to anyone making a hole in one at our next golf tournament . . . if we actually had golf tournaments.

The point is, there is insurance for almost every possession or event—catastrophic or otherwise—you can imagine. So why is it so many people don’t see the value in life insurance? I realize sometimes money is the issue; there simply is not enough left over after providing the basic necessities of life to cover affairs after death. But more often than not, it’s a matter of priorities (I need the latest model car or the latest technological device), denial and procrastination (I’m young and healthy—there’ll be plenty of time later to see about that; besides, I plan on living forever) or downright selfishness (I’ll be dead so it won’t be my problem—why should I spend my hard-earned money now so my family doesn’t have to worry about it later?).

Of all the things to protect in this life, it seems your family and their financial security after your death should be pretty high on the list. Yes, there will probably be some sort of funeral expense involved but there will also be a host of other bills that begin arriving in the mail not long after you depart. Even if they’re just the routine costs of operating a household, your spouse is now down to one income instead of two or your children are worrying about how to keep things up and running until they can shut everything down. Even if you have no family, someone, somewhere, will be required to pick up the pieces of your life when you’re no longer around. And that clean up job usually requires some manner of funding.

By starting early and spending wisely, you can prepare for the inevitable without inflicting a great financial strain on your current lifestyle. It’s a plan you’ll be glad you crafted as the years fly by and your responsibilities increase. After all, insurance of any kind is a bet. In the case of life insurance, the company is betting you’ll live forever. You’re betting you won’t. Guess who’s going to win?

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Will You Remember Me?

Thu, 23 Mar 2017 02:20:00 GMT

Memory is an amazing thing; to quote one of my favorite fictional detectives, it’s a blessing . . . and a curse. A blessing because it allows us to relive those moments that mean so much to us when we lose someone we love, and a curse for the very same reason.

Acknowledgment of Death and the void it creates often leads to memorialization, but it isn’t just Death that can send us down that path. If you think about it, we pretty much engage in memorialization without even realizing it. Did you have Thanksgiving dinner with the family last November? Then you memorialized the Pilgrims and their journey to the new world. Were you off work or out of school for Presidents’ Day? Then someone somewhere decided you should honor the memories of our former leaders, a decision you probably applauded. What about July 4 ^th ? Aren’t we memorializing all that went into our struggle for independence and the courage of those men and women who fought for that freedom?

Often, the events we choose to memorialize are not pleasant ones. The Holocaust. Memorial Day. The September 11 ^th attacks. Sandy Hook. The Oklahoma City bombing. The Challenger disaster. Each of these and so many more were national or global tragedies that spawned services of remembrance, museums to tell their stories, and monuments to keep them fresh in our minds. We choose to continually remember and recognize these events as a way to cope with the loss they brought, to remind us of the strength of character that sustained us and allowed us to persevere—and to always bring to mind the lessons we should have learned.

On a much smaller, more personal scale, we memorialize those we love once Death takes them from our sight. It is why we hold funeral or memorial services and make note each year on the day they died. It is why we mark their graves with monuments of stone and why wooden crosses with names and dates carved into them stand guard over scenes of accidents. Even strangers gather when tragedies occur, bringing flowers and other offerings, leaving them to honor a person they never knew and whose only connection with them is through the violence of their Death.

As humans we have a need to be remembered; we want to know we impacted someone’s life enough that they will keep us in the shadows of their hearts and minds as long as they possibly can. The tangible reminders of our existence become memorials unto themselves, speaking of our lives even when there is no one left to recall. Wander through the ancient cemeteries and you can find examples of that need everywhere you look.

When Death comes, memorialization and celebration are necessary components of the grieving process. There is an innate need to publicly acknowledge our loss; it is the very essence of the word “memorialize”—to remember . . . to commemorate . . . to honor and to recognize an important part of life that is no longer present. By remembering we mourn what we have lost while celebrating what we had.

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Would You Like Fries With That?

Thu, 16 Mar 2017 00:55:00 GMT

Tuesday night we posted a link on our Facebook page to a USA Today article about a funeral home in Memphis, Tennessee and the latest “service” they are offering. The establishment, which is conveniently located in an old bank building, has included in some of their funeral packages the option to have “drive-thru” viewing at no additional charge. The casket is placed in front of a large window made of bullet-proof glass (I’m assuming that’s a holdover from the building’s banking days and not a necessity for the protection of the deceased . . . since they’re already deceased . . .). Visitors are greeted by a funeral home employee with an iPad for signing an electronic guestbook; the cars then pass through a gate that allows access to (and provides traffic control for) the viewing. After a maximum allowable time of three minutes, the visitors are expected to move on, making room for the next vehicle. I should probably note that, according to the article, this viewing is a one hour session that is an addition to the traditional visitation.

I expected a comment or two, given the novelty of the idea in the rural south, and maybe a few shares. Boy, did I underestimate that. At this particular moment, that link has been shared well over 130 times and commented on by 255 folks, many of which I can’t see because of the privacy settings of the person who shared the link. But of the comments I can see, there’s not a positive one in the bunch. The most used adjectives seem to be shameful, disrespectful, and wrong. One person even asked what the poor family was supposed to do, stand in the window and wave as you pass by?

In the midst of all the amazement, a few people hit the nail right smack on top of the head. They noted you aren’t supposed to be coming to see the person who died—one person even commented that the body doesn’t know you’re there—you come for the family.

I’ve said it before and I’ll continue to say it until eternity rolls around or my time runs out. Funerals may be about the dead but they’re for the living. When we view the body it helps us acknowledge the loss. It makes it very real and undeniable, but that’s just a small part of the equation. By walking into that room and speaking to those family members, you’re telling them you cared enough to come. Their grief meant enough to you that you inconvenienced yourself for them. You put on your clothes and you left your house, got in your car and drove however many miles it took to be with them. Believe it or not, that means something. And, believe it or not, it doesn’t just help the family. It helps you, too.

The public visitation and the funeral service are basically two way streets with support traveling in both directions. Often in rural areas such as ours, everybody knows everybody, so almost every death touches innumerable lives. When we personally know the individual who has died, there is grief at the loss even if it doesn’t begin to compare with that of the family or closest friends. By coming together with others who share that same sense of loss, we find comfort for ourselves while offering it to those around us.

I can see one useful application for drive-thru viewing of the dearly departed, and that’s when someone’s health—be it physical, mental, or emotional—will not allow them to attend a traditional visitation but they still have a need to say one last good-bye. In that instance I can not only forgive drive-thru viewing but possibly even condone it. Beyond that, I personally can think of one adjective to describe someone who would take this approach when there are no limitations to overcome—and that adjective would be selfish.

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Choose Wisely

Thu, 09 Mar 2017 04:48:00 GMT

It’s Wednesday night and I’m sittin’ at church in a classroom full of four and five year olds. The lesson deals with growing inside and out and one of the youngsters states that he’s not gonna get old ‘cause when you get old then you die. He’s just gonna stay little. When the teacher, who is also his aunt, reminded him he’d just had a birthday, he was unfazed. The solution was quite simple. He just wouldn’t have any more. That’s a pretty big sacrifice since it also means no more birthday presents. I’m bettin’ he hadn’t thought that all the way through.

Wouldn’t it be nice if it worked that way? Wouldn’t it be nice if we were guaranteed our three score and ten years and then anything after that was just a bonus? I know a lot of parents who would sleep much easier at night, knowing they would probably never bury their children. But even with all the wishing in the world, it just doesn’t work like that. The mommy in me refrained from telling him what the funeral director in me knows all too well. Everyone is old enough to die. I didn’t think his parents would appreciate me sharing that knowledge with a five year old and then sending him home.

Being no respecter of persons, Death takes his victims at will with no regard to age or gender, race or religion, or any of the other biggies upon which we mere mortals are not allowed to discriminate. It doesn’t matter if you’re the most important person in your community or if you have an abundance of people who depend solely upon you for their survival. I could continue with all the things in life that make no difference to Death, but you probably get the picture, and honestly, my intent isn’t to beat you over the head with your own mortality.

My goal at this moment is to remind you to wisely use the time you have been given, knowing it is not limitless. We should prepare for tomorrow, but we can never plan on it. In the funeral business we know not to put off until some random point in the future what we have the opportunity to do right now. Our schedules can change in the blink of an eye. So can life.

So now that I have you pondering the depressing idea that Death’s shadow is constantly hanging over all of us, please allow me to point out that such knowledge is a good thing as long as it doesn’t prove paralyzing. Realizing we have an unknown expiration date can either instill in us a fear of the future or gratitude for the present. If we choose fear then we lose both the present and the future, meaning we don’t even get to have a meaningful past. But if we choose gratitude that expiration date no longer has any power over us. By truly living, we exact our greatest revenge on Death. So, to quote the knight who stood before Indiana Jones in his quest for the Holy Grail, “You must choose. But choose wisely.”

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We Have Met The Enemy . . .

Thu, 02 Mar 2017 03:50:00 GMT

“We have met the enemy and he is us.” So observed Walt Kelly’s character Pogo in the comic strip by the same name. In that particular instance, the philosophical possum was referring to the accumulation of garbage that had overrun their swamp in a cartoon Kelly drew for Earth Day in 1971. Oh, but how many other times those words can be applied . . .

Attempting to deal with Death and facing grief are certainly instances when we can easily become our own worst enemy. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve seen someone obviously struggling with their loss but, when I’ve suggested our grief counselor, they assure me “they can handle it”. Often families walk in thinking if they hurry up the process it won’t hurt as bad. If they close the casket during the visitation it won’t be as painful. Maybe they won’t even have a service or any type of memorial to acknowledge and celebrate this person’s life. Then they don’t have to think and plan and prepare and be present. If they can just get the house cleaned out or the clothes given away or the personal items packed up and stored or disbursed . . . If they can somehow manage to erase a person of great importance from their sight then perhaps they will not haunt their memories.

It would be nice if will power was the answer or speed or boxes carted off to Goodwill, but none of those reactions will lessen the pain of loss. Maybe initially. Maybe temporarily. But not forever. Not when everyone goes away and the house is quiet and you have nothing left but your thoughts.

Grief does not ask for your time or attention or respect. It demands it. It forcibly takes it without your permission or consent, entrenching itself in your life. And the more you try to ignore it, the more it screams for your attention. It actually reminds me of the chorus to the children’s song “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt”. In the song the hunter encounters all kinds of obstacles—long, wavy grass . . . a deep, cold river . . . thick, oozy mud . . . a deep, dark forest . . . a swirling, whirling snowstorm . . . and finally a narrow, gloomy cave. And the response is the same to every obstacle:

“We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. We’ve got to go through it.”

The same can be said for grief. You can’t avoid it no matter how much will power or speed you employ. You can’t go over it, or under it, or around it. You have to go through it. Only then can you eventually overcome the anger and pain of loss. Only then can you move toward acceptance and healing.

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Ask First, Post Later

Thu, 23 Feb 2017 00:07:00 GMT

She walked into our office for one reason and one reason only—to confirm her father’s death. Or perhaps what she really wanted was to confirm that the Facebook post she had seen wasn’t true. She still had hope it was a mistake . . . until she asked her question and the secretary answered. And then she sobbed. She more than sobbed. There is not a word in the English language strong enough to convey the depth of her grief at that moment.

His passing was a shock to her, more so because there had been no notification in the middle of the night. She lives in the twilight zone of cell phone service and, with no land line, no one could contact her. No one could let her know. No one that is, except Facebook. And it did, by means of someone immediately posting condolences without thinking that perhaps not everyone knew.

We are mired up to our eyeballs in the age of social media. If it isn’t Facebook, it’s Twitter or Snapchat or Instagram or goodness only knows what else—and every one of those, and so many others, can be used for good. They allow us to reconnect with old friends, to locate those with whom we’ve lost contact and to remain in touch. It can help us spread the word about community events and fundraisers, birthday parties and anniversaries. With the swipe of a finger and a few taps on a keyboard, we can hold the world in our hands; that’s an awesome power to have and, unfortunately, one that people all too often use without thinking.

When someone dies and they have a large, extended family or many close friends, it doesn’t need to be a text message or a Facebook post that offers them the first clue something terrible has happened. And when family members learn of the death (often immediately because they are present) their first thought isn’t to get on the phone and tell everyone else who needs to know. There is a process that occurs, a series of steps that must be completed before anyone can move on to telling others of the loss. The initial shock—which is present no matter the cause or length of time involved—must be overcome. The flood of grief that rushes in must be allowed free rein, even if only for a brief period of time, and then brought under control before others can be drawn into its circle. In other words, to be quite blunt about the whole thing, often those who are closest have to catch their breath, cry their eyes out, and prepare to face their family and friends with a reality they don’t want, can’t accept, and absolutely hate.

All of that can happen in the blink of an eye . . . or take hours to occur. The problem is, those of us on the outside looking in don’t know what the time frame actually is. So when you jump the gun and post about someone’s demise before the family even knows, you haven’t done anyone any favors. As a matter of fact, you’ve only made matters that much worse.

Unfortunately, there are a great many folks in this world who have to be the first one—the first one to text, the first one to post, the first one looking for a reaction so they can be part of the process even though they really aren’t. I will never understand the need to be the bearer of bad news, the desire to be the first one to spread something, even if it is true. In that instance it’s more about ego than offering support, and there’s no place for ego when Death comes to call. I know that those people will not care about anything other than their own importance, so as far as they’re concerned, I’m blowing off steam and basically wasting a lot of words and space.

However, there are those who are truly sorrowful and want to let the family know they are there for them, whatever the need might be. To those people, please allow me to offer a few guidelines for posting condolences and messages of support.

Before you mention someone’s death on Facebook or Twitter or much of anywhere else that can circle the globe before you blink, stop. If you know members of the family or close friends, check their newsfeeds or accounts. Have they mentioned their loss? Then by all means, respond accordingly. Is their personal cyber space void of any reference to the news you have? Then remain silent. There is a good possibility they do not know and if that is the case, it is not up to you to tell them by expressing sorrow over a death they know nothing about. That news needs to come from some source other than social media. And if they do know and have chosen not to post anything, that should be a big clue that you don’t need to, either.

So what it boils down to is this. For goodness sake . . . and the sake of those family members and friends who haven’t been given the news you have somehow magically acquired . . . don’t let grabbing your phone be your first reaction. If you truly care, then take the time necessary to be certain you aren’t going to make their grief that much greater.

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And Why Would I Want To Do That?

Thu, 16 Feb 2017 03:53:00 GMT

Now that I have your attention, please allow me to clarify. My daughter tells me that embalming is not actually a defense against zombies since to kill a zombie (which I believe is already supposed to be dead?) you have to destroy their brain. I contend that chemical preservation should at least render a brain unusable. Whether or not that prevents zombification may still be open for debate.

Now when families question why someone should be embalmed we don’t actually mention the zombie thing. We do, however, try to gently discuss the need for time and how preservation helps supply just that. Embalming allows us to exercise a measure of control over the natural processes that begin when death occurs. This, in turn, allows families to plan the type of service they wish to have and to wait for others who may be traveling to join them. It also allows us to give that family the best possible “last picture” of their loved one. Often they come to us resigned to the fact that their parent or spouse or child isn’t going to be “viewable” because extended illnesses have taken their toll and the person they once knew is now a mere shadow of themselves. Can we make them look like they did 20 years ago? No, but many times we can erase the signs of illness and replace those haggard marks of suffering with peace. More often than not, the people who have watched the suffering and the decline find comfort in that peace. It also allows their extended family and friends to say their good-byes face-to-face, a process that experts specializing in grief contend is a necessary part of acceptance and adjustment after death.

Did you know that every student of embalming is also required to develop a talent for sculpting? When my son attended mortuary school, he was required to create a bust of someone using only a picture as his guide. Why? So when victims of accidents come to us we can, within reason, make them whole again. Perhaps the most profound example of how important that skill is took place many years ago when a young man was severely injured in a horrific car accident. His mother, who was a passenger in the vehicle, struggled desperately to pry him from the back seat where he had been thrown at impact. She stopped when she realized his head had been separated from his body. My father and my brother spent untold hours working tirelessly to repair the damage because they understood the importance of their task. His mother needed to see her son whole again. They were able to give her a better memory to hold than the one that forced itself upon her that horrible night.

This past Tuesday the funeral homes’ Facebook post involved a picture of a very old, somewhat broken monument that was held together by metal bands and straps. At its foot was a newer piece of granite engraved with the words “Margorie McCall. Lived once. Buried twice.” If you missed the post you can check it out later, but the Reader’s Digest Condensed version is that Margorie McCall was accidently buried alive and, if grave robbers hadn’t come to her “rescue” that night, would probably have stayed that way—at least temporarily. At some point she would actually have become deceased. Upon viewing that post, one of our friends tagged two of our embalmers and reminded them to be absolutely certain she was dead when the time came—and that brings me to my final positive point about embalming, one that, quite frankly, appeals to me more than the rest because I’m somewhat claustrophobic and have no desire to wake up in a small box underneath large quantities of dirt. I know if medical science has somehow missed the slightest sign of life (which has actually happened in the United States in recent years) and prematurely declared me to be deceased, I won’t have to worry about suffering Margorie McCall’s fate. If I’m not completely dead when the embalmer begins his work, I will most assuredly be by the time he finishes. For me and my somewhat irrational fear, that alone is reason enough.

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A Time to Rant

Thu, 09 Feb 2017 02:30:00 GMT

Warning—I am about to step on some toes. And I know that. I don’t plan on apologizing beforehand because hopefully said stepping will not require such. There are just certain subjects in this life about which I feel very strongly, so much so that it is difficult for me to remain silent when confronted with them. This is one of those subjects.

Over the last several days the Internet has been awash with stories about Maddie, the eight year old daughter of Jamie Lynn Spears and Jamie Watson, who was involved in what could have been an extremely serious if not fatal ATV accident. In order to avoid a drainage ditch she overcorrected and landed in a pond on their property. Secured by her seatbelt and caught in the safety netting of the ATV—and despite the frantic efforts of her parents—she remained submerged for approximately two minutes before rescue personnel arrived and freed her. Fortunately, it appears that she will not only survive but will not suffer any long term effects from the accident. She is one of the lucky ones.

Modern ATVs were introduced in the 1970s and were immediately recognized as being one of the most dangerous recreational vehicles available. Based on studies by the National Trauma Data Bank, they are more dangerous than dirt bikes and equal to motorcycles when mortality and injury rates are compared. According to Wikipedia:

“In the United States, statistics released by the Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) show that in 2005, there were an estimated 136,700 injuries associated with ATVs treated in US hospital emergency rooms. In 2004, the latest year for which estimates are available, 767 people died in ATV-associated incidents. According to statistics released by CPSC, the risk of injury in 2005 was 171.5 injuries per 10,000 four-wheel ATVs in use. The risk of death in 2004 was 1.1 deaths per 10,000 four-wheelers in use.”

Now, 1.1 deaths per 10,000 four-wheelers may not seem like a lot . . . until someone you love becomes one of the 1.1. Yes, the statistics quoted are over a decade old, but the article goes on to say that estimates show the percentage of injuries and deaths have remained constant in the years since, even considering the increased usage of such vehicles.

Please, do not misunderstand at whose feet I’m laying the blame. Through the magic of advertising, the adults of this world are led to believe that ATVs pose no real threat to life or limb. That’s a true statement when they are used properly by people who are able to handle them. It is sorely misleading when you are talking about adult-sized machines being operated by children. Are there warnings and requirements and fine print? Yes, but seemingly not enough. Often children are allowed to ride with little or no instruction or protection, a by-product of the false sense of security provided by the alleged stability of four wheels instead of two or three.

Why, you may ask, do I even care about ATV usage and the rates of injury and death? Because it breaks my heart every time one of those children comes to us, and we’ve had far more than the average 1.1 per 10,000. Because it breaks my heart to see their families try to come to terms with what has happened while blaming themselves for something they never even realized was possible. Because my son could have been one of those statistics when, years ago (and against my direct orders), he climbed aboard an ATV as the passenger . . . without knowing the driver had no experience as a driver. They flipped into a pond and the ATV actually ran over him. I told him he was lucky; the one area of his anatomy that needed a good paddling was too bruised for me to supply one.

I know this is not a popular stance to take, especially in the rural South, and there are many other daily activities that are equally hazardous, but people need to be aware of the dangers posed by ATVs so hopefully injuries can be avoided and lives saved. This is my shot in the dark, my attempt to warn the world. Please, if you own an ATV, treat it with the respect it demands. Maddie had on her seatbelt. The ATV she was riding was equipped with safety netting and I’m sure numerous other features designed to provide happy endings to accidents, but if the first responders had not arrived as quickly as they did, her story would have had a very different and potentially disastrous outcome. Please make sure that any activity in which your children participate is age-appropriate with every possible safeguard in place, mainly because they are far too precious to lose. They may not understand and they may temporarily dislike you, but hopefully they’ll have many years to get over it.

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Knowing Enough to Know

Thu, 02 Feb 2017 02:47:00 GMT

Recently one of our employees flipped open a newspaper that arrives in our office on a daily basis and pointed to an ad for cremation from another funeral home. The quoted price was pretty low and he asked me how they could do that. I skimmed over the ad and then read it much more carefully, looking for something I thought I surely must have missed. The services and merchandise included in the quoted price were as follows:

“Proportional professional services of funeral director and staff, removal of the deceased from the place of death to the funeral home (within a 25 mile radius), sanitary care of the deceased, transfer from funeral home to crematory (within a 25 mile radius), cardboard cremation container.”

Toward the end of the paragraph listing the charges it was noted there were “no cash advances included”.

Do you see what’s missing? Do you see what you aren’t getting for the price they had quoted?

THE CREMATION.

That’s right. Their charge for a “Simple Cremation” did not include the actual cremation. Evidently, this firm considers the charge by the crematory . . . and the $25.00 for the permit . . . and anything the medical examiner might charge for signing the permit, to be cash advances and are therefore not included in the price they quoted. But if you aren’t familiar enough with funeral service charges to catch that, you’ll be caught.

Now, I’m not bringing this to your attention to call out one of my colleagues; if that was the case I wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to avoid even naming the town in which they’re located. I’d have just posted a picture of the ad and let you read it for yourself. But don’t misunderstand, I’m also not okay with this; it is misleading at the very least. What I am trying to say is you need to know what you’re shopping for before you start to shop. And you need to read the fine print.

Most people shopping for funeral merchandise and services would be like me trying to describe a car. It’s blue. And has four doors. And it’s a hatchback. (Is there such a thing as a four door hatchback?) Other than that, I got nothing. If I can get close enough to read what’s on the trunk, I might be able to tell you which company made it, but otherwise, you can forget it. If you’re describing a steel casket to me and I ask you for the gauge, would you know it? And if you knew it was an 18 gauge, would you know how that compared to a 20 gauge? How ‘bout the interior—is it velvet or crepe or linen? Tufted, tailored or shirred? Is the hardware stationary or swing bar? Every bit of that plus a whole lot more affects the cost. It’s the same with vaults and service packages—there are so many components which can vary so differently that if you aren’t familiar with the items you can’t even begin to compare apples to apples. As a matter of fact, if you’re not careful it might actually end up being more like apples to kumquats.

If you plan on price shopping, be sure you know what you’re getting for your money. Nothing in the advertisement I referenced was a lie; it just omitted several hundred dollars of additional charges that were necessary to complete the service being offered. The best way to know what you need to know is to ask someone you trust who is also knowledgeable. That may be a hard combination to find—especially where funeral information is concerned since so many people think they’re “experts” who don’t actually have a clue—but I can guarantee you we’ll provide that information at no cost with no obligation on your part. We’ll answer your questions honestly, whether or not you choose us over someone else, because we want you to have the information you need to make the best decisions possible. In other words, we don’t want you buying a cremation that doesn’t include the cremation.

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The Journey

Wed, 25 Jan 2017 23:56:00 GMT

Although every life eventually arrives at the same destination on this earth, no two lives travel the same path to get there, even if the twists and turns vary only slightly. Not every life is gifted with the same opportunities or the same blessings and not every life will positively impact the world around them.

This past week our community lost one of those people who made a difference. Philip Meek was a mentor and a minister to many in our area, loved and respected by all who knew him; his circle of influence was huge and grew larger each day. When his life suddenly and unexpectedly drew to a close, there was a sense of emptiness that seemed to blanket a great portion of our county and the surrounding area. Why? Because his life positively impacted those with whom he came in contact.

It is difficult to lose those people but so easy to memorialize them. It is easy to tell the story of a life well lived because the regrets are few or forgiven. The efforts have been successful or lessons have been learned. And above all, it was always others before self. It is difficult to let them go, but their lives will be continually celebrated and their presence will be lasting. That kind of legacy is not dependent upon your station in life or your material possessions. It comes from a heart of service.

We occupy a unique position in our profession for we see the best and the worst of humanity, and often on the same day. And although it is difficult to lose the Philip Meeks of this world, I’m not sure which is sadder—to bury someone who has positively impacted thousands of lives, or someone who lived in such a way that no one cared when they left. One demonstrated a life well lived, the other a life wasted. Either way, the road they traveled led to the same destination on this earth. One just made the journey more meaningful.

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Flowers or Finances

Thu, 19 Jan 2017 03:07:00 GMT

Those of you who don’t reside in my neck of the woods (which, I presume, would be the vast majority) are probably unaware that the world temporarily ended at approximately 8:30 AM on Tuesday, January 17, 2017. That’s almost the precise moment when the networks of both AT&T and Version ceased to function. I know because I was on my phone when the call “failed”. And when I tried to call back, it “failed” again. And when I checked my service dots (‘cause iPhones don’t have bars), I had one . . . which immediately changed to those words no one wants to read.

No Service.

I didn’t know what to do since a lack of cell phone service basically shuts you off from the rest of the world. Even if you have a land line (which we do and for which I am now eternally grateful) most of the rest of the world has decided cellular devices trump hardwired phones. I may be able to call them, but they can’t answer me. But then I didn’t know if it was out everywhere or if my phone had just died, never to be revived. Getting another one is easy enough. Time-consuming and frustrating, but simple compared to repairing the whole rest of the world. Unfortunately, a few land line calls confirmed the worst—an area-wide outage.

That could have presented a major problem when our housekeeper came running in to inform me that our backflow preventer was busy dumping water all over the floor of the mechanical electrical room. If the only employee who knew what to do hadn’t been in the building we’d have been forming a bucket brigade to try and keep the flood waters from spilling into the hallway and beyond, ‘cause there was no reaching him on his cell phone. We couldn’t have called the plumber, either.

I tried contacting the hospital to confirm the number in attendance for a meeting the next day, but they evidently have AT&T for their phone service; my effort produced nothing but silence in return. All over town restaurants were posting signs telling customers no cash, no food because they couldn’t run credit or debit cards. Pharmacists who needed Internet access to confirm coverage couldn’t fill prescriptions if their provider was AT&T. People were messaging each other through Facebook since texting was impossible. It was almost like an apocalypse without all the death and destruction.

Apparently, we’ve become so dependent on technology—and so trusting in its reliability—that we have created a situation where we cannot function without it.

In the overall scheme of life a temporary lack of phone service is really nothing more than a minor annoyance for most of us, unless your building is flooding and you need to call in reinforcements. But take that state of all-encompassing dependence and think about those couples where one spouse takes care of everything required to run their household. They pay the bills, balance the bank account, make sure the insurance is current, handle all the business aspects . . . and suddenly, they’re gone. The one who’s left behind is completely awash in a sea of paper with absolutely no idea where to start. Not only have they lost their other half, they’ve lost the half that kept their financial world revolving.

It’s a very difficult position in which many widows and widowers find themselves. Dealing with the loss is hard enough but being confronted with a litany of legalities when they may never have even signed a check can be overwhelming when coupled with the grief. Depending upon the generation involved, there is a real possibility the survivor can’t even drive, a notion that seems absurd to us today but was commonplace years ago.

In a perfect world the spouse who knows everything would impart that knowledge and the necessary skills to use it to their other half. But our world is not perfect and often there are reasons why one spouse handles the business end of a marriage while the other carries a different load. As a matter of fact, that inability to function can flow both ways with household chores being a mystery of life to the surviving spouse who may have been the financial whiz. Crunching numbers is very different from not washing the whites with the colored items of clothing and being certain the pantry is stocked when suppertime rolls around. Both functions require different skill sets and both are necessary to survival after the loss of a spouse.

So when you’re familiar with a couple and you know the weaknesses of the one who’s left behind, offering assistance and education will mean far more than flowers or a casserole. It also takes more time and dedication but the end result is so much more important to the new “normal” which has become their life. By helping them learn to help themselves you will give them a tremendous gift—the gift of independent living.

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Organized Ducks

Wed, 11 Jan 2017 23:08:00 GMT

I understand that useful knowledge is often dry and boring, the learning of which is avoided at all costs. But sometimes, boring or not, there’s information out there that you or someone you know will need. Maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or even next year. Probably not even in a game of Trivial Pursuit. But someday, when you least expect it, you’re going to be glad you have it. One such tidbit is about to be imparted.

I have tried my best to figure out a way to make this subject entertaining or, at the very least, readable without inducing sleep, because it’s really important stuff. But I seem to be emulating Don Quixote as he tilted at windmills. It is an impossible dream to think that an epistle on the Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare could make the Top 10 Best Seller list. But maybe, if you have insomnia one night, it can be of use.

So, I’m going to cut to the chase and get straight to the meat of the matter. There is one document and ONLY one document that a funeral home in Tennessee, without fail , will rely upon when someone other than the legal next of kin is trying to arrange a funeral—and that’s a Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare. There are several fill-in-the-blank versions that you can do on your own but it must be notarized (by a notary) or witnessed by two people, one of whom is not related to the person granting the powers and will not benefit from their death, as in get any of their stuff when they’re gone. If you visit an attorney for assistance in creating one, insist that it be a Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare . Accept NO substitutes.

We’ve had a lot of families come in with an Appointment of Healthcare Agent that is generally completed when someone who is of sound mind but not necessarily sound body enters a hospital or nursing home. THIS DOCUMENT DOES NOT WORK FOR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS. Yes, I yelled that because people hear the word “healthcare” and think they’ve got exactly what they need. They do for healthcare decisions. They don’t for funeral decisions. If the party assisting in the completion proceeds to the second document in this series, The Advance Care Directive, then you’re good to go . . . literally. But that page is more involved and is usually not done when the healthcare agent paperwork is completed.

Lately we’ve had a few Five Wishes programs arrive on our doorstep. This is a twelve page booklet that goes into great detail regarding how someone wants to be treated prior to death (including the desire to have a “cool moist cloth put on my head if I have a fever”, to have “my favorite music played when possible until my time of death”, and the desire to “have religious readings and well-loved poems read aloud when I am near death”) but allows for very little detail regarding what happens after that. Although the opening pages state that this document can replace a living will or durable power of attorney for healthcare in multiple states, the people who created the program have readily admitted that they never intended for it to have any impact on the legalities that seem to crop up after death. I have personal knowledge of said admission because I called them when we received our first copy from a non-family member desiring to make funeral arrangements for someone. And we were clueless as to what it was. Even our State Board of Funeral Directors and Embalmers (my next stop after the Five Wishes folks) had never heard of it.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve lived together for 30 years. In the state of Tennessee, if you aren’t legally married then you aren’t married. Period. (Disclaimer—If your common law marriage was legally recognized in another state and you move to Tennessee, it counts.) It doesn’t matter if you’ve taken care of their every need for the last 30 years. If you aren’t the legal next of kin we may have a long list to go through before we get to you. And that’s a legal list. As in one that’s specified in the law. And a time-consuming list. As in a minimum 72 hour wait for each level of kinship. By the time we get down to “any other person willing to assume the responsibilities” we will have waited at least 792 hours. For the mathematically challenged, that’s 33 days. So, what it all boils down to is this. If at some point in the future you want or will need to make funeral arrangements for someone when you are not the legal next of kin, then you need to have them sign a DURABLE POWER OF ATTORNEY FOR HEALTHCARE now. Walk in with that document correctly completed and there’ll be no questions asked. You get to be large and in charge. And we’ll be eternally grateful that you took the time to be certain all your ducks were in a nice, neat row.

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Everything In Its Season

Wed, 04 Jan 2017 23:32:00 GMT

Shock and amazement. My Christmas tree(s) are still up. So is my Christmas garland. And my Christmas everything else. I know there are people who spent Christmas Day storing everything Christmas, but honestly, by then I’m too exhausted to even contemplate such, much less actually engage in the task. And I know there are some who believe all kinds of evil will befall you if anything Christmassy is still out on New Year’s Day, so if all kinds of evil come to pass, I’m probably responsible.

But I love how the house looks at Christmas. I love the way it sparkles with lights and how woodsy it feels with garland and greenery everywhere. My daughter says Christmas kinda explodes at our house and I believe that’s a fairly accurate description. But I never really get to enjoy it; there just seems to be so much stuff going on in December that I’m rarely ever home to bask in the warmth that is all things Christmas. So when Christmas Day has come and gone and I get up on December 26 ^th , I plug in the main tree in the den and just sit and look at it. I repeat the process when I get home at night. And I do the same thing on the 27 ^th and the 28 ^th and the 29 ^th and right up until I get tired of it and/or have the time to store the decorations and haul the tree to its home for the next ten or so months. Everything stays up and out until at least the third week in January. I figure if folks can decorate for Christmas in October, I can leave it out into January.

Why, you may ask, do I not decorate early so I can abide by the covenants and restrictions regarding seasonal adornment? Well, I always feel sorry for Thanksgiving; it seems to get lost in the sparkle of its sister season, so I try to acknowledge fall and the related holidays before sliding into winter and Christmas. That’s why I spend the weekend after Thanksgiving splattering Christmas all over the house.

There are a bazillion different things in this life that have perceived time tables. De-Christmasing the house is one. Wearing white shoes is another. Grief can be added to the list. Too often everyone around the grieving person knows exactly how long their grief should last. They know every mile marker that person should reach along the way and at what point they should arrive. And if the grieving person doesn’t respond accordingly, then something is terribly wrong with them and they need to deal with it/get over it/seek professional help/etc.

So, here’s a news flash. All these preconceived notions we have regarding the required timing of certain events? For the most part, there are no laws on the books to reinforce said notions (with the exception of income tax payments . . . I’m pretty sure there are real life penalties for failure to comply). If I want to leave my Christmas decorations up all year, I have that right. It would certainly save an enormous amount of time the weekend after Thanksgiving. And if there are people who need more time as they make their way through loss, they have every right to take that time. And we don’t have the right to demand otherwise. So if you are grieving and someone is insisting you should be moving on, ignore them or suggest that they are not walking in your shoes so they can’t possibly know what you need. Just try to say it a little nicer than that. And if you are the insistent human that is demanding compliance, please be aware of what you are asking. Most people cannot accomplish the impossible no matter how much they might wish they could, and your insistence will never change that.

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A Certain Future

Thu, 29 Dec 2016 00:27:00 GMT

She sits as close to him as circumstances will allow and, after 60 years, they are still holding hands. If she has not taken his, he reaches for hers. If ever two people were one, they are those people. But his health has declined significantly over the past few months, and his mind has already begun to wander. If life continues as it has, this could well be their last Christmas together.

Another woman begins walking down the center aisle as the congregation sings, a note clutched in her hand. Her husband follows, moving slowly; the effort required is great but so is his determination. She sits down on the front pew and he settles in behind her, his hand on her shoulder, his head bowed in anguish.

It is Christmas day and I am struggling to stay awake during our church service, not because the minister isn’t a good speaker but because I was up until 2:00 AM wrapping up the wrapping. And because I’m a Shackelford. We get still. We fall asleep. It’s just what we do. My struggle leads my eyes and mind to move about the room and I spy the first couple I mentioned. He sits in a chair which is easier on him than a pew. She sits on the pew to avoid completely blocking the aisle. And they constantly hold hands. I wonder how she must feel knowing what their future holds.

The second wife came tearfully pleading for strength and peace. Her husband is battling cancer, a battle that he appears to be losing. As the minister read her prepared statement her husband bowed his head and wept at her pain . . . as did most everyone else in the auditorium.

For a day so filled with joy and childish excitement there were those who were hurting, grieving over losses suffered or losses yet to be. And now we approach the new year, a time of possibilities and anticipation, bringing hope and second chances. Perhaps a new baby is on the way or a wedding is being planned. There may be a new job or a promotion or even retirement waiting for us as the calendar changes and the cycle begins again. Or maybe we just want to escape the old year in hopes that the next one will be not only new but also improved. For many of us it is a time of renewed energy and enthusiasm when we resolve to be better and do better—and convince ourselves that this time it will stick. But for some the new year is an unwelcomed guest for the change it holds is one they never wanted. If they had the power to stop Time in its tracks they would do so in a heartbeat for Time has become their enemy.

As we plan and prepare for 2017 with eager anticipation, please be aware of those around us who are making preparations of a different sort. We may not have the power to give them a happy ending to their story, but we can offer strength and comfort and support as they walk the very difficult path upon which they have been placed. As you face the coming year with all of its promise, please remember to make time for those who face it filled with fear. And while you’re at it, remember that we never know what our future holds, so make the most of every moment spent with someone you love—and be grateful it was yours to enjoy.

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It’s the Little Things

Wed, 21 Dec 2016 23:17:00 GMT

For the last I-don’t-know-how-many years, my daughter and I have baked cookies in December. Lots and lots of cookies. And we try to keep up with the numbers, not so we can brag but so we know how many of each kind can go on a plate. This year’s calculations—and baking—yielded 1,905 bits of deliciousness. At least that’s what we thought until we started plating and had cookies left over when we shouldn’t have. Either we can’t do math or we can’t count.

For the past three years (at least), we’ve chronicled our journey on Facebook under the hashtag “cookiethon____” (you fill in the year on that blank) so this year it was cookiethon2016 preceded by a number sign (because this font which I can’t change evidently doesn’t recognize that symbol and it looks really weird when I actually type it correctly). Inevitably, we have folks who want to know how to get on our list and we tell them they don’t want on our list . . . because our list is comprised of those who are grieving due to some form of loss.

Over the years we’ve had various other bakers join us. For a while it was my daughter-in-law but small children kinda put a kink in that. A couple of years ago we had a guest baker who wanted to learn our secrets (like we have any after posting the whole escapade on Facebook), and this year we had another one who had baking experience and whose mother was once a cake decorator—meaning little Kathryne did not have to squiggle all the Seuss Trees with icing.

Once the baking and the plating are complete, my husband (and occasionally Kathryne’s) will play Santa and deliver all the cookies to the chosen recipients. Last night as we were assembling 30 plates of cookies, I told him he had the best job of all—a point he argued since he has to drive all over God’s green earth hunting 30 houses. But he really does have the best albeit somewhat frustrating task of the cookiethon, because he gets to see their faces when he hands them the plate. To me, that’s the most rewarding moment of all, but since I’m somewhat directionally challenged and an aspiring hermit, I leave the delivery to someone else. The reactions usually range from pleasant surprise to tickled pink to tearful gratitude, but without fail, everyone is thankful that someone thought of them.

When you’re suffering from loss, especially at the holidays, any small gesture that says “I remember” means the world. And it doesn’t just have to be at the holidays. My mother died on May 1, 2008 and on May 1, 2009 a good friend called for the sole purpose of telling me he remembered. I still think of that call and how much thought it took—and how much care it held—and it fills me with a warmth I cannot begin to describe.

You see, it doesn’t have to be some monumental offering, some time-consuming, extremely expensive something-or-other. A phone call . . . a card . . . a plate of cookies . . . anything that says, “I remember. I know you’re hurting and I care.” will provide a light of hope in what might otherwise be a moment of darkness. Too often we believe that the little things aren’t significant enough, that there should be something more, so we simply don’t do anything at all. But it’s often the little things that make the greatest difference—and we all have the power to do the little things.

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Lighting the Tree

Wed, 14 Dec 2016 23:10:00 GMT

She came up to me after the service for the express purpose of relaying her gratitude for the effort. It was beautiful, she said, but so hard because her grief was so fresh. He had loved Thanksgiving and especially Christmas so the season alone made the loss more difficult.

We have a pretty standard format for our services: opening song, introduction of the speaker followed by the speaker, intro to the Power Point presentation followed by the presentation, then wrap up remarks and the lighting of the Commerative Tree (which amounts to pushing the button on the power strip into which all the lights are plugged). For the full effect, we turn off all the lights so the chapel is cloaked in total darkness, then this 12 foot tall tree, wrapped in thousands of white lights, magically illuminates. I get goose bumps just thinking about it and actually seeing it, even for the sixteenth time in as many years, still fills me with wonder.

That night the tree was absolutely beautiful as it stood quietly to the side, clothed in silver and gold, patiently waiting for its moment to literally shine—and when the lights dimmed and the tree illuminated the entire room, she had cried. He had loved Christmas so much and here stood a magnificent symbol of the season, a symbol that in spite of its beauty reminded her of how much she had lost.

There will be a lot of those reminders as the day draws nearer . . . special ornaments that speak of the past, events you attended together that now will be attended alone—if at all—family gatherings with an empty chair or a place now occupied by someone else. So much that makes us long for what we once had, so much that brings about the never ending ache deep in our souls.

We cannot change our present when it is tethered to the past, and we cannot plan for the future when we are constantly looking back. Grief is the devil to deal with and, if I believed it possessed the ability to think and plan, I would most definitely believe its goal was to suck the life out of living. But grief is not an entity unto itself. It cannot think. It cannot plan. And it can only rob us of that which we are willing to give. However, in order to prevail, we must be the ones with the plan. When you feel yourself slipping, close your eyes and count your blessings, those things which, in spite of all you have lost, are still right in your world. It may be that your spouse is still with you, or your children and grandchildren. It may be your friends who are always ready and willing to listen over a cup of coffee or lunch. Before you ever raise your head in the mornings, make that mental list. It may take a great deal of effort at first, since what is wrong is also overwhelming, but the more you focus on the positive, the stronger you will be when the grief returns. And it will always return, no matter how many happy thoughts you hold in your arsenal. Just keep in mind the words of wisdom found in the song Light in the Hallway:

Count your blessings every day. It makes the monsters go away. And everything will be okay. You are not alone . . .

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If I Had Only Known

Thu, 08 Dec 2016 00:24:00 GMT

The Service of Remembrance is Thursday night in Savannah. It’s a year’s worth of loss and a month’s worth of work, designed to honor the memories of those who died since the last service, often far sooner than might have been expected and most certainly than was acceptable.

During the service there is a Power Point presentation that focuses on each individual, giving their name and dates of birth and death and adding a picture if one was supplied for the memorial folders. Rather than sitting in stony silence or listening to the sobs and sniffles of those in attendance, we play music in the background. At least twenty minutes of music and sometimes more, depending upon the number of slides and how fast they rotate through the presentation. And each year while trying to select those songs, I sit at the laptop and listen to all that seem to be likely candidates based on their title and their length. In case you don’t already know titles are often deceptive so unfamiliar songs must be listened to closely and completely.

I try to vary the music slightly from one year to the next; after all, on occasion we have families we serve in consecutive years, so there is always the possibility of repeat attendees. On Wednesday I sat with the laptop—the one on which we run all of our music—and scanned the songs we had purchased to see if I could find any I had not used that might be appropriate.

You’d think every song we had in our iTunes library of funeral music would be considered service worthy, but that’s not always the case. Granted, the choice is the family’s and we encourage them to select songs that are a reflection of the person who has died, so we get ones like “Stairway to Heaven”, the eight minute version of “Freebird”, “Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz”, and “You’re the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”, just to mention a few. Although those might be understandable for a particular individual, I’m not at all certain a chapel full of grieving folks from a variety of families will share that appreciation. So I choose middle-of-the-road music that doesn’t get all dramatic and loud at the end, music that is soft and weepy and emotional. After all, this is everyone’s opportunity to openly grieve in a setting where everyone around them shares their sense of loss.

As I scanned the list of songs, one in particular seemed to scream for my attention, “If I Had Only Known” by Reba McEntire. I had heard the song before and knew she recorded it after losing eight members of her band in a plane crash, but I had forgotten how much regret could be packed into four minutes of music.

If I had only known it was the last walk in the rain, I’d keep you out for hours in the storm . . . If I had only known I’d never hear your voice again, I’d memorize each thing you ever said . . . You were the treasure in my hand, you were the one who always stood beside me, so unaware I foolishly believed that you would always be there. But then there came a day and I turned my head and you slipped away. If I had only known it was my last night by your side, I’d pray a miracle would stop the dawn . . . If I had only known.

By God’s grace or a benevolent act of Nature or however you believe, we are blessed not to know when those we love will leave. But as too many people have learned the hard way, that blessing is also a curse. The holidays are here and, even in the midst of the chaos, we tend to focus more on those we love. I vote we make that a year-long practice so when the day comes that we turn our heads and someone slips away, we will not find ourselves saying “ if I had only known . . .”

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Lost to the Flames

Thu, 01 Dec 2016 00:45:00 GMT

Many of us have helplessly watched this week as wild fires raged around the resort areas of Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg. We’ve waited and we’ve prayed and we’ve hoped that the rampage could be contained and the area impacted as little as possible. And while we’ve waited we’ve watched, often as memories disappeared in the smoke and flames, memories that were embodied by the material possessions being consumed.

We grow attached to our stuff, and there’s no shame in that as long as we remember it’s just stuff. But that stuff often represents a tangible connection to a time or a place or a person that holds meaning in our lives. When that connection is lost, for whatever reason, we can feel as though the mental and emotional connection is lost as well. My daughter texted me during the day saying “Hillbilly Golf is gone” followed by a crying emoji. For years immediately after Christmas we went to Gatlinburg as a family—and it didn’t matter how cold it was, we were going to play putt-putt at Hillbilly Golf. It was mandatory. A later report stated the course had survived but with damage. She made sure to let me know that a memory from her past had not disappeared completely.

There are so many places we would visit when we traveled east: The Peddler Steak House, The Pancake Pantry, The Ole’ Smoky Candy Kitchen. (Do you see a pattern here? Food played a huge role on our trips.) We always visited Ripley’s Believe It or Not, The Mountain Mall—and we loved The Village Shops where The Donut Friar and the Cheese Cupboard reside (there’s that food thing again). And we can’t forget The Christmas Place in Pigeon Forge. Some of us could spend hours there, just wandering ‘mongst all things Christmas. As I listened to the reports, I was relieved to learn that most of my memories survived unscathed. But that relief was tempered by the realization that lives have been lost, wildlife has perished, and the beautiful mountains we love so well are now charred shadows of their former glory.

The loss of material possessions pales in the light of actual and presumed loss of life. However, for those who find themselves safe but their homes gone, there will be grief over what they once held dear. As I mentioned earlier, those possessions are often links to something or someone that is no longer here, and when those links are gone our grief begins all over again. Chris MacPherson of The Sweet Fanny Adams Theatre (which we also love), managed to escape with his pets and the clothes on his back. Everything else was lost, including the 1971 Sweet Fanny Adams Volkswagen Beetle that belonged to his late father. That connection cannot be replaced and the grief for his father will now expand to include grief for something that was a tangible reminder of him, something that Don MacPherson loved and entrusted to his son.

It doesn’t have to be a devastating forest fire or a flood or tornado that impacts thousands to bring about new or renewed grief. Every day people suffer individual tragedies that steal tangible pieces of their past, pieces that can never be replaced, and the lack of national attention does not lessen the pain—if anything it might actually increase it. Any tragedy that draws the world’s attention will also draw the world’s support, but loss on a smaller scale, confined to one person or a family, is often their loss to bear alone. We must be mindful that, great or small, loss is loss; there will always be pain and there will always be someone who needs our support.

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Give Thanks

Wed, 23 Nov 2016 05:53:00 GMT

It is Thanksgiving Eve, that day filled with trips to the grocery store, preliminary cooking, and trying to decide where everyone can nap once the eating is over. Since most everyone on Facebook will be posting Happy Thanksgiving wishes with the obligatory Thanksgiving Day picture on what is usually a link-to-the-blog day, I thought I’d post and link one day early. That’s about as spontaneous as I get, and I had to plan for that.

For some, Thursday will be a paid holiday filled with family and food. For others it will be a work day because Life and Death don’t take holidays. And for many it will be a day of reflection on things as they once were.

I am one of those who will reflect, not necessarily because I am prone to such (although age tends to change that), but because on this day seven years ago—November 23, 2009—my father died. My mother had done the same a little over eighteen months earlier so holiday meals and family gatherings have changed. They are still wonderful times together, but they are different, and sometimes the absence of my parents can be overwhelming.

I know I’m not the only one looking back while trying to move forward. There are mothers and fathers who on Thanksgiving Day will set one less plate at the table because there is one less child to come home. There are children learning to cook a turkey and make dressing (or stuffing, depending upon their preference) because Mama always did so they didn’t have to. Spouses will struggle to continue the family traditions when the family is no longer whole. So on this day, when there is so much to remind us of what we have lost, I want to encourage us to remember what we had.

For every loss there are memories. For every empty chair and every new recipe to be learned, there are those moments when life was as it should be and all was well with the universe. Can we look back on those times and find the joy we once knew instead of the sorrow we now feel? Yes. Yes, we can, but it’s hard . . . so terribly, terribly hard. And no matter how much we focus on the good, no matter how much we try to banish the grief from our hearts so we can enjoy the day and those around us, there will always be moments when it will return unannounced. Just know that for most of us, as time passes those moments will grow farther and farther apart.

To those who have not yet suffered that loss, please look around you and be grateful. Enjoy the clutter and the chaos of your children. Smile when your mom or dad calls you for the third time on any given day to tell you the same story or ask the same question. Be grateful when your child awakens you in the middle of the night, demanding to be fed, then refuses to go back to sleep when you have to be at work in just a few hours. When your spouse finds your last nerve and proceeds to get on it, take a deep breath and think of what your days would be like without them. For every instance in which we feel afflicted by life, there are those who would gladly trade places with us, who would never complain about the clutter or the stories or the lack of sleep, for in those moments we have something that once was theirs—something they lost and will never have again.

So as we prepare to celebrate a day of thanksgiving by stuffing ourselves as well as the turkey, may we truly be thankful; may we be filled with gratitude for those around us and for the annoyances and inconveniences with which they seem to gift us. Despite the aggravation and the irritation, someday those will be the moments we long for and cherish the most.

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Don’t Forget Them

Thu, 17 Nov 2016 00:05:00 GMT

Recently my Kathryne and I had a girls’ night out. It wasn’t something we planned but with her husband at work and mine celebrating a win on the hill at Knoxville, it just seemed like the thing to do. So we did.

Said night out consisted of supper (because I don’t eat dinner) at a semi-local restaurant (meaning we drove across the river but didn’t leave the county). We arrived precisely two minutes after almost everyone else in the world did, so we got to wait for a table, which wasn’t a problem. We tend to keep ourselves entertained when we’re together . . . ‘cause we’re kinda the same person . . . but she’s shorter . . . and younger . . . and a lot cuter.

As we attempted to wedge ourselves into a corner, out of the way but still visible lest they forget that we were there, some friends of ours arrived with another friend in tow, a friend whose wife had died a few years before. The three of them joined us and we all patiently waited together and visited. When the conversation lulled, I took a moment to survey the room, looking for familiar faces and empty tables. The empty tables were not to be found but seated across the room were some folks I recognized. There were three couples, a single gentleman, and a vacant chair . . . a chair that would have been occupied by his wife had she survived the cancer that she fought so valiantly and which had taken her life several years ago.

And in the midst of the chaos of a crowded restaurant, I smiled to myself and my nose began to go slightly red. It does that when my emotions are on the verge of getting the best of me. I knew both of these widowers, knew how much they loved and missed their wives. We had assisted both of them when the time had come and I had watched as they struggled to cope with their losses.

Now, over four and a half years later, their friends had not forgotten them. Despite the fact that they are no longer “couples”, these wonderful people continued to include them in times such as this. They continued to honor years of friendship even though the dynamics of that friendship had changed.

Too often those of us who are blessed with a lack of loss tend to forget about those who are suffering. Maybe forget is too strong a word. Maybe we just don’t always remember. And those who have lost someone, especially someone who was the other half of their life, need to be remembered. We need to make the effort to continue to include them just as we did when they were two instead of one. The loss of a spouse can be devastating and the loneliness that loss brings can be overwhelming . . . but think how much worse it becomes when friendships are lost as well.

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Letters From Beyond

Thu, 10 Nov 2016 00:12:00 GMT

Recently, while scrolling through the plethora of posts on Facebook, I ran across one of those with shadowy pictures in the background and words that magically appear while telling a sappy story intended to tug at your heartstrings. Normally I don’t watch those, especially if the tag line is anything like “this brought me to tears” or “I was crying by the end!” First, I don’t believe that and, if I watch it until the end, I wonder about the emotional health of the person who originally posted the thing. Second, most of the time they’re poorly written and drag the moral of the story into eternity. But for some reason, I paused on this one.

The story was about a young lady who was presented with 71 letters on her eighteenth birthday, letters that had been written to her by her family and their friends as her gift the day she turned one. Her parents had included an unusual request in the invitation to her party. Instead of a store-bought present, please write a note, one she will read in seventeen years. They never opened them, never looked at them, simply put them safely away until the appropriate time. Since that day several of the writers had departed this life so, as the caption to the post stated, she literally received letters from beyond the grave.

Now that’s a cute way to phrase it and definitely a way to grab your attention, but honestly, it’s also a wonderful idea. I began thinking back over the people I would have heard from on the eighteenth anniversary of my birth; they included my great-grandmother Shackelford and my grandmother Shackelford, both of whom died before I celebrated my sixth birthday.

Then I began reviewing what would have been my children’s “letters from the grave”; by the time they turned eighteen they had lost two great-grandmothers—may husband’s grandmother, Emma Beckham, and my grandmother, Myrtie Rogers. Now I know my grandmother and getting her to write a letter might have required a crowbar, but “Miss” Emma would gladly have penned one to both my children—and I would give almost anything if she had.

So I would like to make a suggestion today, one that I hope some of you will actually adopt, even if your children are a few years older than one—and if you don’t have qualifying children, please share it with those who do. Pass out the paper and pens and ask the grandparents and the aunts and uncles and anyone else you see fit to write your child a letter for their future. If you have other children, give them the same opportunity, even if you have to help them with the spelling or penmanship. And don’t forget to include yourself. Don’t assume that everyone will be present and accounted for when that happy day-of-adulthood arrives. I feel very safe in saying they will not—and what a wonderful gift to everyone involved if they have the opportunity to speak to someone they love from beyond the grave.

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Questions and Forgiveness

Thu, 03 Nov 2016 02:08:00 GMT

Jose Fernandez. A 2011 first round draft pick and All Star pitcher for the Miami Marlins. Cuban born, he was so determined to come to America that he attempted to defect three times before succeeding in 2008. He became a U. S. citizen on April 24, 2015 and recently announced his impending fatherhood. And all of that came to a tragic end sometime in the early morning hours of September 25, 2016.

On the surface, it appeared to be a boating accident that took his life. He and two of his friends died when their craft hit a jetty off Miami Beach, Florida at around 3:00 AM. His family, his friends, his teammates all mourned his loss, all waited impatiently as the results of the autopsy were finalized. After all, those results would provide answers. Those results would bring closure.

But as is the case so many times, the answers came bearing not closure, but more questions. With alcohol and cocaine in his system, a tragic accident became a senseless, needless death, a death brought about by choices he made just a short time before.

Unfortunately, closure is often an illusion fostered by hope, an illusion that fades in the light of truth. And it doesn’t just happen with sports figures or musicians or actors or politicians—the people we label as “celebrities” and whose lives fascinate us from afar. I cannot begin to count the number of times those final answers have deepened a family’s grief because those final answers told them it did not have to end as it did. Presumed heart attacks turned in to unintentional overdoses. Deaths due to accidents became deaths due to drugs or alcohol. And families looking for some random act of Fate to blame found themselves faced with the reality that their loved one played a significant part in their own demise.

So how do you accept unacceptable answers? How do you move passed the anger and the bitterness and come to grips with the loss? Sadly, you have to start by realizing that you cannot change what has happened. You cannot change the decisions that were made and the tragic consequences of their actions. There comes a point where you must acknowledge their humanity and their imperfection and understand that they never intended or even realized that their actions would lead to their death. If they had truly believed that was possible, then you must believe they would not have chosen that course. And then you must forgive them, for without that forgiveness you cannot let go of the anger and there can be no resolution to the loss. Anger and grief can co-exist quite nicely for they feed on one another, and the end result becomes two lives lost—that of the person who died and yours.

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Irreplaceable

Wed, 26 Oct 2016 20:18:00 GMT

It was a terrible fire, one that consumed everything they had. . . including their three children. Growing up, I heard the story quite often since they were family, the grandchildren of my great aunt and uncle whose house was always a place to visit whenever we went to Florence. That meant at least twice a year since my mother could only find clothes to fit my scrawny little brother at Rogers Department Store. I didn’t mind so much. If we behaved while we shopped, there was a trip to Woolworth’s and the soda fountain afterwards. And we always stopped at Uncle Pat and Aunt Becky’s on the way home. If the season was right the front yard under the huge oak tree was covered with watermelons, several of which usually found their way into the trunk of our car.

My cousin had been pregnant at the time and that child was also lost. Four children. Four children ages five and younger, gone in what must have seemed like the blink of an eye. Even though their parents went on to have four more children, I knew their first family was never far from their thoughts and always in their hearts. After all, you do not simply replace children who have been taken by Death.

And that’s a point I hope we will all remember when we begin to speak with a mother or father who has suffered the tragic loss of a child. Oh, I know. We understand that life will never be the same and that each child is precious in their own right, but when confronted with such loss we often tend to speak without thinking of the impact our words can have. Please don’t offer as consolation the observation that they are still young enough to have other children. It doesn’t matter. They will never be the children they had. Please don’t remind them that at least they still have others. Again, it doesn’t matter. There is still one that is missing and will be missing forever. And please, do not tell them God just needed another angel. Do you realize how selfish that would make Him?

We also need to remember that any loss is tragic when a life has been cut so terribly short. Whether a child dies in the womb or after a few years on this earth, whether they die as the result of an illness or an accident, their death is untimely and always defies comprehension. There is no explanation of Death that can comfort a grieving parent, so kindly do not attempt to provide one. Instead, offer them a hug, a whispered “I’m sorry”, a shoulder where they can cry until it seems there should be no more tears left, knowing that the source is never-ending. And I know we’ve said it before, but it definitely bears repeating. Say their child’s name. Always say their name. Pretending Death has not snatched away a young soul does not make it so, but acknowledging that life—honoring that life—gives it meaning and purpose, no matter how brief it may have been.

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The Faithful Few

Wed, 19 Oct 2016 23:21:00 GMT

There was a definite sadness in his eyes when he spoke of her, of the life she had known and the life that had slowly been taken from her. The depth of that sadness grew when he talked about her lonely days, days that repeated themselves like a broken record, over and over with only the home health nurses and his presence to break the monotony. Not that she knew or understood. But then again, perhaps she did. There really wasn’t any way to know.

At first the visitors had come with regularity; almost like clockwork they would sit beside her bed and share tales of days long since passed, memories that bound them together, or discuss the latest gossip or current events. But one by one, they simply stopped coming. The day would arrive that marked their usual visit, but there would be no visitor that day . . . or the next . . . or on any of the days that followed. He didn’t understand how they could seem to forget her so easily.

I had seen the same thing happen with my father. As his mental and physical health declined the visitors grew fewer in number. But I did understand. It is hard to carry on a conversation with someone who can no longer converse. It is hard to sit and visit when you have no idea if you are still a friend or if you have become a stranger. And it is especially difficult when you look into the eyes of someone who is approaching death and find your own mortality reflected there. It is a strong friend indeed who can stare into that future and not turn away.

There were those faithful few who still came without fail. One would reminisce about adventures from years gone by, memories that would often bring a smile to my father’s face, even if there was no recognition in his eyes. Another would come and read to him, always from the Bible. God had been an important part of his life; there was no reason to believe that had changed.

For those who choose not to turn from a life as it slowly slips away, these are things you can do that require little effort on your part but which will make a world of difference to the families of those you visit. Did you grow up together? Then you have memories to share that may bring a long forgotten smile. Did that friendship begin later in life? The stories are still there, and they are still worth retelling. Was there a particular book or author they enjoyed? Did they prefer poetry or God’s word? How simple is it to come with book in hand, to sit beside their bed and spend a few minutes just reading aloud? And when all else fails, just take their hand and sit in silence; often your touch will say far more than your words ever could. Whether or not the ailing are aware of your presence I can assure you, those who care for them are, and they will be eternally grateful for your devotion.

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A Broken Heart

Wed, 12 Oct 2016 23:41:00 GMT

“She left them first, on a Saturday evening. The next morning they went to the nursing home and told him she was gone; within hours, he joined her. After 69 years of marriage, it only seemed right that they should still be together.” So began our Facebook post yesterday, recounting the beautiful story of a couple who, whether by choice or by chance, remained apart for only 18 hours before he followed her in death. Their story touched thousands and brought about hundreds of reactions, shares, and comments, all because they died as they had lived the vast majority of their lives—together.

Although the closeness of the timing was somewhat unusual, the situation was not. In our profession we are privileged to witness such wonderful yet heart-breaking stories of love and devotion, lives where the departure of one spouse eventually brings about the death of the other, often within a period of two years. When it does happen, we hear again and again the same phrase, “They died of a broken heart”.

Can that really be a thing? Can someone be so overcome with grief that it literally takes their life? The answer is yes. Grief brings depression and depression opens the door to all manner and kind of disease by suppressing the immune system. Over time the physical body gives in to the mental and emotional stress of trying to cope with the loss. Over time unresolved grief and depression win. Many years ago we were called upon to serve a family where the doctor actually listed depression due to loss as a contributing factor in his patient’s death. It had taken ten years, but grief finally prevailed.

But what about those times when death comes within hours or days rather than years? Believe it or not, the medical profession took their cue from the romantic notion that someone could die of a broken heart and gave the condition a name—Takotsubo Syndrome—aka Broken Heart Syndrome. Upon studying images of the heart in patients who were suffering from newly minted loss, Japanese researchers realized there were times when its shape had changed until it resembled a fishing pot known in their culture as a tako-tsubo. In this condition the heart muscle can become so compromised that it simply cannot pump enough blood to sustain life. The end result can be life-threatening heart failure—death brought about by a “broken heart”.

The clinical details may somewhat tarnish the fairy tale-ish appearance of death brought on by love and loss, but the scientific explanation should never be allowed to lessen the significance of what has occurred. Whether from grief and depression or from syndromes with names we can’t pronounce, the ending to the story is still the same. Someone loved someone else so deeply and devotedly and completely that life could not continue without them.

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Tell Me the Story

Thu, 06 Oct 2016 02:04:00 GMT

He brought her back home, although she never really lived here. Her father did—lived and died and was buried here. There were distant cousins scattered about, but she had never called here home until today, and today it still really wasn’t home. Just the final resting place for what Death had left behind.

He had cared for her constantly since she had become ill. It was hard, hard to watch her struggle and suffer, especially on the heels of their mother’s struggling and suffering. She had only been gone a few months when the diagnosis caught them by surprise. But he was steadfast in his care, staying with her as he had done with their mother, even beyond the end.

Today was the final leg of the journey. The path was growing clearer and his destination was in sight. It was to be a small graveside service—a scripture and a prayer. Perhaps a few comforting words offered by a stranger. When he was planning the service the funeral director mentioned that music was still an option, even if they were far removed from the technology of the building. Portable CD players are wonderful things, especially in circumstances such as his. The idea was appealing and he mentioned two songs that immediately came to mind, “Amazing Grace” and “Jesus Loves Me”. He wasn’t quite certain why his thoughts came to rest on the first one. Somehow it just seemed appropriate. But the second had meaning, a meaning he felt inclined to share.

When his mother first grew ill, and then more so as her mind began to fade, he would sing that song to her. Even when she no longer knew him, the words calmed her, soothed her restless spirit and gave her instead, peace. He would repeat those words for his sister when her illness began to take its toll. And again they worked their magic, transporting her to a time in life when things were simpler, when pain and Death did not exist.

The day of the service he came to the funeral home to spend a few moments with his sister before moving to the graveside. A friend made the effort to join him and together they followed the hearse to the cemetery. It would only be the two of them, the funeral directors, and the minister, but he knew that from the beginning. Throughout her illness, he had been her sole caregiver, protector and guardian. It seemed only fitting that it should end in the same manner.

They seated themselves under the tent and the familiar words of “Amazing Grace” broke the stillness. The obituary was read. A prayer was offered. The 23 ^rd Psalm was quoted and expounded upon. And then, in the silence that followed, the simple melody of a child’s song filled the air. And at that moment the years of caring, the months of waiting, the anger and the frustration and the stress of watching her slip away melted in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. And he cried.

That one moment captured everything for which we strive. That one moment was the summation of his sister’s final days, his love and care for her, their journey together. It is the reason we hope so fervently that each family will plan a service that reflects the life of the one they have lost, for that reflection tells their story. And it is that story that we want to honor.

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If At First You Don’t Succeed

Wed, 28 Sep 2016 22:24:00 GMT

When I was in elementary school (at least a hundred years ago), I developed a ton of flat warts all across my forehead. I’m talking at least a bazillion. I don’t know where they came from or how they got there. It certainly wasn’t because I rubbed a frog all over my face, but frog or not, my forehead was covered in them. If they had all run together (which they could easily have done, given their numbers), no one would have ever known. My forehead would just have been fat. But they didn’t so everyone did and my mother couldn’t stand it. I had the perfect solution—bangs. My hair was thick and I could easily hide behind it, but still I was hauled to one dermatologist after another in search of a cure.

The first one told my mother the oil from my hair was the culprit. So guess where my camouflage went? Tucked up under a headband so the world could view my Lego-like forehead. When that didn’t help, he decided I should be placed under a heat lamp long enough to charbroil my face—but to protect my eyes I got to wear tiny little John Lennon-like goggles. I looked like a raccoon for weeks afterwards—beet red over my entire face except around my eyes and where the straps were that held them in place—the goggles that is. Not my eyes.

She finally gave up on this particular doctor, especially when I told her I was tired of having the top three layers of my epidermis burned away. And his treatment didn’t work. So off we went to another doctor and another option, this time involving dry ice. After all, if extreme heat doesn’t work, we’ll just go in the opposite direction.

Note to everyone. Do not put dry ice on your forehead and leave it for extended periods of time. The resulting headache is not worth whatever it is you are trying to achieve.

So off we go to doctor number 3, an elderly gentleman with offices somewhere in the vastness that is Memphis. He looked at my bang-less forehead, listened as my mother recounted the efforts of those who had come before him, and then just shook his head. Warts are a virus. So you treat them like a virus. And he did with a magical little pill that cleared them up in a matter of days . . . or maybe weeks. I don’t really remember. I just know they were gone and I didn’t look like a raccoon or have a massive headache and I could wear bangs again. I never wanted to kiss anyone’s feet as badly as I did his.

Why for, you may ask, have I given you such a detailed glimpse into a character-building/traumatic part of my childhood? Because of the moral to the story. Don’t give up. You don’t always have to keep trying what someone tells you is the solution—especially when it obviously does not work—but when it doesn’t, move on to Plan B . . . or C . . . or however many letters of the alphabet it takes.

Grieving people need that kind of lesson because what works for one person may be the worst possible idea for someone else. But somewhere there is something that will relieve the pain, even if only for a moment. Perhaps it’s playing with the grandkids or listening to Beethoven’s 5 ^th Symphony in C Minor . . . or Glenn Miller’s version of almost anything. It may be a walk in the woods or an hour spent by the lake. You may find your relief in a room filled with friends or in the pages of a good book . . . by reaching out to others in need or by accepting their hand when someone reaches out to you. The peace you find may be fleeting at first, but as time passes the periods of respite will hopefully grow longer in their duration as the constant pain fades. Even if that process takes years, I believe a friend of mine hit the nail on the head when he offered these words of wisdom—words which I shall alter ever so slightly to fit this situation. Any relief is better than nothing . . . when nothing is all you have.

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It Takes a Village . . .

Wed, 21 Sep 2016 23:40:00 GMT

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, an anomaly for us. Usually there’s at least one funeral and a visitation to start and possibly even a family or two coming in to make arrangements. But this Sunday was different in a nice kind of way.

I was the only living human in the building—or so I thought—until I heard voices as I came down the service hall headed toward the garage . . . which just happens to be where my office is. At first they were hard to pinpoint. Women? Yes . . . maybe . . . In the lounge? I opened the door off the hallway and cautiously stuck my head inside. Nope. The room was dark and no one was lurking in a corner—at least not that I could see. Perhaps on the carport? I didn’t have my keys so I couldn’t look—and after all, if they were on the carport that was exactly where they needed to stay. But as I got closer to the prep room, the voices grew louder. That was a little odd since we only had one gentleman and he was not prone to conversation at the time. I punched the code into the lock, opened the door, and stuck my head in. To my surprise I found a hairdresser cutting said gentleman’s hair and as I began to speak, the head of one of the funeral director’s appeared from around the door frame. My observation that I had begun to believe the dead were conversing with themselves was met by the hairdresser’s observation that the ox was in the ditch, indicating this was the only time she could fulfill the family’s request before visitation started bright and early the next morning.

Her presence in our prep room that day gave me pause for thought. Everyone with an ounce of common sense knows that in order to have Sunday visitations or funerals you have to have funeral directors who will work on Sunday. But there are so many more people that are required to make that happen. Hairdressers are often asked to spare a few minutes and come to our building to work their magic. The guys at the service center in Selmer may have to deliver a casket so we can begin a visitation that evening for a family we saw that morning . . . which means the office secretary on call also makes an appearance to enter all the information into the computer so she can generate the register book and memorial folders. And if there is no secretary on call, one of the more technologically literate funeral directors will fill that role. The housekeeper comes in to make certain the building is ready, the lounge and restrooms are clean, and all the trash cans emptied from the day before. Florists may be asked to open their shops or work overtime to provide at least the family pieces on that day—and if the orders were heavy enough before then, there will be long hours making sure each one is filled. Ministers will arrive to visit with the family and conduct the service. Musicians may be on hand to provide live music rather than what we can download from iTunes. Are we serving a veteran’s family? Then the military honor guard from their particular branch of service may be called upon to fold and present the flag and play “Taps” while members of the VFW end the service with a 21 gun salute. And we haven’t even talked about the folks who may have to drive from Jackson to deliver and set a concrete vault and all the equipment . . . or our own crew who always makes certain the site is ready and the grave closed after everyone leaves.

It has been said that it takes a village to raise a child. Well, there are many other tasks in life that require a host of people for completion, funerals being one of them. There is a lot of work behind the scenes, done by people you never really see and probably don’t think about, to be certain that a family can say good-bye to someone they love without having to worry about the details. And sometimes we are working to get the ox out of the ditch because, for whatever reason, the timing is difficult to accommodate. But you know what? The amazing part of the entire process is that everyone does their part willingly, because they know how important the end result is to a family in mourning. No matter how large or how small the task, they are all necessary to reach the goal—a family cared for during one of life’s most difficult times.

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Rocks in the Toilet

Wed, 14 Sep 2016 18:53:00 GMT

It was a lovely spring evening at the ballpark, one spent watching grandson number one as he played and occasionally making the required trip to the concession stand with grandson number two (who leans more toward the artistic side of the world than the sporty side). But this particular trip involved a visit to the restroom . . . probably brought on by too many trips to the concession stand.

I insisted that he use the ladies’ side since I could at least help him if assistance was required and he didn’t have to expose himself to the world in the process. As I walked into the restroom, I was confronted with the sign you see here. My first thought was “Really?” but my second thought, which quickly followed on the heels of my first, was “Why did anyone think this was a good idea?”

Think about it. It should go without saying that rocks do not belong in the toilet for all kinds of reasons. To quote the great philosopher and comedian, James Gregory, “You know what that means? Sometime in the past . . .” As I mentally reviewed the categories of people that might be prone to such behavior, I decided the most likely candidates would be small children. Small children who do not have the required thought processes to understand that putting rocks into a toilet is bad . . . and who cannot read; therefore . . .

Anyone else who might engage in such behavior is engaging in intentional vandalism, so a mere sign attached to the wall, requesting that such behavior be avoided, is not going to deter them from their maliciousness. As I mentioned in paragraph three, sentence two, it should go without saying that rocks do not belong in the toilet.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of times in this life when stating the obvious should not be necessary, but it is. Don’t run with scissors. Don’t touch things that are hot. Don’t get into it with your family when someone dies. But time and time again, acceptable behaviors that should be understood are not—and the end result is never good.

I’m not going to start an in depth discussion regarding the consequences of running with sharp, pointy things or touching glowing red objects; those don’t really have any bearing on our role in life unless they end in Death. But I am going to tell you that everyone really appreciates it when a family can work together to honor a loved one. Sadly, that isn’t always the case. There will be those family members who will argue and threaten and stomp out of the proceedings and sometimes even require the presence of our local law enforcement. And you know what it all accomplishes? Absolutely nothing—other than to make an already difficult situation even worse.

Most families who are at odds with one another manage to declare a truce for just a few days and come together to plan and then attend the going away party. For those families we are exceedingly grateful. By setting aside their differences they have honored the life of the one they’ve lost. And for those who don’t even make a token effort? Their anger keeps them from focusing on the loss; it masks the true source of their pain and never allows them to begin healing. The day will come when they will regret their actions and it will probably be at a point when making amends is no longer an option. After all, there are only so many rocks you can throw in the toilet before it quits working all together—and the bigger the rock, the harder it is to remove.

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A Stranger’s Gift

Wed, 07 Sep 2016 22:25:00 GMT

Rarely ever do I find myself in a funeral procession for someone I don’t know. Generally, if I’m going to the cemetery for the committal service, the person who has died was a family member or close friend . . . meaning I’m more focused on the loss than on my surroundings. But recently, for reasons I won’t get into, I had that opportunity.

It was a small procession by some standards, four vehicles plus the hearse and the police escort. We did pick up another escort car as we passed under a traffic light, so he brought up the rear after assuring we were all safely through the intersection. Our journey took us down a residential street, through a stop sign and two red lights, and into the midst of the road construction on Pickwick. And all along the way I watched as people reacted to our presence.

We only met one car on College Street and it immediately pulled over and waited as we passed. There was a lawn service working in one of the yards and they stopped their equipment as we approached, waiting patiently . . . quietly . . . as we drove by. At the intersections traffic from all directions came to a halt as we slowly moved through first one light, then the next. Even the construction equipment on Pickwick ceased operation and a dump truck pulled over.

I know we often say the world doesn’t stop for Death, but there are moments when it really does, and this was one of those moments. Everyone we approached briefly hit the pause button on life so they could pay their respects to a person they had never met and a family in mourning.

I wondered if the family noticed. I wondered if they realized the significance of this one small act of kindness on the part of so many strangers. In a world that always seems to be in a hurry, simply stopping for that brief moment is a gift that many might overlook but one that speaks volumes, for it says that someone cares. Someone knows your pain, even if they don’t know you.

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Goodbye, Froderick

Thu, 01 Sep 2016 02:22:00 GMT

I’m always thinking about what I want to address in this blog, always looking for correlations in life that translate into Death lessons. So many situations have presented themselves lately—situations that would make excellent teaching moments or observations on life and its unpredictability. There are birthdays and signs in restrooms at ball fields and folks who still believe Tennessee recognizes common law marriage (news flash . . . they don’t) . . . and then Gene Wilder died. I never met him, although my brother-in-law did and found him to be “a kind and gentle man”, but I appreciated the body of work he left behind, especially those movies that also involved Mel Brooks.

The first VHS tape my husband and I ever owned was “Young Frankenstein” starring Gene Wilder as the descendent of the doctor who was infamous for his piecing together of the deceased in an attempt to recreate life. The young doctor so despised his heritage that he even refused to use the same pronunciation of his name, choosing rather to be known as “Froderick Frahnkensteen”. I gave it to Joe as either a Christmas or birthday gift; it’s been so long ago that I can’t remember which. It was a used one in good condition because we were newly married and money wasn’t exactly plentiful. Even then the bloomin’ thing cost me $70.00. That’s 1978 $70.00; new would have been much higher. Of course, those were the days when VCRs were the latest technology so everything about them was expensive. Now that I think about it, the occasion must have been Christmas since I seem to remember my parents giving us a VCR as our Christmas present. Joe didn’t understand why he had a VHS tape and nothing to play it on until much later in the day.

My children grew up watching that movie and if anyone ever quoted one line, our entire family joined in and we worked our way through every scene. My daughter revealed later that she used it as a test to determine if her then boyfriend (and now husband) was a keeper. If he hadn’t laughed, he’d have left. Fortunately, Dennis found it as funny as the rest of us.

Later Mr. Wilder would give life to Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka, making every small child—and any honest adult—wish there really was a factory with an edible candy garden through which a river of liquid chocolate flowed, all overseen by an eccentric candy maker with a heart of pure gold.

Eventually we allowed our children to watch “Blazing Saddles” although we probably didn’t wait nearly long enough for that one. I remember my father taking us to see it in some mall while we were on some trip. He laughed until he cried while my mother sat there, stone-faced in absolute silence. As we left the theater he was still laughing while wiping his eyes with his ever-present handkerchief and attempting to apologize for taking us to see it.

The flood of memories associated with someone that I know only through his portrayal of others has amazed me in its depth. And even though Gene Wilder hadn’t been extremely active artistically in his later years, the news of his death brought a profound sadness to his countless fans—me included. That night my daughter and her husband watched “Young Frankenstein” in his memory; she told me next might be “Willy Wonka” or perhaps “Blazing Saddles”. She hadn’t decided which at that point, but nightly watching of Gene Wilder movies would definitely happen. It is surprising how those we do not truly know can bring about such grief, not because they are no longer present in our lives—since they never really were—but because we simply know they are no longer here. We watch them as they bring fantasy to life and know they will never create that magic again. My one consolation is that whenever I want to visit with “Froderick” or Willy Wonka, the Waco Kid or Sigerson Holmes, Sherlock’s smarter brother—or relive the memories they helped me make—all I have to do is start up the DVD player . . . or the VCR.

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Sacred Ground

Wed, 24 Aug 2016 22:36:00 GMT

Recently we’ve been blessed with afternoon and evening rains that we seldom see in the month of August, rains that nourish the ground and allow the world to return to those wonderful shades of green that clothe early spring. But often the rain brings a friend or two . . . high wind and lightning to name a few. And recently one of those unruly guests wreaked havoc in a local cemetery.

I have an attachment to that cemetery. It holds the remains of my great-grandparents who also happen to be the founders of what is rapidly approaching a century old business. My aunt—my father’s little sister—who died as an infant is buried with them. Nearby you will find the Halls, the parents and brothers and sisters and in-laws of my grandmother on the Shackelford side.

Fortunately, the tree that fell during that storm was far away from the graves of my family. Unfortunately, it was surrounded by other graves, ones that are equally important to their families. A call from a member of the cemetery committee drew me to the spot and with pen and paper in hand to detail the damage and camera ready to permanently record the event, I wandered among the tree limbs and monuments, noting the names of those whose gravestones had been disturbed and the extent of the work to be done.

While I was there, members of the families affected began to arrive. One by one they surveyed the carnage. One by one they related the stories of those who lay beneath our feet—and for every story they did not tell, the monuments spoke for them.

There was the Major in the 91 ^st bomb group, a flight surgeon who was filling his required four hours of flight time when the newly repaired B-19 in which he was flying crashed in a field in Bassingbourn, Royston, England. The date was April 12, 1945. He was 31. Years later his parents were buried beside him.

There was the infant whose monument bears only one date and whose parents joined her decades later. Close by, another child sleeps; at the age of seven months she left her devastated parents who asked the stone carver to add to her monument “She was the sunshine of our home”. And unharmed among the debris stands the monument of a young mother who died as she gave birth to twins. According to her family that visited that day, her body lies within the earth, lovingly placed there with a babe cradled in each arm.

For many whose family members reside beneath the consecrated earth of this or any cemetery, it is sacred ground. When the time is right, the children are brought there, the history of their ancestors shared with them again and again until it becomes a part of their story—an oral retelling of their family’s roots and the people who came before them, passed from generation to generation.

That history and the ties that bind past and present are the reasons we become so distressed when those grounds are desecrated, whether by nature or by man. When monuments are damaged or destroyed, when flowers are stolen, when the ground is needlessly or thoughtlessly or maliciously disturbed, those whose history is bound within that place grieve again over what has been lost. Someone without such a connection may wonder why. After all, the dead are dead; they can’t feel the injuries inflicted upon them. I am certain that is an accurate observation—but I am equally certain that the living who cherish their memories most assuredly can.

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What About the Children?

Thu, 18 Aug 2016 01:31:00 GMT

They left on a simple business trip, a conference where they could learn from their peers and improve their performance in their chosen field. They should have returned home to their families, their friends, their patients and employees. But they didn’t. At least not as everyone believed they would. Not as everyone so desperately wishes they had.

Three mothers and fathers are now gone forever. Eleven children are orphaned. And a town is reeling from a loss the magnitude of which will only be known years from now. Anyone who knew them spoke highly of their leadership within the community, of their dedication to their families and their chosen careers. And always those observations are followed by “Pray for the children”.

I am absolutely certain no one would have dared think that anything so horrific could happen, that three families could be devastated in one terrible tragedy. And so many have echoed the same sentiment . . . what about the children?

It is a legitimate question, one that unfortunately demands an answer. What about the children? Without warning eleven children from loving homes instantly became orphans. There are probably grandparents. There are probably aunts and uncles who can serve as surrogates. But who decides to whom the task will fall? If these children need anything right now, it is stability and continuity and unconditional love. They cannot and must not be shuffled from pillar to post. So, what about the children?

When my son and daughter-in-law prepared to adopt our little Cora, they were required to make a very important decision, and not just a decision that would affect Cora but one that would also govern the lives of their two sons. What about the children? If something horrific happened to both of them, who would raise their children? It took a great deal of thought and prayer on their part and then a wee bit of courage when they had to approach the chosen couple and ask the all important question. If we die, will you take our three and raise them as your own? Will you accept the responsibility of teaching them and encouraging them, providing for them and guiding them for the rest of your lives? It was a decision that could not be taken lightly and, after much thought and prayer, the chosen ones said yes.

If you are a young parent, I would encourage you to ask that question and to find the answer. The parents from Oxford, Mississippi never doubted they would return home to see their children again—and just as they were denied that fully anticipated and very ordinary event—so Death can claim any one of us on any given day. That is one certainty on which you can bet. If you have children who have not yet reached the age of 18, this is a question that should be asked and answered and legally confirmed. If you fail to write out a will or have an attorney draw one for you, the world will not end if your material possessions fall into hands that you might deem unworthy. But the world of your children will be significantly impacted if someone who does not share your core values and beliefs—who will not love your children as their own—is required to fill your empty shoes. We worry so much about our earthly possessions. We establish trusts to protect them and craft wills to distribute them after our departure. But what about our most important legacy?

What about the children?

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Only the Beginning

Wed, 10 Aug 2016 22:47:00 GMT

I don’t exactly remember the year; time has gotten away from me now that I’m a certified antique. But I believe it was just as Joseph was entering middle school since trying out for the basketball team became an issue after he attempted to cut off his arm. We were at church one Sunday evening, preparing for a fellowship meal in the ministry building. It was the old building on Church Street—the building that had a wonderful basement with classrooms to either side and a hallway just made for running. My son, who at that time hated the Power Rangers, was busily scouring the building, chasing some younger kids who were pretending to be those much despised fictional characters. In order to escape their foe, they ran into one of the classrooms in the basement, slamming the door behind them. In order to stop the door from shutting (and thereby impeding his progress), Joseph raised his arm with every intention of hitting the wood frame of the door with his hand.

Instead his arm went through the glass that formed a window in said door.

With blood gushing everywhere, he came flying into the ministry building, yelling “MY ARM!! MY ARM!!” at which point some adult (who had not turned to fully assess the situation) shushed him. After all, we were about to pray. So Joseph stopped yelling and just stood there, wide-eyed and terrified, holding his arm with blood pooling at his feet. The shusher turned to identify the shushee and found a blood-splattered mess rather than an irreverent child. Praying ceased. Yelling resumed.

I was summoned and, being a mother, immediately guided my child to the nearest sink (for easier clean up) and inspected the damage as best I could. All the blood made that a little difficult. Not knowing the extent of his injury, I turned to the crowd gathered around me and said “Who’s going with me? If he’s nicked an artery, someone has to apply pressure or drive while I do.” Thank you, Girl Scout first aid training. Someone immediately volunteered, his arm was securely wrapped in paper towels (I don’t know why it was paper, but at the time I didn’t care), and we made our way to my van. The minister’s wife assured me she had custody of my daughter, the minister offered to call the emergency room to tell them I was coming, and somehow we got word to my husband who was at work.

Once things settled down and the surgeon (who also happened to be a good friend) had looked at Joseph’s arm, he determined a tendon had been nicked but no artery, the skin that I assumed had been left on the basement floor was actually pushed into his arm and could be reattached, and all was going to be well . . . but it was gonna take a while . . . and a fair number of stitches.

In the days that followed I heard people commenting on how composed I had been, how I had calmly viewed the situation and taken appropriate action instead of hysterically running from the building. What they didn’t know was once I knew my son was going to be all right, I politely excused myself from the exam room, went into the nearest restroom, and threw up. That’s how I roll. Calm in the face of disaster. Retching afterwards.

I’ve told you all of that to illustrate a very important point. And, of course, it involves Death. When he comes to call there may be those initial moments of shock or dismay or intense sorrow. But as the process moves forward, those who are the most involved and who were closest to the deceased have their focus shifted to the planning and the visitation and the funeral. They are still very much aware of the loss, but distracted by the activity around them. It’s a blessing—and a curse, for when everyone goes away, and they walk into a quiet house, surrounded by every tangible memory of someone who is no longer there, the loss becomes very real and often unbearable.

So today’s message isn’t as much for the grieving as for those who would minister to them. Remember that grief is only beginning when the funeral ends and your presence will be needed far more in the days and weeks and months ahead than it ever was during those first few hours. Humans were never meant to be solitary creatures or to bear their burdens alone. So please, be prepared to listen endlessly, to wipe away countless tears, to love and accept unconditionally—for as long as it takes. Patience is truly a virtue, and never more so than when helping someone navigate through loss.

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The Depth of Grief

Wed, 03 Aug 2016 19:31:00 GMT

Ok. Before I get mired up to my eyeballs in what will probably be a mess, I want to make a few things perfectly, abundantly clear.

1. In this particular instance, I do not care about this woman’s political leanings. That is not the point of this blog.

2. In this particular instance, I do not care about this woman’s religious beliefs or practices. That is not the point of this blog.

3. In this particular instance, I do not care about the World War that seems to have been precipitated by the situation. That is not the point of this blog.

Now that we hopefully understand each other, I shall offer a bit of history so the point I do wish to make is perfectly, abundantly clear. Unfortunately, that history is going to touch on the two subjects I was ALWAYS warned to stay away from by folks far wiser than I—politics and religion. Hence, caveats one and two.

At the Democratic National Convention, someone deemed it advisable to have the parents of Humayun Khan appear on the stage and address the delegates. This young man was a captain in the Army who died 12 years ago in Iraq, the result of a car bomb outside the gates of his base. I did not listen to his father’s speech just as I did not watch any of the news coverage for either convention. But I did read the letter his mother wrote after the eruption of the aforementioned World War.

Her words are the words of every mother and every father who has ever been forced to relinquish a child to Death. And I want to be certain as many people as possible hear those words because they give voice to the agony that is a parent’s grief.

“ . . . every day I feel the pain of his loss. It has been 12 years, but you know hearts of pain can never heal as long as we live. Just talking about it is hard for me all the time. Every day, whenever I pray, I have to pray for him, and I cry.

“The place that emptied will always be empty.”

He was 27 when he died, but age doesn’t lessen the pain. It is as difficult to hand over your hopes and dreams when your child dies before birth as it is to watch them taken at age 20 . . . or 30 . . . or 40. No parent should ever be forced to bury their child; in the natural order of things it is unnatural for the young to leave before those who are so much older. But Death has no reason to listen to our pleas—or to spare our children.

Death is the great equalizer, bringing in its wake unimaginable grief. The depth of that grief is not lessened by how much wealth you possess. It is not affected by your station in life or the power or influence you might wield. Death and the grief that follows are equal opportunity villains; they do not discriminate based on race, color, religion, sex, national origin, or age. One thing and one thing only will determine the depth of your grief—and that is the depth of your love.

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Peace in the Storm

Thu, 28 Jul 2016 02:58:00 GMT

On June 17, 2016 (at 11 minutes after midnight, to be exact), we posted this picture on our Facebook page. The grave belongs to Florence Irene Ford who died at the age of 10 in 1871. Florence had been terrified of storms during her brief life, so at her death her mother had a special space constructed at the head of her grave and a glass window installed in her casket. When storms began to brew, her mother would make her way to the cemetery, descend the set of stairs that were included in the design, and sit there throughout the storm, comforting her child. Metal doors were used to close off the space, protecting her from the same storm that she braved in order to be with her Florence.

That post was seen by 14,039 people, compliments of having been shared 92 times. It was liked by 259 people; 32 loved it, 29 hit the WOW button, and 21 indicated they were saddened by it. And 72 comments were added, ranging from “this is really creepy” to “this just goes to show that a mother’s love knows no bounds”. Those numbers may not seem like a lot to the standard Facebook user, but for our little page it was a bunch.

My daughter came to visit the following day and I showed her the post, mainly because I thought it was fascinating and because of how many people seemed touched by Florence’s story. In scrolling through the comments, I noted that most of them focused on her mother’s love and how her actions spoke of that. Kathryne looked at the picture, contemplated the history, and then commented “It seems to speak more to her need for a good grief counselor.”

Now, as right as everyone was who commented on the post (including the ones who used the word “creepy”), Kathryne also hit the proverbial nail on the head. The love Florence’s mother held—and the grief—drove her to lengths most normal people would not even consider. The part of Florence that was so fearful, the part that caused her to tremble at the fury of the storm and run to her mother for reassurance, no longer walked this mortal plain. But the body that provided a home for her spirit was still very real and very present, even if it was safely tucked away in the Natchez City Cemetery in Natchez, Mississippi. Florence’s mother may have intended to comfort her child but in truth it was the mother who was comforted.

Grief is real. It is agonizing. It can take a sane human being and turn them into a nonfunctional mess. And there is nothing we can do to stop it. Grief must run its course and must be acknowledged. It demands to be recognized as the force that it is and failure to do so will only prolong its stay. Florence Ford’s mother found a way to cope with her loss and as strange as it might seem to us, for her it was the only way. By offering comfort, there was comfort to be had. By reassuring her child, she found her own personal peace within the storm.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to find that comfort. Not everyone is blessed with peace during the storm, and no matter how much they struggle, it will not come. Hence my little Kathryne’s observation. Hence our SUNRISE Aftercare program and our grief counselor. Not every battle can be fought alone nor should anyone ever feel they must. For every storm there is a port where the waters are calm . . . for every person that port is different. You just have to search until you find yours.

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His Story

Wed, 20 Jul 2016 23:30:00 GMT

He walked into the office, sure in his mission but uncertain as to how he should proceed. When we sat down he began to share his story . . . how his wife had struggled for years with health problems . . . how she had beaten cancer once but having had it meant no one would insure her . . . how it had taken her a year to recover from a reaction to some medication and how things seemed to be improving . . . until the new cancer diagnosis caught them by surprise . . . how they had not found it soon enough . . . how he needed to know what he could do and how he could afford it.

We talked about what he wanted. It should be simple but something that would honor her life. They had been married for almost 44 years and had been through so much together. They had never had any children but she had a niece and a nephew that she loved as her own. This would be the last thing he could do for her; he just hoped he had long enough to financially prepare. And he tried but time was not on his side. When Hope gave way to Death he had made progress, just not as much as he had planned.

He asked for a graveside service and some time for the family to gather and friends to come. The niece and nephew stayed close by and a few people wandered in and out of the room . . . a very few. When I stepped in to speak with him a woman stood before me, bent over the register book, signing her name and writing a note on one of the dividing pages. I could tell she was crying as she did and when she moved away I thought about signing it, too, but I didn’t. I wish now that I had. He came around the partition and recognition flashed across his face when he saw me. I asked how he was and he noted that some friends he’d expected hadn’t been by, but that was all right. It was a Sunday, and I told him it was early in the afternoon and they might still be in church. He smiled, knowing his friends better than I did, and replied “Or still asleep.” We both decided we might be the same way, if we had our druthers. He moved away and I returned to work.

When the hearse reached the cemetery with the family close behind, they parked and prepared to carry her to her final resting place. He looked at the funeral directors and told them they’d decided to just go ahead with the burial. No words would be spoken, no prayers uttered, no music played. Only four of them had made the brief drive to the cemetery and they had all said their good-byes before they left the building. So under a clear blue sky, in the sweltering heat, the four people who loved her most in this life watched as her body was slowly lowered into the earth.

From that first day in our office until the last goodbye, this man and his loss haunted me. Later I asked him if I might share some of his story. I told him where it would be and that I would never mention his name and he never hesitated. “Yes ma’am. That’ll be fine. Whatever you want to do.” I really don’t know why I feel compelled to give you a glimpse into this time in his life, but compelled does not even begin to describe the need. Perhaps it’s because I could see the love and sorrow in his eyes. Perhaps because I could hear the resignation in his voice when he first came to us and could see the forgiveness he had for those who let him down when he had really counted on them. Or perhaps because we all need to understand how powerful our presence—or our absence—can be when Death comes to call.

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A Time and a Place

Thu, 14 Jul 2016 02:09:00 GMT

I was leaving the building late Tuesday when a car swerved into the drive from which I was attempting to exit, flew into the upper tier of the parking lot and then stopped directly in front of the fountain that’s directly in front of the building. After a few seconds, the vehicle slowly moved away, turned down the opposite drive, stopped for a few minutes at the end, and then pulled onto Church Street and sped away.

Now throughout the years we’ve had our fair share of folks meeting on our grounds for various and sundry reasons, not all of which are innocent. And this encounter was such that I actually left then came back and circled the building to be certain the mysterious car hadn’t returned.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I began to realize exactly what had happened, but not being as familiar with the online gaming world as I could be (actually, how ‘bout I know absolutely nothing about the online gaming world), I needed to have my suspicions confirmed. Later that day, the secretary did just that.

We have a little digital dude hanging out around our fountain.

Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that the funeral home in Savannah is a stop in Pokémon Go . For an explanation of what this means, I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the game.

Pokémon Go is a game that uses the GPS and clock on your phone to populate the world around you with Pokémon. Once you download the free app, you track the little imaginary creatures in the real world, catching them as you can while exploring your surroundings. There’s a lot more to it than that, but at least now you have the basics.

It sounds great. People, especially kids, are getting out of the house and becoming acquainted with their communities. Adults are getting to revisit their Pokémon childhoods. But unfortunately, sometimes these little cloud-based critters show up at some rather inappropriate places . . . like, say Arlington National Cemetery or the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. . . or perhaps the Auschwitz Memorial in Poland. Somehow, game playing seems a little irreverent while standing at scenes that memorialize great tragedies or those who sacrificed themselves for freedom. Ok, a lot irreverent—which may be the reason these sites are hoping to have themselves removed from the game.

Other historic sites and facilities are trying to incorporate the game into their structure because they realize that Pokémon Go is accomplishing something they’ve tried to do for years, sometimes not very successfully—encourage people to visit them. And some folks are actually taking the time to truly explore the site . . . after they catch all the available Pokémon.

All of which allows us to make an observation regarding technology. The world we currently live in is amazing. We can wirelessly communicate with people around the world. We can find out almost anything we want to know by simply searching the Internet (as long as we’re very careful about what we believe and verify the truth of our discoveries). Most of us carry a combination phone/computer/camera around in our pocket unless, of course, we’re asleep. Then it’s under our pillow or on the bedside table or still clutched in our hand. That kind of access is very powerful . . . and very addictive. But there is a time and a place for most everything and perhaps it’s not the best time to catch Pokémon while contemplating the deaths of millions of innocent people. It’s probably not a good idea to take selfies while visiting a cemetery dedicated to our service men and women or a memorial to those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. Think about where you are before you pull out your cell phone and indulge.

We don’t mind folks coming to the funeral home to catch Pokémon. As a matter of fact, it’s kinda nice to be included. Just please remember as you come into the parking lot—or wherever else you may go on your quest—timing is everything. If people are streaming out of our building while dabbing their eyes with tissues and making their ways to their cars, it’s a pretty good clue that maybe you should come back in a few minutes. Technology is a wonderful thing as long as it is used with respect—respect for the place where we are and respect for the feelings of those around us.

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The Best Laid Plans

Thu, 07 Jul 2016 02:43:00 GMT

The Shackelfords on my side of the world are rarely ever on time . . . so rarely, in fact, that I’ve told folks it’s a little known sign of the second coming when it happens. But this past Sunday morning looked like it would be the exception to the rule. I actually left the house early enough to get to church and be on time—just barely, but still on time.

I generally go “the back way” meaning I miss the traffic and the red lights. I’ll head down Wayne Road, take a left on Harbert Drive, right on Pinhook, left on Bain, right on Stout, left on Florence Road, then a right on Ranch which runs beside the church parking lot. It’s a lot of zigging and zagging with a few stop signs and just one red light—and no place to pass anyone who gets in your way.

I might also mention that I share my father’s impatience with those who do not drive at least the speed limit.

So I started down Wayne Road and made my left on Harbert . . . and landed right behind a charcoal gray Mustang. You’d think a Mustang would go faster than 20 miles an hour, but it was Sunday and I stood a chance of being on time, so 20 it was. As I putted along, I thought “Surely, they won’t turn right on Pinhook. After all, I have a 50/50 chance of them turning left. If they’ll just turn left then I can make my right turn and . . . nope, there’s the right turn signal. Ok. Surely they won’t turn left on Bain. After all, I have a 50/50 chance of them just following Pinhook on around and heading toward town instead of left on Bain. If they’ll just go straight on Pinhook then I can . . . nope, there’s the left turn signal.” My brain went into overdrive (literally) and I thought “I can turn left on Youngs Lane which weaves around (a lot), turns into Talley and finally hits Florence Road. As slow as this Mustang is moving I’ll be on Florence Road before they even get to the end of Bain, much less turn right on Stout (if they plan on turning right on Stout which, given how things have gone so far, is definitely gonna happen), so I’ll be ahead of them and not feel like I’m driving through molasses.”

So I turned on Youngs Lane, negotiating the curves with expert skill, quickly reaching Florence Road. I glanced to my left to see if I actually did beat the Mustang. To my delight, there was no Mustang to be seen . . . just this large piece of farm equipment crawling down the road . . . at 20 miles an hour. He was nice enough to pull over and let the traffic by when he had the chance, but I had already waved the white flag of surrender . . . and it was 9:05. My Sunday morning class started at 9:00.

Life has a way of smackin’ you in the face and then laughing when you look surprised. Robert Burns put it a little more poetically when he said “The best laid plans o’ mice and men go oft astray.” Actually, he said “gang aft agley” which means pretty much the same thing. I had it all worked out so I could actually be on time for a change but Life conspired against me. Often our best laid plans are forced to the sidelines while we deal with the curve balls of Life. Those curve balls can come from so many different directions—financial problems, illness, Death—and many of them are inevitable, especially that Death one.

It would be nice if everyone knew when they would draw their last breath (or maybe not), but at least then we’d know how long we had to prepare. When do we need to have our will drawn? What about making preparations so our family will not suffer financially when we leave this earthly plain? Do the people who are the most important to us honestly know how we feel? Are there apologies to be made or wrongs to be righted?

The inevitables of life are rarely ever pleasant but always certain, and to pretend they do not exist—or that we have plenty of time in which to address them—is naïve at best and foolish at the very worst. And Death, the greatest inevitable of all—the one for which we all should plan but seldom do—is the one that will create the greatest havoc if it manages to catch us unprepared. As difficult as it is to contemplate our own mortality and plan with that in mind, we owe it to the people we love to do just that.

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Callie Cat

Wed, 29 Jun 2016 23:41:00 GMT

Almost one year ago to the day, this little creature appeared at our back door. It was 2:45 in the morning (although as far as I’m concerned, that’s still night) and I was peacefully snoozing when my dreams were interrupted by incessant cat crying. Now we have several cats but this didn’t sound like any of them, so I crawled out of the bed, stumbled to the door . . . and found this.

She was so excited to find a people and even more excited to find food. Although I made a feeble attempt to find her a home, I knew she already had one. After all, how many tiny little kittens show up on your doorstep at 2:45 in the morning that aren’t meant to be there?

In the year that has followed I have learned a great deal about this little thing. I named her Callie (‘cause she’s a calico . . . get it? Ok, not very original, but it stuck—and I can refer to her as Callie Cat) and quickly realized that she would become my most independent kitty, not to mention vicious.

She’s still tiny and rather unassuming . . . until you reach down to pet her. Depending on the day, she’ll either arch her back and purr or roll over on it and try to eat you. If you pick her up and hold her correctly (straight up with one hand supporting her front legs), she’ll either rub against your hand and purr while you pet her or try to eat your face. And you never know which day it is until it’s too late. This cat has gifted me with more scratches and scars than all our other cats combined. And that’s a lot of cats.

The other evening I picked her up, suggesting that it would be neither polite nor wise to attack my face, when it occurred to me that my cat was the perfect metaphor for grief. (I’m sorry, but when your life revolves around Death, you find correlations in the strangest places.)

Callie showed up on our doorstep at a most inconvenient time, robbing me of much needed rest and demanding that I pay attention to her, much as grief often arrives unannounced and proceeds to turn your world upside down and inside out. She is totally unpredictable, a condition in which grief specializes. One day you may barely be aware of its presence and the next it’s trying to rip your heart out. And you never know which day will be which. Oh, there are the givens . . . birthdays, holidays, special places you shared with a certain someone . . . but for the most part, grief has unpredictability down to a science.

I am hopeful, but not too much so, that as Callie ages she will mellow so I won’t always have to look at my grandchildren and warn them about “that cat”. For most of those who are grieving, the passage of time will soften the pain, but it never truly takes it away. Just as I will never fully trust Callie to be consistently sociable no matter how many years she stays with us, you can never trust that grieving has ended. There will always be that day . . . you just won’t always know which day it will be.

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Memories, Not Dreams

Wed, 22 Jun 2016 22:22:00 GMT

They had just gotten her turned and settled. He lay down on the small bed next to hers, planning to spend another night watching . . . waiting . . . but before he could drift off to sleep she called to him, asking to be turned again. “Why?” he questioned. “We just turned you over.”

“I want to look at you.”

She knew it wouldn’t be long and with her words he knew the same. At that moment, with Death so very close, she wanted to look at the man with whom she’d spent a lifetime. It hadn’t been easy; there had been struggles and disappointments and loss. But now, in those last few hours, she wanted to see the face of the man who had walked beside her through it all.

There is a moment when Life and Death collide and you suddenly realize what is important. If you are fortunate, you have known it all along; you have taken advantage of it, nurtured it and cherished it. If you have not, the realization will be accompanied by the knowledge that it is too late. Whether we know it or not, from the day we are born until our last breath we are all preparing for that moment. And although this blog usually addresses Death in some form or fashion, on occasion we will encourage our readers to actually, really live. Given the story just related, today will be one of those days.

Make the most of the time you have.

Appreciate the people around you.

Practice kindness and generosity at every opportunity.

Die with memories, not dreams.

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Through a Child’s Eyes

Wed, 15 Jun 2016 21:40:00 GMT

Children are such amazing creatures. They see and hear and remember EVERYTHING . . . especially if we don’t want them to. And every observation is generally met with the same frustrating, unanswerable question. Why? Why does it look like that? Why did fill-in-the-blank do that? Why can’t I do that, too?

Most of the time, we can wing it. We can create a plausible response that an innocent child will accept. But when that “Why?” follows on the heels of tragedy, when it is generated by Death run rampant and there is no plausible response that will not destroy their innocence . . . what do you say?

Every answer is different. Every answer depends upon a host of circumstances. How old is your child? How much do they already know and how much will they understand? But no matter the circumstances, there are some guidelines that should be followed in every instance.

When they ask you “Why ?”after tragedies such as the one in Orlando, they are asking so much more. That “Why?” includes “Will I be safe?”, “Can that happen to me?”, “What did those people do that made that person so angry?” As adults we know the odds of safety are on our side and that no one did anything to incite the carnage. But these are lessons our children must learn. Without understanding the depth of the question, our answers can leave them empty and fearful. So first and foremost, understand what they truly want to know; you can do that by actually listening more and speaking less. Allow them to talk to you, then address the concerns they have expressed.

Children need to know that feeling scared or sad is all right. Unfortunately, it’s part of life and there are times, such as when Death takes someone we love, that feeling sad or even scared is not only understandable but normal. And it’s all right to cry when those times come. Trying to shelter our children from life so that fear and sadness are not in their vocabulary is a pleasant notion, but not very realistic. And when we experience those emotions, trying to hide them from our children will be an effort in futility. Not only do they see and hear and remember, they are extremely perceptive. They know when things are not right and refusing to include them will only lead to greater distress on their part.

Above all, never, never lie to them in an effort to soften the truth. Even the smallest of lies will destroy not only their innocence but their trust in you. And when they express concern over devastating events, do not brush them off or attempt to distract them from their questions. If you do not answer them, someone else will. It may be their friends, it may be other adults, it may be someone on the television or their own vivid imaginations, but you should always be their first resource when they are troubled. If you fail them repeatedly because you do not or cannot confront their reality, they will learn to ask their questions elsewhere.

When catastrophic events occur in our world, our children need to be reassured, they need to feel safe again—and that’s when we take our cue from the words of Fred Rogers. “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.” For every evil person in this world there are thousands of good ones, people who will do whatever they can to make this a better place than when they arrived. Your child needs to know this. They need to believe this. And they need to understand that the choices we make decide which person we will become. Even they can work to make our world a better place. Even they can make a difference. But when you tell them that, you better be prepared to lead by example.

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Perils of the Professionals

Thu, 09 Jun 2016 03:26:00 GMT

It was a long stretch of highway, a ribbon of asphalt that seemed to run forever. No towns to break the monotony. No houses scattered about that could give one a false sense of security should anything happen that required assistance. Not even a street light to chase away the absolute darkness.

There had been two routes from which to choose, both leading to the same destination, both leading through the same scenery. Dark . . . desolate . . . heavily wooded . . . . on both sides of the road. He had been fortunate in his years as a funeral director. The late night trips had not come regularly, but tonight it was his to make. Over an hour one way to a place we might refer to as the no-man’s land of death care. No mortuary services close enough to assist. No full service funeral home with which he was familiar that could make the removal and shelter the remains until morning. The call had come around midnight and after reviewing the lack of options, he realized the journey was his to make.

The trip over was uneventful, the staff at the facility helpful but possibly not quite awake which was understandable. After all, it was the middle of the night. With his passenger safely inside and securely in place, he began the trip home. And then he came to that desolate stretch of uninhabited highway . . . and he began to speculate. What if the staff was so tired that they accidently missed the faintest of heartbeats? What if his passenger wasn’t really deceased but just barely alive? What if she started making noise . . . directly behind his seat . . . while he was driving down the road . . . by himself . . . in the dark . . .

His foot may have gotten just the slightest bit heavier until civilization came into view.

It was this same funeral director who, after meeting a family at the hospital in the wee hours one morning, returned to the funeral home and, as he exited the vehicle to raise the garage door, realized they had followed him—and were approaching him. Big, burly men who could snap him in two like a mere twig. Where could he go if that was their intent? And how would he know before it was too late? They had been distraught at the hospital, but not angry. They had not really wanted him to leave, but understood that he must. Why would they have followed him . . . and what should he do? Dashing into the building was not an option. The garage door was still down and, being old and cantankerous, was likely to balk at the most inopportune time. Back into the van? By then they were too close for that to serve as Plan B. But they only wanted to be certain he knew who held the Power of Attorney for Healthcare and, therefore, to whom we should listen when the time came to make arrangements. And they didn’t want other members of the family to know they had that conversation with us, so what better time than at 2:00 in the morning behind a dark building? Later he observed that, at that precise moment, he realized he could die doing this job.

If you’ve been in funeral service very long, you’ve had your scary moments, most of which are manufactured by overactive imaginations but a few of which are very real. The manufactured ones will put your nerves on edge and force you to look over your shoulder more than once. But when it is reality that comes calling, all you can do is weather the storm—there is no avoiding it—and then be grateful when it passes and all you are is wet and a little wind-blown.

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Thirty-Eight Years

Thu, 02 Jun 2016 03:32:00 GMT

Thirty-eight years ago—June 1, 1978 to be exact—I walked through the doors of the old funeral home on Main Street. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done that at least a million times before, but this time I came as a full time employee, hired by my father to assist my mother with the bookkeeping. It was an area in which I had been educated, having just spent four years in college learning a whole bunch of stuff, none of which turned out to be very helpful. As a matter of fact, most of my education proved enlightening but useless—except for debits on the left, credits on the right, and all entries must balance. Pretty much everything else had no real world application.

As the businesses grew so did my responsibilities. My father wanted me to get my funeral director’s license so I registered as an apprentice and he put me to work. (I balked, however, at becoming an EMT so I could ride the ambulance.) I remember one particularly busy day when we tag-teamed our way through six families. I would take the personal information and cover the Federal Trade Commission required disclosures then he would step in to set funeral times and assist with merchandise selections. By the end of the day, everyone had been cared for and my head was trying to explode.

I started in the days of giant journals with handwritten entries and ledger books with page after page of transferred numerical data. And lots and lots of adding ‘cause if your fingers didn’t pay attention, you got to hunt the mistakes. Reading back over that, I feel like something out of a Dickens novel, say Bob Cratchit from “A Christmas Carol”. All I needed was a coal oil lamp and a little visor. As much writing as there was, it was all relatively simple. Nothing crashed, if I got an entry in the wrong account I could easily find it . . . there were just days I thought my hand would fall off.

But life is unpredictable, which is a gross understatement. The coming of my children put a stop to becoming a funeral director, at least for a decade or two, but when my father’s health began to fail, I could see the handwriting on the wall. In Tennessee one cannot manage a funeral home unless one is a licensed funeral director. So little by little, I ceded my accounting duties to others and assumed a role I never dreamed would be mine. I went from being an accounting major to being an accounting major with a funeral director’s license and the need for a sign that said “The Buck Stops Here”.

I would like to say that it has been smooth sailing and the world at large has been cooperative, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Grief and loss do not always bring out the best in people, and when they are annoyed or angry they generally will settle for no less than “the person in charge”. That doesn’t always make for pleasant days but it can make for churning stomachs and racing hearts. And headaches. Lots and lots of headaches. Accountants don’t have to deal with angry people. They get to hide in tiny rooms and have little or no real interaction with the public. Funeral directors are like anti-accountants.

I have awarded myself several titles over the years—“Handler of Miscellaneous Mess”, “General Flunkie”, and “Fire Fighter” to name a few. But you know, despite the ups and downs, despite those days when it seems as though you can do nothing right, I would not change who I have become over the last 38 years. This profession is one of the few where we are allowed to be servants on a daily basis, ministering to those who often cannot find their way through the fog that is grief, guiding them along the path until they can hopefully see the light of day. Yes, there are sleepless nights and hectic days and times when you feel helpless in the face of Death, but there is also a sense of peace that comes when you know you have made a positive difference at a devastating time.

So here I am, and here I will probably stay for at least another year or two. In celebration of my 38 year milestone, my daughter brought a Peanut Butter and Banana Cake with Nutella Glaze which we all promptly devoured . . . and then the phone rang . . . and the office grew quiet in the knowledge that another family had been given a burden too great to bear alone . . . a burden that we will do our best to help them carry. Everyone who works here arrived by very different paths, but we are all here for the same reason. We are here . . . I am here . . . because we care.

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Reunited

Thu, 26 May 2016 01:57:00 GMT

He was only a few weeks old when Death came to call. It was November of 1963; his parents lived in Savannah and chose to bury him in a local cemetery. Time passed, their lives changed, and work necessitated a move south. Although they were hundreds of miles away from their son, he was never far from their thoughts.

When her husband died she intended to bring him to Savannah, to reunite him with their son, but the other children pleaded with her. Not so far away. Not where we can’t easily visit his grave. So she found a suitable cemetery in what was now home and buried him there, a decision that meant her child was still alone.

But it didn’t have to be that way, and after giving it some thought and asking enough questions, she realized they could still be reunited, if not where her son was then in the cemetery chosen for her husband. So the paperwork was done, the appropriate permits obtained, and on a beautiful Monday morning, his grave was opened and his casket and vault carefully removed. Entrusted to the care and safekeeping of one of the funeral directors, he was transported to his new home where another funeral director had seen to it that a place was prepared to receive his remains. And as they all stood and reverently watched, his tiny casket and vault were lowered into the earth next to his father . . . and his mother grasped the hand of the funeral director and wept.

It had been almost 53 years, but there was still grief at the loss and still a need to have her family together. The thought of her child so far away and alone was one that deprived her of sleep and instilled a yearning in her heart that could not be satisfied any other way. Death, no matter how distant, can still bring sorrow and, in this instance, joy at a family reunited. And the tears she shed at his grave that day were tears of both.

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Not My Circus. Not My Monkeys.

Thu, 19 May 2016 02:32:00 GMT

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

I absolutely love that. The first time I ever heard it was during a conversation with my daughter about I-don’t-remember-what . . . but it was definitely something extremely annoying and definitely something out of her control. She exited bookkeeping, turned around and came back through the door, looked at me, and uttered those wonderful words. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

Oh, the applications in which that observation is appropriate—only I’m usually turning it around, at least in my head. Not YOUR circus. Not YOUR monkeys. In other words, the questions you are asking are none of your business and you’re old enough to know that. Or no, you aren’t the one in charge of the funeral arrangements because you aren’t the legal next-of-kin, so you need to sit down and be quiet.

But sometimes, the converse is true. It is your circus and they are your monkeys. Sadly, it seems that more and more families are at odds with one another, unwilling to compromise or even speak to each other, a state of affairs that makes holding an arrangement conference very difficult if not impossible. Or, worse yet, their relationship with the one who has died is so strained—or nonexistent—that they refuse to accept the responsibility of making those arrangements at all. Actually, the laws of the State of Tennessee don’t refer to it as a responsibility. In their legislative wisdom, they called it a “right”.

That word implies so much. I have the right to tell my loved one good-bye. I have the right to determine how that farewell will be conducted. I have the right to make the decisions that will be required. It is something I have been given, not through any effort of my own, but by virtue of the position I occupy. I am the spouse or the child or the sibling . . . I am the closest family member that person had . . . the one who should have loved them the most. Instead, too many times the person or persons granted that right by law adopts the not my circus, not my monkeys philosophy, sometimes even going so far as to deny their kinship to the one who has died. And that’s the saddest thing of all where rights are concerned. They just don’t seem to carry the same weight as responsibilities.

So when no one claims the circus and no one wants to take care of the monkeys, what happens? I can’t speak for everywhere, but I can tell you what happens in Tennessee. There’s a list we have to go through and extended periods of time we have to wait before we can move to the next person on the list. And the very last option on that list is the most depressing: “any other person willing to assume the responsibilities to act and arrange the final disposition of the decedent’s remains“. In other words, it is entirely possible when someone’s life comes to an end that a total stranger will eventually be entrusted with disposing of their body.

I have often told my children I hope I never make them so mad that they refuse to bury me when the time comes. So far, I think they’re still willing to take ownership of the circus and the monkeys, although some days that might be questionable. But not everyone is that fortunate. If you know of someone—or you are someone—whose circus will someday be unattended, please talk to us now. There are steps that can be taken to avoid becoming another tally mark in the unclaimed human remains column. And please don’t adopt the “I’ll be dead so I won’t care” mentality. Right now, it’s still your circus and you owe it to yourself to care of the monkeys.

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Rumors and Lies

Thu, 12 May 2016 02:03:00 GMT

In case you missed it, Prince died a couple of weeks ago. I walked into the front office and someone mentioned his death to which someone else replied, “Wait a minute. Is that like THE Prince or is that like Prince Somebody?”

Less than five minutes after the man’s death was announced, the theories began to surface. His plane had made an emergency landing coming back from a concert just a few days before. What if whatever precipitated the landing actually caused his death? He had allegedly been unresponsive due to an overdose on the pain killer Percocet. What if he was addicted? It might have happened again. The hypothecating continued, becoming more and more absurd with each one. He died from taking the flu vaccine; no, wait . . . he died from the flu. Wait, Aretha Franklin said it was the Zika virus. But somebody else said he was still alive and probably in Cuba. And then my personal favorite, he was murdered in an Illuminati blood sacrifice ritual. In an elevator. Because we all know that’s where any self-respecting member of the Illuminati conducts their blood sacrifices.

Really, people?

The saddest part about all of this is there are those in this world who will not only believe all this mess, but continue to spread it as truth. Why? Evidently because we can’t stand not knowing why something terrible has happened . . . so if we don’t know the actual reason we’ll just make one up. And then tell EVERYBODY.

Rating right up there with that fiction as truth thing is the sad fact that the common man—or woman—is not immune from the web of lies that seem to be woven around unknown circumstances. Let a young person die that has not been suffering from a terminal illness and suddenly Facebook is awash in reasons why. And, of course, they’re never nice ones. It can’t be that they might have had a heart attack or some undetected genetic abnormality. Nope. That’s too ordinary. They had to have been a drug addict or it was a suicide or someone murdered them or . . .

I cannot begin to imagine how the families left behind must feel. Not only do they have to deal with the sudden loss of someone they love, they are forced to listen as the world debates why. That “why” is definitely important to the family; they need to understand what happened. But the rest of us? Not so much.

In a way, celebrities like Prince are very fortunate. There has been an autopsy. There is a continuing investigation. And when the results are finally known they will be plastered all over every social media outlet and checkout line tabloid. Then everyone can quit theorizing and go back to actual business. But for ordinary folks, even if there is an autopsy, even if there is an investigation, there rarely ever is the over-the-top public announcement as to the cause. So from here to eternity, the family must bear the shame of events that never happened.

Please, for the sake of those left behind, watch your words when Death comes suddenly and unexpectedly. If you wouldn’t say it to the face of their closest kin, don’t put it on Facebook or spread it as gospel. It serves no useful purpose . . . except maybe to make you feel important . . . and it certainly doesn’t help matters. Before you post, put yourself in their place, and then decide if you really want to make someone’s hopeless situation even worse.

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Reflections

Thu, 05 May 2016 02:25:00 GMT

Warning. I am about to make a tremendous understatement.

Holidays are tough.

There. I said it. Holidays are hard when grief gets in the way. Maybe not every holiday. Maybe not Halloween or St. Patrick’s Day so much. But those holidays that center around family—like Christmas and Thanksgiving—and those that focus on one particular person—say, like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day—those are difficult to celebrate when someone special is missing.

Mother’s Day is just around the corner and, like most of the rest of the world, I have a mother. She’s just not here. If I want to visit her, I won’t be going to her home or some nursing home or assisted living facility. I can forget about calling her. We disconnected my parents’ home phone years ago . . . and she was never very good with a cell phone . . . not that it would matter anymore. And if I want to send her flowers they’ll have to go to the cemetery instead of some residential address.

It’s hard to buy a Mother’s Day card for my mother-in-law, not because of anything she’s done. She’s a lovely person who accepted me as her own from the very beginning and has always treated me with love and respect. It’s just that all those cards I see remind me of the days when two were purchased instead of one, and as I read them searching for just the right message, I find those I would have bought for my mother . . . if the need was still there.

And you know what? It’s all right to be sad, it’s all right to miss her even though the first of this month marked eight years since she died. I know people whose mothers died decades ago and they still miss them, still wish they could ask their advice about a particular problem or just stop by to visit or watch them watch their grandchildren or great-grandchildren and see their eyes light up with pure joy.

My grandchildren will never know my mother; she died before they ever entered this world. But I can still show them her picture. I can still tell them who she was and how much she would have loved them and how much she looked forward to their arrival on this earth. Because you see, as long as I’m alive—and as long as my children live—there will always be a part of her within us. And that’s something I want to share just as long as I can. She is directly responsible for at least half the person I am today, and even though she is no longer physically here, that’s a contribution I choose to honor, especially on a day set aside for that very purpose.

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No Man Is An Island

Thu, 28 Apr 2016 02:53:00 GMT

She was minding her own business, focused on the task at hand, so she never saw it coming. She did not realize there was evil within reach, disguised as something so innocent . . . so ordinary. She did not know until it was too late.

The situation as described could relate to any number of circumstances; in this particular instance, she is a child of seven, playing in her yard, attacked by a dog she had grown to trust over the few days he had been at her home. But it could have applied to almost any trip to the grocery store, any four-wheeler ride, any rotting tree limb or antique wiring or fill in the blank with some ordinary set of circumstances that ends in loss and devastation and grief.

Life doesn’t require Category 4 storms or 200 car pile-ups on the interstate or mass shootings to be instantly and forever altered. Even the most innocent of actions, the simplest of situations, can turn someone’s world upside down and leave it that way until the end of time. And believe it or not, Death doesn’t even have to be involved. Not all traumatic events in life will lay physical claim to it, but they will all change it, and rarely ever for the better.

If it had not been for a mother’s willingness to sacrifice herself and a brother’s love propelling him into danger to save his sister, the world would be minus one seven year old today. But there are wounds for each of them that will require time for recovery . . . and although the injuries inflicted will heal and the broken bones eventually mend, a great deal has been lost and there will always be scars, both physical and emotional, to remind them of that day. It is the same with every tragedy in life that does not result in the ultimate loss. The physical body may be spared and survival granted, but there are emotional scars that will never completely fade. There is grief over the loss of a way of life just as there is grief over the loss of life itself.

When you read the updates on Facebook and you see this family’s gratitude for the overwhelming support they have received, you realize something very important—if you’re paying attention. Traumatic life events are handled best when they are not handled alone. Knowing there are people who care and are willing to do whatever they can to help is one of the greatest blessings this world has to offer. Joan Baez may have said it best when she penned the lyrics for the song “No Man Is An Island”, based on the poem by John Donne.

“No man is an island, no man stands alone. Each man’s joy is joy to me, each man’s grief is my own. We need one another, so I will defend, each man as my brother, each man as my friend.”

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No Shrines Today

Thu, 21 Apr 2016 05:27:00 GMT

Recently my daughter-in-law came by the funeral home. I’m not sure why but she really doesn’t have to have a reason . . . especially if she has the grandkids in tow. My son—her husband—took the opportunity to show her all the stuff we’d renovated . . . the two newly redone staterooms . . . the ladies’ restroom and the men’s restroom and the handicapped accessible restroom.

And then they went to the new lounge.

The new lounge that is on the first floor. The new lounge that occupies what was once my parents’ bedroom and den and kitchen. The new lounge that doesn’t belong where it is.

She had always admired my mother and, once she figured out that my dad wasn’t nearly as scary as he seemed, loved him equally. He didn’t help matters the first time they met. She looked up to find him intently staring at her . . . the kind of stare that seems to go right through you, making you feel incredibly uncomfortable. And then he grinned that mischievous grin of his and let the twinkle come into his eyes and she knew he’d been waiting for her to look up so he could do exactly what he had done. This had been their home for as long as she had known them, the apartment that was quietly tucked away from the public part of the funeral home yet close enough that work was only a door away.

The family meals had taken place there, the family Christmases celebrated there. Every holiday was met with a meal of some description and time together as a family. And now it’s gone. My parents are dead and now even the place that held the memories is nothing more than that.

She walked into bookkeeping with tears in her eyes, saying over and over again, “I hate it. I hate it.” Not because it wasn’t functional or convenient or comfortable or even pleasant but because of what it once was that wasn’t anymore. She understood the need. She saw the benefits. But that didn’t make it any better.

There are so many things I wish were the same. It would be wonderful if the Guinn Tourist Home that was operated by my great aunt was still where Hardee’s stands now, if my childhood home was not occupied by others, if the landmarks of our lives could remain unscathed . . . if we could manage to preserve the past by never changing in the present. But we can’t. As much as we may want to and as hard as we might try, Death only brings life to a screeching halt temporarily while we deal with his chaos; eventually the wheels begin to turn again and we begin to move forward, away from what once was and into what it will become.

So my parents’ master bath becomes a handicapped accessible restroom and an alcove for some vending machines. And their master bedroom becomes a lounge as does their den and kitchen. And the tangible reminders of life as we knew it are packed away or removed and discarded so other memories can take their place. Shrines are wonderful things, but rarely ever are they practical . . . or even possible.

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He Doesn’t Own a Watch

Thu, 14 Apr 2016 02:34:00 GMT

A few years ago a woman called wanting to schedule a funeral for her husband on the following Saturday. It was early in the week but it’s not too unusual to have families that wish to wait until the weekend to hold a service. It gives some folks the opportunity to attend that might otherwise have to miss due to work or travel requirements. It was a little concerning that we did not have a death call on the individual in question but, again, that’s not too unusual. There are times we are called by the family before the hospital or nursing home finishes processing their paperwork. So we started our side of the conversation by explaining that we had not been contacted regarding his death—our intention being to follow that statement with the question, “Where is your husband now?”—but she interrupted with the news that he was not yet dead.

I beg your pardon?

He had not yet died but the doctors assured her he wouldn’t last the week and she wanted to be certain she could hold his funeral on Saturday. At 1:00 P.M. In the chapel.

Oh, my.

It was difficult to explain to her that we could not reserve a funeral time for someone who was not dead because she was so absolutely certain he would be in sufficient time to attend his service. As it turned out, he was not. As a matter of fact, he defied the doctors and lived for several weeks beyond his allotted time frame.

Which is the entire point. No one knows when Death will come to call. Doctors cannot predict his arrival. Families cannot plan in advance for the exact moment. Because Death doesn’t own a watch. His timing is his own and no one has been able to coerce him into following any kind of schedule other than one of his choosing.

I always liked the commercial for a particular medical center where the patient is recounting what her doctor told her, “I don’t see an expiration date stamped on the bottom of your foot.” That doctor was absolutely right and it’s something we all must remember. We may not know the hour or the day or even the year, but we do know that a visit from the Grim Reaper is eventual and inevitable. That doesn’t mean we should live in fear but it does mean we should be prepared. And that preparation comes in many different forms. Most of us who have survived beyond our teenage years understand that, and we generally don’t need someone giving us a to-do list for Death. The problem is not a failure to understand but a failure to act. Perhaps it’s a belief that we can do it “tomorrow”. Perhaps it’s an unreasonable fear that acknowledging the inevitable will hasten its arrival. And some people are so afraid of Death that they simply refuse to contemplate their own mortality.

Whether it’s procrastination or panic that prevents you from acting, we all know there’s no time like the present to put a metaphorical house in order—because the present is the only time we’re guaranteed. So for their sake and your sake and our sake, please don’t leave your family in the dark when it comes to their future without you. Believe me, they may thank you for it now, but they will be eternally grateful when that day finally comes.

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Gone Too Soon

Thu, 07 Apr 2016 02:34:00 GMT

It’s been a tough week in Savannah—or as one employee put it, a heavy week—and as I’m writing this it’s only half done. It isn’t because of the number of families we’ve been called upon to serve; it isn’t because someone well-known in the community died or because we lost one of our own. When we unlocked the doors at 8:00 Monday morning, we knew we would be taking care of three little ones. Three infants lost for different reasons, at different stages in life, but all taken far too soon. We have been so fortunate to rarely ever have a service for a baby, but this week we held three.

We all know Death is no respecter of persons. He does not simply call the old or the terminally ill. But the children. I will never understand why the children must be fair game. And I know the parents we have seen this week feel the same, but to a much, much greater degree. It is one thing to grieve the passing of someone who has been blessed with a long and full life, but the loss of an infant is so difficult on so many levels. It isn’t just a life that has been taken but hopes for the future, dreams of what that little one can do and become. The mountains they can climb . . . the discoveries that will be theirs . . . the continuation of a part of us. All of that disappears when they draw their last breath.

And the parents . . . we want so much to take away their pain, to give them answers to the unanswerable questions . . . and we know we cannot. Because nothing will take away the pain. Because there are no answers. They may sit and wonder what they did wrong, what they could have done to prevent the unimaginable. To be entrusted with a life so innocent and filled with promise, one so small, so fragile, so dependent upon us for everything . . . there must have been something. Of the many questions that will come for which there are no responses, these questions can be answered, both with the same word. Nothing. They did nothing wrong . . . and there is nothing they could have done to change the outcome. But the questions remain and the greater the doubt, the greater the pain.

When you see families who have suffered this kind of loss, whether their child’s age was measured in weeks or months or years, do not be afraid to say that child’s name. You will not be reminding them of what they lost; I promise you, they will not have forgotten. You will be telling them their child is more than a memory, that the brevity of their life did not lessen their impact. You will be telling them that you remember, too.

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Mind Over Matter

Thu, 31 Mar 2016 05:33:00 GMT

Long before I was even a consideration, my great-grandmother began a Shackelford tradition—during the week of Thanksgiving she would prepare a feast for the employees and their families. I tend to believe it was held the Tuesday before the actual holiday, mainly because that was the day I remember as a child . . . and a teenager . . . and an adult. That alone should tell you this was a decades-old tradition.

When my great-grandmother’s health would no longer allow her to host said event, my mother stepped into her shoes. I remember three days of cooking (even with two additional sets of hands in the kitchen), card tables all over the living room and more food than anyone could possibly consume. As the years passed and the business grew so did the number in attendance until there was barely room to move about once everyone was seated, a condition that made second helpings difficult but certainly not impossible.

The tradition continued after we moved to the new building on Church Street, even though the format changed somewhat. It still took three days of cooking and tables everywhere but now the tables were set up in Parlor A—long rows of them with folding funeral home chairs to either side. The food was prepared and served buffet style from their apartment which was in the building, just down the hall from the “dining room”. But after a year or two of this extravaganza, we began to notice that my mother would start to develop a cold the week before the week of. By the time it was time to cook, she was in full-blown sinus overload, complete with sneezing, coughing, fever, watery eyes, runny nose . . . name a cold symptom and she had it. After fighting through it for several years the time finally came when she declared herself too sick to prepare, offering instead a staff Christmas party at a location to be determined . . . as long as it wasn’t anywhere near her kitchen. Amazingly enough, from that day on she was never again sick around Thanksgiving.

In case you’ve missed the point of this story, let me be perfectly clear. The mind is a powerful thing, more powerful than most any of us can begin to imagine. It is our greatest weapon against whatever obstacle we face—and our greatest enemy. The stress of preparing for an event she dreaded made my mother physically ill. Believe me, that cold was not in her head. Ok . . . it was in her head, but it certainly wasn’t imaginary. It was as real as any illness could possibly be. And the stress of losing someone you love can produce exactly the same results, only to a much greater degree. Often survivors find themselves battling ailments that had never been an issue before, because loss produces grief which produces stress which lowers your body’s immune response and makes you fair game for all kinds of evil nastiness.

So how can you avoid falling prey to the power of a grieving mind? First and foremost, by acknowledging it can actually happen. Realizing you are not alone can prove to be a tremendous source of strength when grief is at the center of your life. There is absolutely no shame in asking for help, absolutely no shame in reaching out to others who have found themselves walking the same path or to professionals who know and understand the toll grief can take. We may turn to medical doctors when our physical health suffers and they may be able to treat the symptoms, but the cure for grief-generated illness will never come until we acknowledge our loss, allow ourselves to grieve, and begin the task of emotional healing.

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Old Habits

Wed, 23 Mar 2016 23:07:00 GMT

Last Thursday we worked frantically, trying to get everything ready to open the new lounge in Savannah . . . the lounge that is on the first floor rather than at the top of 15 labor-intensive steps. The nice Coke people brought us a newer machine than the one we had—and finally managed to get it down the hall and into its appointed spot. The plumber came and helped move the vending machine (which is not at all why he was there, but was exceptionally good timing on his part—he actually came to hook up the coffee maker since it has its own water supply—which he did after helping wrestle the vending machine down the stairs). The electrician came to install the emergency lights so if the power failed no one would break their neck trying to get out of the room . . . hopefully.

Everything was in place but we still needed a way to route people down the hall instead of up the stairs. So we printed a sign with a big black arrow on it that pointed down the hallway, the same sign that you see in the picture accompanying this post. We took that sign and pinned it at eye level at the foot of the stairway. We turned off all the lights going up the stairs and at the top of the stairs and closed the door to the old lounge. And for the rest of the night, the nice lady sitting our visitation had to run people out of that room—unless she was lucky enough to catch them before they reached the top. They would go up the stairs in the dark, open the door that was never closed before, turn on the lights, and sit in a room that was now minus the vending machine and coffee maker. Only the old Coke machine remained and the delivery guys had removed the lock from it and unplugged it.

Now we have a lovely white plastic chain across the stairs with a sign that says “Renovation Underway, Please Do Not Enter”.

I suppose the moral to the story is that old habits are hard to break. Since January 2 ^nd of 1979, families have traipsed up the stairs and settled into the lounge to enjoy a cup of coffee or a snack from the machine if no food had magically appeared compliments of thoughtful friends. They go on auto-pilot when the urge to eat pops into their noggins and completely miss the sign telling them to veer right instead of up.

It works the same way when important people cease to be a part of our daily routine. Even after they are gone, we find ourselves reaching for the phone to share the news of the day, expecting to hear them whistling from the next room, watching for them to come through the door just a little after 5:00. We know it isn’t going to happen, but old habits die hard . . . and old habits involving the people who are fixtures in our lives often refuse to die when they do. Over time they fade, but they will always be there, waiting for something to trigger their reappearance. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. It does mean you are fortunate enough to have been so close to someone that their presence in your life remains long after they are gone.

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Just Don’t Ask

Thu, 10 Mar 2016 03:24:00 GMT

“I just wanted to tell you you’re probably going to get a complaint on me.” So began my Monday morning, with a phone call from one of the secretaries, preparing to tattle on herself. My initial thought was “Now what?” but I can’t be sure that actually came out of my mouth.

It seems someone had called asking about arrangements for an individual who had died. The secretary gave them the requested information, and then they asked, “How does she look?”

Really?

The secretary told them she didn’t know, and they followed with, “Well, how did she die?”

REALLY!?

Under other circumstances, there might have been a meager attempt to be polite or to simply say, “I don’t know” but it was becoming apparent that any response which did not provide the requested information would be met with yet another question . . . and it was Monday. So the secretary said, “I really don’t know, and if I did I couldn’t tell you. We don’t release that kind of information.”

I’m not exactly certain as to the response of the caller, other than the call ended shortly thereafter, but I do know that wasn’t the end of the story. A friend of the caller—someone who was obviously in the room and heard one side of the conversation—immediately called, demanding to know what the secretary had said. So she repeated her statement, to which the caller replied “Well, that was just ugly! You’re just ugly!”

Let me get this straight. It’s all right for you to ask prying questions so you can satisfy your morbid curiosity and spread gossip all over town, lending credence to your statements by starting with, “Well, the funeral home told me . . .” but it’s not all right for the funeral home to call your hand on it? You can try to convince me all day long that may not have been the motivation behind the call, but I’ve done this too long to believe anything else. You don’t need to know how someone died or what they look like because of the manner in which they died. If you plan on coming to the visitation or service, it should be to offer comfort and support to the family and to pay your last respects to the deceased, not to subversively examine their body to see if they really were shot seventeen times, then stabbed repeatedly before being bludgeoned and then set on fire. And no, we haven’t had anyone that happened to.

Granted, there are those who are genuinely concerned and shocked when they hear of an unexpected death, but they generally know what questions are appropriate and which ones to avoid. And if they ever cross the line, they immediately step back over. So here’s the scoop, people. We. Are. Not. Going. To. Tell. You. We aren’t going to tell you how they died. We aren’t going to tell you the condition of their remains. We aren’t going to fill you in on the family dynamics or whether they can afford the funeral or any other information above and beyond the day, time and place of the service and the cemetery if burial is the chosen means of disposition. Oh, and we’ll probably tell you some of their relatives if you’re trying to decide whether they’re the person you think they are. And you know why we won’t? Two reasons: 1. It’s none of your business and 2. It’s none of your business. You wouldn’t want the world asking those questions about your family member and you certainly wouldn’t want us answering them. So please, don’t ask us at Wal-Mart, don’t ask us at church, don’t walk into the office and ask us “confidentially”. Just do us all a favor and don’t ask, ‘cause if you don’t ask, we won’t have to politely remind you why you don’t need to know.

Thank you. And rant over.

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A Part of the Past

Thu, 03 Mar 2016 06:31:00 GMT

Lately I’ve been on a quest, one I began some years ago but this time with a different objective. Originally, I wanted an early picture of the funeral home in Savannah, the three story brick one that faced Main Street and was my next door neighbor growing up. It was pretty convenient for my parents since they could just walk across the parking lot to work, and I can still remember when they dug the basement out from under the building, but I knew it had been a house before it was a funeral home . . . and I wanted desperately to know what that house looked like.

I found it one day, after having seen it dozens of times over the years—an old photograph in the back of an old album—a stately Victorian beauty at a slightly cocky angle (my grandfather must have been feeling artistic when he took it). The bay window on the front and the location of the chimney finally gave away its secret and I was elated with my find.

Now my quest goes further back in time. I want to know exactly where the very first Shackelford Funeral Home was located. I know it was downtown in Savannah and I know the building is still there. I just don’t know which one it is. Some have told me it was upstairs over what was once McDougal Drugs. But then I was told Dr. Whitlow had his office in that same space in the 1930s . . . which is exactly when the funeral home would have been there. If that’s the case and they shared the second floor that just seems a little depressing. Would I really want to use a doctor that shared office space with a funeral home?

Back then most of the actual funeral work took place away from the business. The embalming was done at the home of the deceased as was the dressing and casketing. The body generally remained at home for the visitation with the funeral being held there as well if it wasn’t moved to a church. So an office area and a selection room of sorts might really be all that was needed when my great-grandparents hung out their shingle in 1926, wherever said shingle might have hung.

In all my searching I’ve uncovered a wealth of information. For the longest time my generation believed we started the funeral home in Savannah, but that isn’t the case. It was purchased from E. K. Churchwell whose family also owned the picture show and the general store. I even found the agreement Mr. Churchwell signed promising not to make or sell caskets for the next ten years. And I found my great-grandfather’s draft registration card which finally solved one of the greatest mysteries of our time—how he spelled his middle name (it’s Ernest, in case you’re interested). Pouring over scanned copies of the Savannah Courier gave me the announcement of the funeral home’s opening under our name. It confirmed that they had purchased the house on Main Street from the DeFord family to serve as their residence; it was only after my great-grandfather’s death that it was converted to the funeral home. I read his obituary and the glowing tributes written by several very kind folks, including a resolution by the Savannah Cemetery Association, on whose board he served. I even found a copy of the invitation to the open house in the newly renovated facility, held on August 12th and 13th of 1939.

But guess what? No one seemed to use actual street addresses in the 1920s and 30s. Every piece of mail and every advertisement I’ve found gives their phone numbers (125 during the day and 85 at night) and nothing else. No pictures of the establishment. No clue as to where it might actually have resided before moving down the street—or up, depending on your perspective.

And you know what’s really sad? There was a time when I could easily have asked my grandfather and he could easily have shared the entire history. He could have pointed to the very building and told me exactly what part of what space they occupied and what made them decide to convert a Victorian home into a brick and mortar, modern for its time funeral facility with living quarters for my great-grandmother on the second floor. But I never asked and now I will have to find my proof on my own. A picture of Main Street in the 1920s or 30s, a shot of McDougal Drugs with a little sign somewhere that says Shackelford Funeral Home . . . anything that definitively proves the verbal history others have provided.

The older I get, the more I want to know about what came before me, but I made the same terrible mistake so many others have made. I didn’t care to ask the questions until there was no one left to answer. Too often our history dies with us, growing fainter and fainter as the generations pass until there is no one left to tell the stories. I want to document as much of my past as I can because some day, in the not too distant future (relatively speaking), I will become a part of that history and the knowledge I might possess will be interred with my remains, just as it was with my parents and their parents and the generations stretching back through the ages. Death not only has the power to take life, it can also obscure all that came before . . . if we choose to let it.

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The Benjamin Button Effect

Thu, 25 Feb 2016 05:54:00 GMT

A long time ago in what seemed like a faraway place, a friend of mine watched as his father died of cancer. It was a death years in the making with each just a little worse than the previous. When the end finally came, it came with a vengeance and suffering that refused to be alleviated. And when it was all said and done with the last amen spoken and the crowd dispersed, he looked at me and asked, “Why does it have to be this way?”

At that moment his question could have prompted at least a dozen different answers, mainly because I didn’t really understand what he was asking. But later conversations revealed the frustration that many families experience when there is immense suffering preceding death. Why does someone work hard all of their lives, struggle to support their families and make ends meet, try to always do what they should do, only to be “rewarded” with pain and suffering and a departure that is anything but easy?

His concept of how it should be mirrored F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”, something I’m fairly certain he’d never read and which Brad Pitt had not yet brought to life. Why couldn’t birth take place at a ripe old age, emerging from the earth rather than the womb, with all the infirmities and frailties that come with age? But as the years pass, our bodies could grow stronger and the wisdom gained with age would be ours in the beginning. Eventually, the knowledge of our years would gradually wane, not in the dementia of old age but in the innocence of youth. Our last years on this earth would be spent in the carefree joy of childhood until at last, we simply faded away.

If I allow the creative side of my brain to experience this reversal of the aging process, I can see where life might not be so filled with dread as the years progress. One would not have to worry about how they would survive or who would care for them or what would happen to them when they could no longer manage on their own. But if the logical side of my brain ever gets hold of the scenario, all havoc breaks lose.

As nice as all of the foregoing might be, someone much smarter than I am and certainly wiser deemed that it would be as it is. I will never understand why Death has to come as it does, bringing with it the pain and suffering not only of the dying but of those who survive. But come it will and in its own good time; our best revenge is to make the most of life before it arrives.

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Every Life Has a Story

Wed, 17 Feb 2016 20:39:00 GMT

Cazmo Nicholoff

Husband of Effie Nicholoff

July 23, 1895

February 11, 1928

An American Soldier whom our country called.

He fought for her and in the end did fall.

So reads a particular monument in Mars Hill Cemetery in McNairy County. It might have gone unnoticed had there not been one just a few feet away that matched it perfectly—perfectly, that is, except for the message that it bore.

Effie

Wife of Paul H. Parker

July 31, 1907

January 16, 1942

Lord she was Thine and not my own.

Thou hast not done me wrong.

Cazmo Nicholoff, husband of Effie Nicholoff. Effie Parker, wife of Paul H. Parker. With matching monuments, they rest side by side.

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. “An American Soldier whom our country called. He fought for her and in the end did fall.”

Effie later married Paul H. Parker and at her death in 1942 he chose to return her to her first love. For the last 74 years they have rested together, only inches apart. In his grief, Mr. Parker saw fit to mark her grave as she had marked her first husband’s, and to let God know he bore Him no ill will for having reclaimed His own.

Every life has a story. Every story deserves to be told. And sometimes the telling begins at the end, with two matching monuments standing side by side in a country cemetery.

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Learning to Fear

Wed, 10 Feb 2016 23:28:00 GMT

For a period of time as I was growing up, I was forced to share a room with my brother who is three years younger. It wasn’t so terrible, but given the fact that we were not of the same gender, it was a situation that didn’t need to last forever.

My parents had been told they would never have children. Believing the medical professionals actually knew what they were talking about, the house they constructed only had two bedrooms—one for them and one for any guests who might be spending the night. A year later, the first semi-permanent one arrived (that would be me) followed three years and two and one-half months later by my brother. Unless one of us slept on the couch, we both had to be in the same room.

Being children, we were prone to playing at bedtime . . . and long after bedtime. Separation was not an option so my mother would come to the bedroom door and threaten us with dire consequences if we did not get quiet and go to sleep. Their bedroom was just down a short hall from ours and the den was next to the living room which was also just down the hall, so any commotion on our part was promptly heard on theirs. Eventually, she found the optimal punishment for our untimely rowdiness—darkness. She would come to the door and sternly tell us that, if we did not get quiet and go to sleep, she would turn out the lights and shut the door (the light in the hall stayed on so we could find the bathroom if needed, and the bedroom door usually stayed open).

And then she would demonstrate what absolute darkness actually looked like. And felt like.

I’m sure she never intended to warp me even though she was telling me being in the dark where I could not see my hand in front of my face was a terrible thing. That was the lesson I learned—and then she did not understand later on why I feared it so. It must not have affected my brother as drastically; if I remember correctly, when we finally moved into separate rooms, he preferred to be immersed in total darkness without the slightest speck of light. I had to have a night light. Actually, a night lamp. I still do if I’m by myself for whatever reason. I firmly believe those things that go bump in the night cannot get me if I see them first.

In their defense, there are a great many things in this world my parents never taught me to fear . . . spiders, snakes, storms (I learned that one on my own), driving really fast (the highway patrol taught me that one), commitment, hard work . . . and death. Whether or not we realize it, we do our children a great disservice when we teach them to fear those things that are inevitable and which we cannot change. And remember, they learn more from our example than from our words. So if your child wants to come to granny’s funeral, don’t tell them they shouldn’t, let them. If they want to see her one more time, touch her hand or give her one last kiss, let them. But give them the information they need so they will understand what they are going to see and feel, so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises that will teach them to fear the one event we will all experience at some point. And if you aren’t sure what to say or how to prepare them, then talk to us. There are materials available that can help you explain and help your child understand the events that transpire at the end of life. After all, knowledge is the key to overcoming fear. That, and a night light.

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My Little Kathryne

Wed, 03 Feb 2016 23:39:00 GMT

For the last ten years, more or less, my little Kathryne has had my back. Literally. For most of that time, she’s been just a few feet behind me, seated at her desk in bookkeeping, entering bills, writing checks, processing payroll, and generally keeping me in stitches. The funnest part (yes, I know that’s not a word) usually came when she would enter the contracts and the daily sheets or the bills to be paid. On those days she would begin her list of people who were going to have to die (or at least be the victims of serious bodily harm) because they had done something that made no sense whatsoever or had failed to appropriately label a receipt (or even give her a receipt) and, therefore, made her job more difficult. I loved listening to her as she talked to them—even though they were nowhere around—which was probably a good thing for them.

But I always knew she wasn’t crazy about her job. You have to be a special kind of person to enjoy inputting information into a computer all day long while dealing with the insanity that is swirling around you. And we have our fair share of insanity at “the home”. She’s more the artistic type with a beautiful voice and a flair for theater. I love watching her on stage, whether she’s the doomed heroine of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” or Rizzo in “Grease”. I especially enjoyed her portrayal of the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz”, complete with witch hands and green skin. Granted, they nearly set her on fire a couple of times, but I really thought I was watching Margaret Hamilton from the original movie version when my Kathryne took the stage.

So it wasn’t that surprising when she first started talking about quitting. I didn’t put too much stock in it; it seemed to be a passing notion and very little was said after the initial conversation. Very little, that is, until right after Christmas. She told me on a Monday, in the tradition of most Mondays being days from the flaming theological nether regions. She would be leaving at the end of January . . . that would give me a little over a month to find her replacement and give her some time to train them.

It seemed like such a long time. A month can take forever . . . unless what waits at the end is not something you want. Then it only takes about a day. After ten years you kinda get used to things . . . and I really don’t like change very much as it is, especially change that tends to turn my world upside down.

She noted that I was very quiet on her last day. And we both cried a lot before she left . . . and after. I was so afraid she would hate her new life and she was so afraid I would be disappointed with her decision. We were both wrong in our fears. But that didn’t make the transition any easier.

I walked in Monday and there was a stranger in her chair, seated at her desk. There won’t be any more goodbye hugs and I love yous come 5:00 each day, not unless I want to get sued for sexual harassment. There won’t be any more insanity in bookkeeping so there probably won’t be any more blogs like “Snow White” where we discussed the disposition of my remains (if you’re curious, kindly see August, 2014) or “It Was Monday” from March of 2015 which detailed our plans for a cremation scattering garden at Disney World so maybe people would quit dumping the ashes overboard in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It’s pretty quiet in bookkeeping now so I’m probably getting more work done. But it isn’t nearly as much fun. I don’t get to hear what the dogs did to the garbage that morning or the latest escapades of the cats or any of the other little seemingly insignificant details of her life that, in the overall scheme of things, weren’t so very important until they disappeared.

So there will be a time of adjustment because loss is loss no matter the circumstances and all loss generates some form of grief. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m so thankful my little one is alive and well and happy and that she didn’t leave the country or even the town—and I’m so proud of her ability (and that of her husband) to make the sacrifices necessary to allow her to pursue her dreams. But I still miss her. When you see someone almost every day during the work week for nearly ten years, it’s very different when that suddenly ceases. And it will take some time to accept and adjust and move on. I told her she couldn’t read this week’s blog but she assured me that she would, even if it made her cry . . . ‘cause she’s a grown-up and doesn’t always have to do what her mommy tells her to anymore. At least I gave her a heads up. And by the way, if you find any typos in future blogs, she was my proofreader, too.

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The End of Hope

Wed, 27 Jan 2016 23:45:00 GMT

Hope . . . that which we cling to in times of trial . . . that which sustains us when nothing else will. It manifests itself in the most inconsequential of situations (I hope it doesn’t rain today since I have to get out) to the most monumental (I hope they find my child in time . . .).

It is hope that gives us the will to fight, the will to continue against seemingly insurmountable odds. In the face of illness we believe in a cure; in the face of tragedy we search for miracles. Perhaps hope’s greatest role is in making us believe that the often improbable is possible.

In no other situation does hope play a greater role than when Death approaches. Physicians will tell you that a positive attitude is the best weapon against disease and many times that hope, that belief coupled with the will to survive, will overcome. But sometimes a point is reached when hope must be surrendered to reality. I am not suggesting that Death be embraced when he first makes his intentions known; it is not the nature of most to readily accept his arrival. Rather, as Dylan Thomas suggested, we

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

But there are times when we can rage all we want, hope with the most fervent belief that our desires will come to pass, and find that it is all in vain. Hope may gradually fade as reality slowly intrudes; it may come crashing down upon us when it is suddenly, violently taken away. Most often, the end result of a gradual departure is eventual acceptance . . . and then peace with what is to come. But when hope is suddenly yanked out from under us, the pain is almost unbearable and the end result is mourning magnified tenfold.

Recently our part of the world was filled with hope—hope that a child would be brought home. But as the days passed and the weather worsened, those of us watching from a distance gradually came to realize that the odds of a happy ending were slim. But those in the midst of the search, those who loved that child beyond words, lived and breathed hope. It kept their world intact . . . until reality demanded that hope be dismissed.

Hope is a wonderful thing. It can gift us with superhuman endurance and faith that all will be well, a prophecy that may prove self-fulfilling. But hope is also a double-edged sword. It may sustain us during our darkest hours but it can crush us when it flees at the harsh light of reality. Our response to hope rewarded is easy; we simply rejoice. The difficult part about losing hope is not losing sight of the blessings that still remain.

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It’s All Relative

Thu, 21 Jan 2016 07:07:00 GMT

My cat died. It was a week or so before Christmas and I walked into the dining room to find her sprawled across the table, pawing at the centerpiece. That was not at all like her. She might sit on the table and watch you intently, but she never sprawled. It was too undignified. She sat. She curled. She occasionally stretched. But she never sprawled. When I reached for her to playfully rub her side and question what in the world she thought she was doing, I realized exactly what she was doing. And while I stood and watched, she crossed from this world to the next.

I can’t say it was a surprise. She’d had cancer for over a year. It was to be expected, but it still hurt, even more so because of how similar her death was to that of my parents. I was blessed to be present when they both left this earth; the struggle during those last few minutes was the same, as was the calm that enveloped their bodies when that struggle ended. Watching her die drug me back into the past.

I miss her. I miss our lap time and her sitting at my feet, waiting expectantly for a bite of whatever I was having. I miss having cat spit all over me when she was happy because she slobbered all over everything when she purred. And she purred a lot.

A month later, the Agars lost their home to an early morning fire. And my loss paled in comparison. Fire has always been one of my greatest fears and I cannot imagine losing everything in a matter of minutes. And then, just days later, the story of little Noah Chamberlin captured the attention of the town of Pinson, and then Chester County, and then west Tennessee, and then the nation. How does a child just disappear? Believe me, that’s a rhetorical question. I’ve had small children and now grandchildren. All you have to do is blink and they can be out of sight. I cannot imagine how his parents and his grandmother must feel. And the waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting. If I were in their shoes I would be insane by now having conjured up and then mentally lived through every possible, horrible scenario. If I had to choose between losing a cat or a house filled with all my worldly possessions or a child, I’ll give up the cat and the house and never think twice about the decision. I’m gonna hope everyone else would, too.

But that doesn’t lessen the pain. Although the loss that triggers grief may be small when compared to the losses suffered by others, that doesn’t make the pain go away. I can rationally, logically remind myself all day long how blessed I am to still have a roof over my head and my family intact, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss my P. J. I’m not saying that to garner sympathy over the death of my cat. I’m saying it so you will hopefully understand that the size of a loss is relative, with some losses being far greater than others. But the grief that is generated is not. Loss is loss, and all loss will bring grief in its wake. So please don’t belittle someone’s pain just because what they lost isn’t as monumental as it might have been. It still meant something to them and they still need time to grieve.

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The House

Thu, 14 Jan 2016 06:51:00 GMT

I never heard the sirens in the early morning hours. I had no clue that just across my back yard and through the woods someone in our old neighborhood was losing their home and everything in it. All the family pictures, the antiques, their personal belongings, the tangible reminders of times long since passed, much of what they owned . . . everything . . . gone in a matter of minutes.

It was a house I had always loved, one that always fascinated me. Growing up I would look at it from a distance as we drove by and admire the huge yard, the stately trees and the wonderful architecture of the house, the likes of which I had never seen. Nestled on several acres behind a row of commercial buildings, it was right off what would become one of the main streets of the town, but far enough off the road that I really thought you’d never notice the traffic if you were fortunate enough to live there. When my children were very young we moved into a house that was just down the street from the backyard—a backyard that joined the swimming pool where they learned to swim—a pool they could easily walk to from our house. They were as fascinated by the property as I had been and would often talk about who lived there and what it must be like.

It was an older home, built in 1907 and inhabited by a prominent family who eventually sold it to another prominent family who eventually sold it to the current owners. I was fortunate enough to be invited to that house when I was younger, invited by the second family for a wedding party of some description. My invitation allowed me to roam at will and roam I did, treasuring every moment of the adventure and committing every nook and cranny to memory. The old tile floors, the claw foot tub, the wonderful trim and staircase, the original hardwood floors—they all beckoned me, whispering that I should live there and claim it for my own.

In later years I was again a guest at this magnificent home and again my invitation allowed me to roam at will. Much was the same as it had been before; the last owners had blissfully seen fit to leave the tile and the hardwood and the tub and I was deeply grateful to find that improved did not have to equal new. As I roamed I recommitted every nook and cranny to memory, relished every moment I was allowed to spend within its walls.

And now the house is no more. A few chimneys, the porch steps and a pile of ashes are just about all that remain. I breathed a prayer of thanks when I learned no one was hurt. Early morning fires can catch you by surprise but fortunately there was no one there to be caught. Although the material possessions are gone, the precious lives of the inhabitants are not. All else pales upon reflection.

But there is still loss to be faced. There is still grief over what once was but can never be again. Much of what is gone was steeped in history, their personal history . . . the history of those who came before them . . . a piece of the town’s history . . . a piece of mine and my children’s. I know, despite their safety, as the days pass the realization of what has been lost will grow greater and there will be a time of mourning. We can’t help that; we are human and great loss of any kind, be it material possessions or life, brings with it a sadness that lingers indefinitely. And while they mourn their personal loss, those of us who loved the house will mourn its passing and grieve with them over the tragedy they have suffered.

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No Words

Thu, 07 Jan 2016 04:54:00 GMT

The card was addressed to those left behind, signed by someone who cared. The message was simple and yet filled with meaning.

“For once – no words.”

In that brief statement was the summation of all that had transpired. Nothing could describe the emptiness, nothing could ease the pain, nothing could ever be the same. And this one soul understood that.

When Death comes there are no words to offer. Comfort cannot be found in them, an explanation of why it must be cannot come from them. A simple, “I’m sorry” best serves the occasion, and even then the question may arise, “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do it.” I have actually been confronted with such a statement before and my response came quickly. No, I didn’t do it. No, I am not responsible. But I can still wish you did not have to endure the pain. I can wish you did not have to bear the loss. I can be sorry that you must suffer.

When Death comes and you are called upon to visit and to comfort, do not search for the “right” words or the “words of wisdom”. Death does not allow for such and explanations will be neither accepted nor appreciated. Hold those who are grieving close, let them cry and cry with them if you feel the need, share a memory of the one who has died if you have memories to share, but above all else remember—there are times when there are no words. When that time comes, let your presence speak for you.

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Count Your Blessings

Thu, 31 Dec 2015 07:17:00 GMT

It is New Year’s Eve. How did that even happen? I seem to have misplaced an entire year somewhere between January 1 ^st and December 31 ^st . Yes, I know. Last week’s blog started in almost exactly the same manner, but nothing seems to mark the passage of time like the coming of Christmas and the start of another year. The fact that those two events are only a week apart doesn’t help matters any.

The year 2015 has not been the greatest; definitely not the worst but certainly nothing to brag about. I could list a litany of aggravations that have vexed me this year, not the least of which is the current state of my ovens, both of which seem to be possessed and neither of which seems inclined to work . . . a terrible state of affairs during holidays that require food preparation—and baking. At least they held out for #cookiethon2015, our annual three day marathon of cookie making. Come to think of it, that may be the problem . . . Top that off with round two of my semi-annual case of the crud (which means I can no longer say semi-annual since this marks the third time in twelve months) at what is perhaps the busiest time of year (between holiday celebrations and work requirements it’s a wonder I have any hair or sanity left) and you have the makings of a year that needs to hurry on out.

But despite the minor and occasionally expensive inconveniences I’ve suffered during the year, I know enough to know that I am truly blessed. My house is still standing in spite of Mother Nature’s best efforts (even if the ovens don’t work). My children and their spouses are well and relatively happy and my grandchildren are the same. Although I have lost friends during the year, I have not been forced to say goodbye to anyone that I loved deeply and dearly nor have any of my family faced death, disease or disaster. It may not have been a year to brag about, but at least 2015 did not make me feel as though I was cursed. I even have a semi-new little granddaughter as an added bonus.

Other folks have not been so fortunate and I also know that. Just recently, many in our area lost most, if not all, of everything they had worked a lifetime to accumulate. There are numerous families that have been forced to darken our doors more than once this year, often in rapid succession. It was hard enough losing my parents eighteen months apart; I cannot imagine having to endure the turmoil brought by Death two and three times within a matter of weeks.

So as we send the old year packing and ring in the new, I will sing the same tune I always do. There are no guarantees of life in this life. Love deeply, cherish each moment, appreciate those around you, practice generosity, patience, kindness, mercy, and forgiveness, and avail yourself of every opportunity to do good. A new year awaits. Be sure to count your blessings—then be one to someone else.

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Light a Candle

Thu, 24 Dec 2015 06:12:00 GMT

It’s Christmas Eve. How did that even happen? I know when I woke up yesterday it was sometime in March . . . April at the latest. The decorations may be up and most of the presents wrapped (most by my definition is approximately half) but what happened to the time and the relaxed enjoyment of the season? (That last part should be read with a heavy dose of sarcasm.)

I know everyone’s time is limited since this is probably the busiest day of the year, especially for those of us who specialize in procrastination, so I’ll try my best to get to the point. Christmas Day is Friday. Not a grand revelation, I know. But for a lot of folks it’s a day to dread because the joy of the season is buried in a cemetery somewhere and they haven’t figured out how to get it back. They don’t feel like being happy. They don’t care about the decorations or the gifts or the hustle and bustle. They only want one thing for Christmas—and it’s the one thing they will never be able to have again.

So when Christmas morning dawns—or sometime shortly thereafter—and you find yourself longing for the presence of someone dear but no longer near, light a candle in their honor. Don’t be afraid to say their name. Don’t be ashamed to cry. Find something that was special to them and hold it close and know that they will always be with you in spirit. That thought may be of little consolation when the pain is fresh but it will mean the world later on. They touched your life in ways no one else ever will—and took a part of you with them when they left. That kind of loss cannot and should not be ignored, especially now—and denying it will not lessen the pain; it will only prolong it. Love so deep and abiding should always be remembered and cherished.

For those of you struggling this day, I hope you have found some peace in the beauty of the season, some quiet place away from the rush and the chaos. My wish for you this Christmas is one moment of joy, one moment of grateful reflection, a glimmer of hope that the future holds brighter, easier days, and the knowledge that, despite the pain, you were truly blessed to have loved and been loved so greatly.

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Past and Present

Thu, 17 Dec 2015 06:18:00 GMT

The day has drawn to a close—another busy day in an overly busy season. I sit here covered in flour from a day of baking, my hands dry from washing mixing bowls, spatulas and measuring cups over and over. As I contemplate my computer screen, Bing Crosby sings “White Christmas” in the background and the lights on the tree glow softly beside me. One of the cats has curled up on the last of the shopping bags that didn’t quite get put away, and the world has fallen silent as everyone prepares to face another day after another night.

This is such a wonderful season, a time of year steeped in tradition. Occasionally I find myself driving through town and remembering how it used to be, the one night each December when my father would load us all into the car and we’d ride around looking at everyone’s Christmas lights. How my brother and I would compete with each other on the drives to Bolivar for family Christmas, counting the decorations on our particular side of the road to see who could find the most from start to finish. Businesses didn’t count and the house had to face the road or it didn’t count either. And how my grandparents always had an aluminum tree that sat in front of the fireplace that I don’t believe they ever used. The fireplace that is, not the tree. Whenever we would leave their house my grandfather would stand in the driveway and wave as we pulled out, watching until we were out of sight.

My grandmother died when I was five and the next Christmas my grandfather had to do his own shopping. He bought a Thumbelina baby doll for me, but he hadn’t liked the dress she came with. It didn’t look enough like a baby’s to suit him . . . so he had someone make one for her that was more to his liking. I still have her, still wearing that same dress.

I think back on those memories and so many others and they warm my heart and fill my soul with the feeling of Christmas . . . and my eyes with tears for what life used to be and the people who once inhabited it. Quiet moments like this bring them to mind and allow me to feel their presence again, to relish all they meant and, frankly, to feel the pain of being without them. So I keep the Puffs handy (I prefer them to Kleenex tissues . . . . but that’s just me . . .) and blame my occasional red nose on the changing weather or my semi-annual case of the crud. Because, you see, I would much rather feel the pain of those memories than to have never had the opportunity to make them.

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A Time to Celebrate

Thu, 10 Dec 2015 04:10:00 GMT

The sanctuary glowed with the lights of the season. Every window held a different scene honoring the birth of a child so many years before, each focusing on a life that would impact the world. In one corner, overseeing it all, towered the tree, clothed in the symbols of Christianity, shimmering in gold and silver and purest white. And on this day, perfectly placed at the center of it all, is the casket.

Flanked on both sides by an abundance of flowers, blanketed in white lilies, roses and hydrangea, it briefly seemed at odds with its surroundings. This was a time of joy, a time of celebration, yet here stood a symbol of sorrow and loss. But this had been a life well lived and, although there would be grief and mourning, there would also be a celebration of that life, an acknowledgement of the many other lives that had been touched.

Not every life can be celebrated, for not every life has fulfilled its potential. When Death visits too soon or with no regard to those left behind, it is difficult if not impossible to celebrate. When children are left without a parent or taken at a tender age, celebration is so far removed as to be unthinkable. Yet still there are those small silver linings: at least they were ours for a while to touch and to hold and to love, at least they were here no matter how brief the time. And sometimes, the briefest lives have the greatest impact.

Even when a life has been fully lived, it may be difficult to celebrate. There are holes which will never be completely filled, voids in our lives which will remain so forever. You cannot love someone without suffering when they leave; it is a sad fact of life that to experience the joys of love we must be prepared to cry unending tears and endure unbearable pain.

The holiday season is here; it will proceed with or without our participation in the festivities—participation that may seem impossible if we are in the clutches of grief. I would encourage you to find those quiet moments during which you can reflect upon those you have loved and lost—those who took the joy of the season when Death took them. Find those small silver linings and hold onto them when the pain becomes too great. And if you simply cannot find any joy to be had at this time of year, remember—as with most other things—this too will pass. We just have to take it one day at a time.

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A Bit of a Pile-Up

Thu, 03 Dec 2015 04:28:00 GMT

Sunday morning announcements at church can tend to run a little long, so lately the designated announcer has tried to shorten them by only mentioning those things which have come up since the bulletin was emailed and the paper versions printed. This Sunday morning was one of those when the list of sick had grown a little longer and a name was mentioned that was very familiar. As far back as I can remember he had been a friend of my family, one of those folks to whom my parents were close, one who had outlived them despite battling cancer and other health issues. And now he was in the hospital in Nashville with heart problems.

The mention of his name brought to mind another who was not in attendance that day. I glanced across the auditorium to his “usual” pew, knowing full well he would not be there. His mental health has deteriorated drastically and his wife stays with him since leaving him alone for extended periods of time is no longer an option. They were both some of my parents’ closest friends; he was one of the few who still came to visit when my father’s decline made visiting uncomfortable, and we asked him to speak at Dad’s funeral. I didn’t realize the dementia had already begun, but he did, and his wife shared with me later that he was afraid he would do poorly, but they wrote out what he wanted to say and I never would have known there was a problem had she not told me.

As I was processing everything that was assaulting my noggin’, we began to sing “Our God, He is Alive” and I went into sensory overload. Before the advent of cell phones but after the arrival of call forwarding, my father would send the funeral home phones to the church’s number then stand in the foyer so if it rang he would be the one to answer. And if we ever sang that song, at the end his “Amen!” would ring loud and clear from the back of the building. We sang it at his funeral and my brother filled that role when the last verse was done. My nose went red and my throat tightened and my head dropped as I tried to regain control of my tired and hormonal emotions.

Later that day, my son called to report on the latest news from Facebook and Instagram. One of the kindest, most gentle and gracious ladies I have ever known had died. Again, she and her husband were close to my parents, people I had always known and respected, friends for more years than I could recall. When her family came to arrange for her services, I hugged her daughters and her husband. He was the one who observed that the old gang was growing smaller after one daughter whispered in my ear, “You know what it’s like”.

These events couldn’t manage to scatter themselves across weeks or months; they had to occur one right after the other. Within a matter of hours I was reminded again and again of what I had lost and, even though it was years before, the pain felt fresh and the tears were difficult to contain. So many people from my childhood were leaving, people who had just always been there and, therefore, should always be—and each separation brought to mind the previous losses.

Nigella Lawson, who happens to be an English journalist and broadcaster, among other things, made an excellent observation regarding death. She said, “In a funny way, each death is different and you mourn each death differently and each death brings back the death you mourned earlier and you get into a bit of a pile-up”. She’s right, you know. And that’s especially true if you haven’t come to terms with those prior losses. Death demands our acknowledgment and to withhold that is to grant it power over the rest of our lives. Unfortunately, acknowledgment and adjustment do not mean we will never mourn that loss again. It simply means the pile-up isn’t quite as bad.

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That Attitude of Gratitude

Fri, 27 Nov 2015 01:27:00 GMT

As Thanksgiving Day draws to a close, I sit here, miserably stuffed and desperately in need of a nap. Even though we traveled a few blocks to my in-laws and created a dishwashing disaster at their house, my kitchen still needs to be cleaned and everything I drug out to make sweet potatoes and mac and cheese needs to be returned to their places of residence in the cabinets.

What little free time I’ve had today has not been spent on Facebook or my iPhone, although I did send some Happy Thanksgiving texts to my family and co-workers and one or two close friends. I haven’t surfed the web or checked my email (ok, maybe I did that last one a couple of times) and I’ve just now looked at the news to make certain the world was still intact. It is.

It has been the kind of day that you dedicate to family and the giving of thanks for the blessings of this life—and as it all comes to an end, I find myself wondering why it is so difficult to carry that through beyond the holiday season. Granted, beginning with Thanksgiving and generally ending with Christmas, we wrap ourselves in a blanket of goodwill and gratitude; we smile more freely at strangers, speak more kindly to those around us, and share more readily with those in need. We openly acknowledge how blessed we are, focusing on what we have rather than what we must do without. So tonight, as I fight sleep and decorate Christmas trees (as is my custom on Thanksgiving Day night), I choose to reflect on those things for which I am truly thankful.

Of course, there are all the givens—a roof over my head, family and friends, far too much food, a job that allows me to serve—but there are other, less thought of things that I need to bring to mind. I am eternally grateful for the hugs of my grandchildren, the delight on their faces when they first see me, and their desire that I sit between them at every meal we share. I am thankful that my children, and on occasion, my children-in-law, still need me and will sometimes seek my advice, whether or not they choose to follow it . . . and that hugs are always shared and I loves yous spoken at each parting. I marvel at the beauty of this world, even in what would seem to be the midst of chaos, and it fills my heart with a peace that cannot be described. I am humbled each time a family looks at us and expresses their gratitude for what we have done for them, and even though I would be quite content if Death took a permanent vacation, I am grateful for the privilege of assisting those who must deal with its arrival.

So for hugs and laughter, for shining eyes and momentary delights, for beauty and love and the opportunity to serve, I am thankful. For those who give of their time and talents to help make this world a better place, I am thankful. And for each person who has passed through my life, be it for good or ill, I am thankful. In all things and in all people, may I continually look for the good, knowing there will be times when I must search deeply to uncover it. And may I never take for granted one second of any day. They are all important, and bound together they will equal a lifetime. May I strive to make it a lifetime worth remembering.

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Letting Go

Thu, 19 Nov 2015 00:01:00 GMT

My father died on November 23, 2009—the Monday before Thanksgiving. It will have been six years to the day this coming Monday. It was a difficult road that led to that one moment in time, that moment when he took his last breath. I saw him go from a decisive man to someone who could not select an ice cream cake at Baskin Robbins without me leaving work and going to his rescue. I saw him go from grabbing a shovel and hand filling a grave while they got the equipment in place to being unable to even turn over in bed. I saw his brilliant mind betray him, turning fantasy into reality and trapping him in his own private hell.

It reached a point where every night I begged God to take him—and then felt guilty when my request was finally granted. It may sound cruel, but there are blessings to be had when Death comes quickly.

We never really knew exactly what was wrong, just that it was something terrible. Although the world thought he had Alzheimer’s, that was not the case. Doctors told us it was either Shy-Drager Syndrome or Diffuse Lewy Body Disease. I’d never heard of either, but at his death I knew enough about both to believe it was the latter of the two. Shy-Drager did not have hallucinations. My father did. The only way to know for certain was to allow them to autopsy his brain. Since neither was hereditary—or curable—it didn’t seem worth the effort.

He was originally diagnosed with Parkinson’s, a mistake that is commonly made with Lewy Body Disease. It mimics Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s, but if you treat it as either you shorten the person’s already shortened lifespan. From the onset of symptoms, a person usually lives five to seven years. The problem is recognizing the beginning. His started with a tentative nature, an inability to make decisions, and a penchant for being unreasonable—like when he wanted us to form a family quartet and sing every song for the Service of Remembrance in 2000. He didn’t understand why that couldn’t happen. I didn’t understand how he thought it could.

He probably—no, make that most definitely—should have left us long before he did, but my mother was unwilling to allow that to happen, hence measures were taken that we all originally agreed did not need to be done. But when the time came to refuse a feeding tube, I called my brother to tell him she wanted to do it. His response? “But we’ve already discussed that!” My response? “Well, we’re going to discuss it again.” It really wasn’t a discussion. She said it was being done because she couldn’t stand to let him starve to death. And so it was. I have no problem with feeding tubes when there is quality to the life being prolonged, but that was not the case with my father. I’m fairly certain when they were reunited in death he gave her a significant piece of his mind.

When you love someone, there may come a time when you must let them go, when their suffering becomes so great that you long for their release. It was easier for me; I could clearly and objectively see the hopelessness of his condition. I could also understand my mother’s reluctance. She had loved him for over sixty years and been married to him for over fifty-six. From the time he became bedridden in June of 2003 until her death in May of 2008, her life had centered around his care. The unwillingness to hasten their separation was to be expected. Expected, yes, but acceptable? Not so much. With his passing came a sense of overwhelming relief and peace—and incredible guilt that I could feel that way. It is a quandary many of us face when Death takes its own sweet time in arriving, because letting go while holding on is an impossible task.

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Two Boats and a Helicopter

Wed, 11 Nov 2015 23:57:00 GMT

The flood waters were rising rapidly, so much so that the man living in the house eventually climbed onto his roof seeking refuge. Soon a boat came by to rescue him, but he declined their offer, declaring, “The Lord will save me!” The waters continued to rise and another boat came by, again offering him safe passage to higher ground, and again he replied, “The Lord will save me!” As the water rose even higher, he found himself clinging to the chimney, trying not to be swept away by the current. A helicopter flew low and dropped a rope ladder so he could escape, but over the noise of the rotors, he shouted, “The Lord will save me!” After much pleading—but to no avail—the helicopter went in search of others more willing to be rescued. The current eventually became too much for him to withstand, his grasp weakened, and he was swept away and drowned.

When he reached the Pearly Gates, the Lord met him. With a hint of condemnation, he looked at God and asked, “Why didn’t you save me?” to which the Lord replied, “I sent two boats and a helicopter. What more did you want?”

Whether you believe in a higher power or not, the moral to the story is the same. Sometimes we’re looking for help but we aren’t willing to accept it because it doesn’t look like we think it should. That holds true throughout life, but most often when dealing with Death. Anytime someone suffers a loss—whether it’s your home to a fire, your cat to a speeding car, or your spouse to an illness—there are people in your life who are more than willing to help, to be there for you. But you don’t want to be a burden. You don’t want people to get tired of hearing you sob over what you’ve lost. Your family and your friends have their own lives and their own problems and you don’t need to be one of them.

Those are all nice thoughts, designed to help you justify not allowing anyone to see your pain, to see you at your most vulnerable, but they are not designed to allow you to heal. We all need that help, that shoulder to lean on and someone to listen as we cry and rant and beg for the clock to move backwards. Granted, it must be on your time table, but you must also be willing to accept what is offered or to reach out when in need. Your family and your friends will understand and will want to do whatever they can, because they love you and they care about your well-being. And if you’re the family member or friend that’s reading this, please remember to be patient . . . but gently persistent. Often people don’t know what they need until it is offered, and a simple, “How are you doing?” or a quick phone call may be the knock that opens the door. So for those who must watch in dismay as someone crumbles before their eyes, always reach out. And for those doing the crumbling, take that outstretched hand. You both will be better for it.

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They Gave Their Best

Wed, 04 Nov 2015 22:09:00 GMT

Next Wednesday is November 11 ^th —Veterans Day. There’ll be parades and flags flying and governmental agencies closed. There’ll be Facebook posts about honoring them and folks changing their profile pictures (me included) to a parent or sibling in uniform. But have you ever really thought about what they endured to reach “veteran” status?

My great uncle, Earl Columbus Strawn, was ordered to report for duty on October 9, 1917. He had registered on June 7 ^th of that year; when it came time to sign his card the best he could do was make his mark. Being a farmer his education up until that point had come from experience rather than books. He was one of the original Doughboys, trained by General John Pershing himself, and he remembered as they filed past him one fateful September day, that the general stood with his head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks. Pershing knew that most of them would not return. My great uncle was one of the lucky few, although the shrapnel that struck him in the face cost him one of his eyes. At least he lived.

The end of the war allowed him to return to Hardin County, back to the farm, back to life as it once had been. Like most of those who fought and survived, he rarely spoke of it. But I wonder how often he lay awake at night, knowing that if he closed his eyes he would return to the battlefield. How often did he bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat because his dreams were all too real? How could anyone watch as his friends fell around him, knowing that at any moment that same fate could be his, knowing that his return home could be in a casket . . . if he even did go home again? So many of our soldiers never made it back and were buried where they died. And so many who did survive were never the same again.

Jim Garey worked our visitations in Savannah for several years before retiring from his part time job with us and moving to Jackson. Until the Jackson Sun published his story, I never knew that he almost lost his life in a Japanese bombing raid while in Lae, New Guinea. His helmet falling over his face provided just enough oxygen for him to survive while the others dug him out from under tons of debris. Despite being buried alive and suffering numerous cuts, bruises, and broken ribs, he was back in combat four weeks later.

These veterans and so many others lived to tell their stories but would not until years later. It was too horrific when it was fresh; there had to be distance and time before they could even allow themselves to remember. It was how they coped with the hell they had endured.

My father served in the Army during the Korean War, achieving the rank of Tech Sergeant and escaping deployment overseas because, of all things, he could type. If that one skill had not been his, it is possible I might not be here today.

As we approach Veterans Day, I hope we’ll all take a moment to reflect on the sacrifices our military personnel have made and continue to make. Not all veterans have faced the heat of battle, found themselves standing next to Death while fighting for their lives—and for us. But those who escaped the direct confrontation still knew it was a possibility, and they still gave of themselves willingly and with honor. Make it a point to tell the veterans you know how much you appreciate that willingness and the service they have given. And breathe a prayer that the day will come when those sacrifices will no longer be required.

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Throw Away the Calendar

Wed, 28 Oct 2015 19:00:00 GMT

Lately Facebook has been covered up with the news that Joey Feek of the country duo Joey + Rory has cancer—cancer which has spread aggressively despite continual treatment—and of their decision to end her treatments. In Rory’s blog “This Life I Live” he made a profound statement by simply describing their response to the doctors’ predictions, “The doctors gave us an estimate of how much time they believe that Joey has, and we both looked at the calendar that hangs by our kitchen door, then I took the calendar off the wall and threw in the trash can. So we don’t have forever. We’ve got right now. And that’s enough.”

Rory Feek is a wise man, one who understands that you can lose so much of the present by focusing on the pain of the future. Certainly they are aware of the end result of their decision; they know there are times when you simply must accept what life holds despite the fear and uncertainty it brings. There are prayers being said by their many fans and fervent hopes that a miracle will occur and her life will be extended but in the end, it is reasonable to expect that there can be no expectations.

If you have ever cared deeply for someone then at some point you have probably dealt with anticipatory grief, the grief that comes with the knowledge that you are going to lose that person. It isn’t the actual loss that triggers the response but the anticipation of the loss, and if you aren’t very careful—and emotionally strong—you will sacrifice the present by concentrating on the future. And it doesn’t even have to be an impending loss that serves as the trigger. Events which threaten those we love—devastating illnesses, accidents, or simply separation—can give us a glimpse of what life might be without them. They can steal the joy of the present and replace it with the fear of the future, even when that future seems a million miles down the road.

We are human; it is in our DNA to form bonds with other humans and to mourn their passing. But there are times when we must simply throw away the calendar and force ourselves to focus on the present, knowing full well that Death waits around some undetermined corner. I know there will be times when he will hold her and the realization will come that this will end all too soon. I know there are times when he will look at their daughter and realize she will grow up never truly knowing much less remembering her mother. But as Rory Feek said, “We’ve got right now. And that’s enough.” Sadly, as Death approaches someone we love, we may find ourselves screaming that it is not enough. There should be more time and less pain and fear. But now is all we have; here’s hoping we choose not to let it slip through our fingers.

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Then He Turned to Stone

Wed, 21 Oct 2015 23:30:00 GMT

Over thirteen years ago my sister-in-law’s father died after an extended illness. As I stood in line, waiting to speak with her and the rest of the family, his grandson—my nephew—spotted me. Leaving his grandmother’s side, he came and took me by the hand, leading me to the head of the casket . . . and in front of all those people who were patiently waiting their turn. He stood, solemnly looking at his grandfather, and then he began.

“He was sick for a long time and his body was tired.” His grandmother now stood beside him, absentmindedly nodding as he continued. “The doctors tried but they just couldn’t make him better . . .” His grandmother continued to nod as she gazed at her husband “so he died . . . and then he turned to stone.” At that point she quit nodding.

Years later, my grandsons came to visit me at work; we were all in bookkeeping when Wilson started toward the door. “Mona, can we go upstairs to that room? That room that has all those little beds in it? You know, those little beds that the dead people sleep in?” Then, as we started out the door to go upstairs to the room with all the little beds, he turned to me and asked, quite innocently, “Mona, when are you going to be dead?”

Children are creative, inquisitive little beings. They will ask you absolutely anything with no reservations whatsoever, and if you do not directly answer their questions, they will make up their own. And sometimes, they’ll make up their own even when you do answer their questions. That’s how dead people turn to stone.

Little ones learn how to be human beings by watching us. They learn how to interact with others, how to respond in different situations, when to be cautious and when to throw caution to the wind. And if we are not careful, we will teach them to fear that which is inevitable in this life.

Talk honestly with a child about death. You don’t have to give them every gory detail of someone’s demise, but you don’t have to sugar coat it, either. Children are stronger than we give them credit for being and smarter than we often realize. They see and hear far more than we might want them to, and to gloss over the loss of an important someone in their lives when we are deeply distressed is an open invitation to anxiety and mistrust on their part. Despite our best efforts at hiding the truth, children will see right through us.

So when someone in your child’s life takes a permanent leave of absence, please don’t assume that your child is better off not participating in the rituals of the visitation and funeral, if those rituals take place. By allowing them to be a part of the process they begin to understand that the process is natural. It may not be pleasant and it may not be something we look forward to, but it is the natural order of things and an event we will all face numerous times before our own. To deny children that knowledge and that experience also denies them the opportunity to understand why someone they loved is no longer with them. And, as we have already pointed out, if they do not have the answers they seek, they will make up their own.

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Tomorrow is Another Day

Wed, 14 Oct 2015 22:50:00 GMT

I’ve never been much of a movie buff, although I have attended my fair share, just not recently. It seems no matter where I land in the theater, I’m under the air conditioning vent. So I’m a shivering popsicle by the time the movie ends. And if it’s one of those that has a lot of jumping from dark to light to dark to light, I have a migraine by the time the credits roll. So if it’s something I really want to see (there aren’t a lot of those), I wait for it to come out on DVD or show up on my television. These days that doesn’t take nearly as long as it used to.

One of the all-time classics that I managed to sit through in the old theater downtown was “Gone With the Wind.” All four hours of it. I don’t care how comfortable the seats are (and they weren’t), no one can sit still through four hours of anything, even if there is an intermission. I much preferred Carol Burnett’s Readers’ Digest Condensed spoof, “Went With the Wind”, especially the scene where she descends the not-so-grand staircase wearing the drapes (complete with curtain rod still in place) and, when Rhatt Butler tells her the gown is gorgeous, she replies, “Thank you. I saw it in the window and I just couldn’t resist it” (yes, that’s right, Rhatt – Harvey Korman was Rhatt and Carol was Starlett and Tim Conway was Brashley and special guest Dinah Shore was a sickeningly sweet Melody).

As much as I like their version, there’s one key line missing and that’s the one Scarlett O’Hara utters at the very end of the movie. Rhett has left her (wise man that he finally became) and she is terribly distraught over his departure. Alone for the first time in her life, with no family or friends to manipulate, she determines that she will return home to Tara—that she will find a way to win him back because “after all, tomorrow is another day”. And with that happy, overly optimistic thought, the movie ends.

There are times in life when we sorely wish we could “return to Tara”—to go to a place and a time where everything was simple and right and we were surrounded by those people we loved and things that, by virtue of their familiarity, afforded a feeling of comfort. Knowing that tomorrow is another day can be an optimistic outlook offering the promise of another chance, a new beginning . . . unless you are grieving. In that case, the tomorrows begin to run together, one long expanse of time offering little more than another 24 hours of struggling just to go through the motions of living. There are no new beginnings, no opportunities to approach a problem from a different direction, just an emptiness that will not go away and an ache that will not let go.

Grieving takes time . . . and patience . . . and support from those around you. We must allow those who are suffering the loss of an important part of their lives the time to grieve. We must be patient in that allowance and not demand that they “move on”, and we must support them throughout their journey. And if we are the ones who are grieving, we must be patient with ourselves. Grief does not have a timeline nor does it abide by a clock or a calendar. There will be good days and bad, and in the beginning the bad will far outweigh the good, but as time passes the balance will shift and the fog will gradually lift. Eventually, tomorrow will be a little brighter, a little easier, filled with a little more promise for the future—a day to look forward to rather than one to dread.

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The Ghosts In Our Lives

Wed, 07 Oct 2015 21:03:00 GMT

We are always having “things” happen in our building. Not terrible, horrible “things”, just “things” we can’t really explain. Like stuff that comes up missing and when you find it you have no earthly idea how it arrived at that particular spot—or footsteps coming down the hall and doors that sound like they’re opening when no one is around but the person doing the hearing. There are all sorts of little events that we try to explain away . . . even if we don’t always completely believe our explanations.

On this particular evening I was the only living person in the building. There had been no visitations and I was preparing to leave the front office and head toward the back. Generally, as I’m locking the office door, I will glance across the foyer toward the curio cabinet at the far end. It has a light inside the hutch which will come on when the top hinge on the right hand door is touched. And it seems to get touched on a fairly regular basis. So I will walk across the foyer, touch the hinge, and turn off the light. But on this particular evening, as I was locking the door and glancing across the foyer, my eyes were drawn to the chest against the wall rather than the cabinet at the end.

This chest has a lamp on it that stays lit 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I don’t know why. We’ve just always left a lamp on in the foyer, and when we bought new furniture—and new lamps—we continued the tradition even though we changed the lamp location and had to install an outlet. And we added a second one; this lamp and chest have twins on the other end of the foyer, backed up against the opposite wall of the entry. We leave that lamp on, too. After all, I wouldn’t want one lamp wondering why the other one gets to shine all the time or the other lamp wondering why it has to do all the work.

These lamps do not sit in the middle of their respective chests. They sit to one side. Except for tonight. Tonight the lamp on the chest that I can see is sitting squarely in the middle. And I have no idea why. Everyone in the building knows where that lamp belongs so I’m fairly certain none of us centered it so precisely. Out of curiosity, I walked around the entry to the other side of the foyer and, lo and behold, that lamp was also sitting squarely in the center of its chest. It reminded me of the time my parents came to our house to babysit while my husband and I went somewhere for something. I came home to find that the end tables in the living room had been moved to the exact center of the windows to each side of the sofa . . . even though that meant they were about three feet away from the couch. My father was obsessed with balance and could tell you if something was off by as little as a sixteenth of an inch without ever touching a tape measure. This led to some terrible predicaments during his lifetime, including but not limited to almost having to re-lay the brick corners on the building at Savannah because one side was off by an eighth of an inch . . . and he could tell that while standing in the parking lot.

So on this particular evening, I found myself wondering if perhaps he was responsible for moving the lamps to the center of the chests. It is exactly what he would do but, since he had departed this earthly plain several years before, I could only assume it was his ghost roaming the building and “correcting” my obvious mistakes—like putting a lamp to one side of a chest.

We all have ghosts in our lives, though not the kind that jump out and go “BOO!” or walk through walls. There are those ghosts that haunt our memories, magically appearing when some event calls forth their spirit. A lamp in the center of a chest will remind me of all the times my father moved a stand of flowers half an inch so it was an equal distance from the others, or stood for hours contemplating a wall because there was no way to balance the lights on it since there was a door in the way . . . or moved my end tables to a terribly unreasonable position so they were centered on the windows. Those we have loved and lost are brought to mind by small events in our daily routines. And we find ourselves wishing for happier times when they were close by, when a phone call would be answered or we could visit them someplace besides the cemetery.

I returned the lamps to their appointed positions then walked back across the foyer and into the service hall, turning to lock the door behind me. It was then I decided that, even if my father’s ghost did roam the building where he spent the last 30 years of his life—and where he died—it was not his spirit that had moved the lamps. Frugal person that he was, he would also have turned them off.

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Every Name

Thu, 01 Oct 2015 03:59:00 GMT

Almost every evening—with the exception of most Saturdays—I walk from my office at the back of the building to the office at the front of the building. It’s always after 5:00 P.M. because the office at the front of the building is closed to public traffic at that point. It’s generally quiet, even if there’s a visitation, unless someone I know sees me and follows me inside.

Once the world goes away, I open the desk drawer and pull out the blank account cards. I settle myself into an office chair that isn’t mine—so I don’t adjust it to what I might consider a more comfortable position—and prepare to work on a computer that routinely belongs to someone else—so I don’t adjust the settings on the monitor even if I would prefer something different.

And then I tackle accounts receivable. New cards must be made, reflecting the choices of any families we have assisted that day. Additional charges must be added, often reflecting things they asked for that we could not immediately price, like newspaper obituaries or casket sprays when they had not yet visited with the florist. And then everything is posted in the accounts receivable book, which really isn’t a book at all. It’s a spreadsheet. It used to be a book but it could never be in date order since Death and the related expenses rarely ever fall chronologically. Balancing at the end of the month could be the devil if you ever had to compare every transaction with every card since you couldn’t hunt by date. You just had to scan every page and hope you found it. For once, technology has made life easier . . . sorta.

Tonight there is only one contract to record, only one family that had been in that day. I typed the date of death in the Date column and the name in the Name column. Then I tabbed over to the Debit column and entered the total. And then I stopped.

At that moment the name I had typed quietly begged for my attention. They had not asked for much in life except for comfort from their grief, and that never seemed to come. Now the name spoke volumes as it silently sat upon the page. It was a name I knew, a name with which I was, unfortunately, extremely familiar. The family had suffered far too much tragedy in recent months; they brought to mind my philosophy that there should be a five year moratorium on death once a family has been afflicted. No family should have to endure successive losses in brief spans of time. It simply wasn’t fair, not to mention being unbearable. As humans we can only handle so much, and this family seemed to have been given far more than their share.

As I looked at that name and thought of that family, my gaze moved upwards on the screen. There were more names—some that I knew personally, some that resonated only because we had served their family. And as I sat in the chair that wasn’t mine, looking at the screen I would not adjust, I knew that each name represented so much. Each name held a history all its own. Each name meant the world to someone, or several someones, or a host of someones, people whose lives would never, never be the same again because that one person was no longer with them.

We never know how many lives we may touch or how many people will mourn our passing. We never know when someone we love will leave our presence, never to physically return. Please, be careful with your words, thoughtful in your deeds. Speak freely with kindness and gently touch as many lives as you can, leaving them better than when you arrived. We are never too old—or too young—to leave this world suddenly . . . or to find ourselves left behind. Strive to live so that Death brings sorrow . . . but not regret.

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The Leaves of Fall

Thu, 24 Sep 2015 05:19:00 GMT

It’s officially fall by just a day or two. Fall—my absolute favorite time of year. I love the crispness of the air after the suffocating summer. I love the rush of energy that comes when I walk outside and feel the changing seasons . . . even though I haven’t felt it just yet. (I believe Mother Nature missed the memo about the daytime temperatures no longer being in the high 80s.) I get so much more done in the fall . . . if it was fall all year long I’d be the most productive human being on the planet.

Just today I noticed how the trees are starting to turn, their leaves beginning to change from glorious green to a rainbow of colors, setting the world on fire for the briefest of times before leaving their temporary home and gently floating to the ground. I think sugar maples excel in this area; they dress themselves so beautifully in the fall. I really need a yard full of them.

I’ve often thought that people and trees hold a great deal in common. Those that are well-rooted can withstand even the strongest of storms. The adversity they endure may scar them, but those scars give them character; they cause you to stop and take notice, to appreciate their resilience. And as fall approaches with winter not far behind, they adjust accordingly.

There are those people who are fortunate enough to know that Death is approaching. Even though that knowledge is both a blessing and a curse, it affords the opportunity to say good-bye, to encourage those around you and to be encouraged, to set your house in order as it were. Many of those people find themselves battling devastating diseases and, in the midst of the battle, they become the trees of fall. The beauty of their character manifests itself as time grows shorter. We find that, when we seek to comfort them, we leave comforted. When we seek to offer hope and encouragement, we are led to the understanding that they have chosen to face the inevitable conclusion of life with dignity, grace, and peace, an understanding which allows us to do the same as we prepare for their departure. As the light begins to fade, drawing the ends of the day closer together, their faith and their courage become their cloak as they face Death—the leaves of fall before the silence that is winter.

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A Duty Born of Love

Wed, 16 Sep 2015 22:21:00 GMT

Usually when I arrive home in the evenings I’m met at the upper cattle guard by Holly, our black lab who-knows-what-else mix that we rescued. She’d been dropped at someone’s house, along with her brother whom we named Buddy (get it, Buddy and Holly? Buddy . . . Holly?) and we adopted them both. Holly is the homebody, rarely ever roaming, always greeting me upon my return and always talking to me. She is probably the most vocal dog I’ve ever met.

But this night was different. It was later than usual and no one greeted me at the cattle guard. When I stepped up on the porch I checked Buddy’s house; he was nestled inside, lazily looking up at me. But Holly’s house was empty and no matter how much I called for her, she never came. Feeling that something was wrong, I went inside, grabbed a flashlight, and began searching the yard, accompanied by several cats and Buddy.

We have a relatively large yard surrounded by a chain link fence that provides a backdrop for a bazillion daffodils each spring and tells us where to stop mowing. Given that we live in the middle of 42 acres, the chances of me finding her could be slim, but I was determined to search. I looked everywhere, circling behind the house, checking under every bush, illuminating the monster in-ground pool that hasn’t been opened in years, hoping she hadn’t gotten into the enclosure and fallen through the rotten cover. As I entered the front yard from the far end of the house, my flashlight caught a pair of green eyes at the farthest corner of the fence, but Holly’s eyes aren’t green. They’re brown. So I continued meticulously searching the shrubbery across the front before finally making my way to the animal that I had assumed was Henry the black cat (since Louisa was with me and P. J. was inside). It wasn’t.

Holly was neatly curled into a puppy ball, watching me as I combed the yard, never answering or coming when I called. As I approached her she waited expectantly but never offered to get up and as I drew nearer, I understood why. A few yards away was a fawn, badly injured by what I could only assume was my dog. In dismay I looked at her and said aloud, “Holly, what have you done?” . . . and at the sound of my voice, the fawn raised its head and tried weakly, vainly to get up. Given the extent of its injuries, rising was impossible and I knew Death was not too far away. Horrified that it was still alive, I retreated to the house, wondering what I could do to alleviate its suffering. All kinds of options sprang to mind, none of which seemed practical but, before beginning to make phone calls and begging for help, I decided I should check once more, just to make certain that help was still needed. It was not.

The next morning I went to the porch to feed the dogs. Buddy was still in his house, but Holly had never left her spot in the yard. I called to her and she stood but instead of coming to me, she went to the fawn. “Ah,” I thought, “the carnivore prevails.” As I watched and insistently called, she sniffed of the fawn, gently nudging it with her nose then slightly tugging at one leg. Then she turned and came to the porch. Neither dog ever bothered that deer, even though it lay in the yard for another 36 hours before we could get it buried. Holly had been guarding the poor little thing after it was injured, not as a predator guards its kill but as a mother would protect her child. Only when she knew she was no longer needed did she leave. Eventually I figured out what had happened and realized I had falsely accused my dog of doing what I believed her nature demanded. Instead she had stayed close by, almost as if she knew that Death was present, as if she did not want something so small and fragile to die alone.

Many of us are afforded the privilege of walking with our loved ones as Death approaches. We leave their side only if absolutely necessary and then for as brief a time as possible. We offer as much comfort as we can, knowing our power is greatly limited, but wanting them to understand they are not alone in their journey. Sadly, there are those times when Death comes quickly and without warning. We lose the opportunity to say good-bye, to make amends, to be the one who holds their hand as they quietly slip from this world to the next, and that loss can be devastating to those left behind. Despite the difficulty of the task, those last heart-breaking days and hours spent with someone we love deeply will be their own reward. We are blessed to be able to share that journey with them. It is a privilege granted by grace . . . a duty born of love.

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Junior Wiggins Retires

Mon, 14 Sep 2015 18:30:00 GMT

Vernon A. Wiggins, Jr., referred to simply as “Junior” by those who knew him, has retired from Shackelford Funeral Directors in Selmer effective August 15 ^th . Mr. Wiggins began his employment with Shackelford’s on April 6, 1998. Prior to that he was employed by what was then McNairy County General Hospital. “Junior has been a valued employee and member of our family for over 17 years,” stated Robert Shackelford. “His good nature, sense of humor, and friendly smile will be fondly remembered and greatly missed by all his fellow co-workers and friends. We wish the very best for Junior as he begins a new part of his life’s journey.”

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I’m Just Not Ready . . .

Thu, 10 Sep 2015 04:41:00 GMT

I had a dream Labor Day morning, not anything nearly as inspiring as Martin Luther King’s, but one that certainly went down in my journal of weirdness. I was in a college dorm-like setting, but it was in the old funeral home in Savannah. (That’s because a good deal of work has been done there lately, so I’ve been in and out more than usual.) We were preparing for an “American Ninja Warrior” marathon party. (That’s because I had watched it with my grandsons the night before. My son even interrupted my Lego car construction with Anderson because I really needed to see Neil “Crazy” Craver. I will admit the gold shorts and body paint were an interesting combination. And he made it through Stage 1 which was impressive.)

In the course of preparing for our guests, I was cleaning my room when I found something kinda crusty on the fitted sheet of my bed. Closer inspection revealed that it was a circle of dried, squished maggots. Stay with me here. I moved the top sheet and found a whole host of living, extremely wiggly ones. (That’s because a few days earlier my little Kathryne had killed a fly in bookkeeping, on Claire’s printer no less. I happened to come back just as she was preparing to dispose of the carcass and she called me out into the parking lot to view the remains. You know those spiders that you step on and zillions of little baby spiders run in all directions and you start doing a tap dance trying to kill them all? Well, sometimes flies have larva that do exactly the same thing, only they don’t run. They fall off the flyswatter onto the asphalt . . . while you stand there and watch. Claire, if you have any greasy looking spots that appear on something you print, you might want to discard it and try again. I’m sure it will stop . . . eventually . . .). So I wadded up the sheets and threw them away.

Halfway through the marathon I realized I had forgotten to get anything to eat—and what’s a party without food? So I hurried out the door and to the nearest grocery which was Foodland—which in real life isn’t there anymore but in my dream still existed—and which was closed because it was after 8:00 P.M. My next option was Kroger on Pickwick Street so I ran into the store, only to find there were no shopping carts. When I asked the clerk where they all were, she told me they didn’t know then followed that with, “Don’t you have any pockets in your pants?”

So I’m running through the store trying to find everything I need and hauling it all around in my arms because nothing would fit in my pockets when I came across a lone buggy. I quickly confiscated it, piling my produce into it, only to find that it had one of those fronts that the cashiers would raise to remove your purchases—a front that was up and wouldn’t go back down. So everything I’m putting in the buggy is being scattered about the store as I continue shopping . . . which means I have to frantically keep going in circles picking up the same stuff over and over because it just keeps falling out of the buggy. And then (thank goodness) the alarm on my phone went off and my nightmare came to a grinding halt.

Now, what in the world does all that have to do with the price of eggs in China? Or for that matter, with death? Absolutely nothing, except for that part about not being prepared. In my dream I wasn’t prepared for everyone who was coming over for my “American Ninja Warrior” marathon—and being unprepared rates right up there as one of my top ten worst fears. In real life we are rarely ever prepared to permanently let go of someone who means the world to us, no matter how much time we have been granted, and unfortunately, no alarm is going to sound that banishes fantasy in the wake of a more pleasant reality. That difficulty in letting go can send us running in metaphorical circles, unable to focus, unable to function, unable to progress through life. I promise you, that’s normal. That’s expected. That’s o.k. Eventually life finds its new normal; adjustment begins, the mental lapses subside, and you can start to move forward one step at a time. And if that doesn’t happen or you feel the need for a little professional support, we have a grief counselor who would welcome the opportunity to help you with your journey. His name is David, his services are free, any of our locations can give you his phone number, and you owe it to yourself to give him a call. Life is too short to let being unprepared spoil the rest of the party.

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Happy Birthday to Me

Thu, 03 Sep 2015 03:33:00 GMT

I recently celebrated the passing of another grand and glorious year, or as one of my Facebook friends stated, another lap around the sun. I don’t really mind birthdays that much, even if it does mean I’m a year older (actually, just a day older since an entire year did not pass from the time I went to bed until I arose). Older is perfectly acceptable since I know what the only other option is.

This particular year the anniversary of my birth fell on a Sunday, a coincidence that had both its positive and negative points. The final song before the message (at least I think it was the final song before the message) was “The Greatest Command”. If you aren’t familiar with it, the altos (that’s me) begin the song. On the second verse, the bass joins in, singing totally different yet complementary words and notes. The tenors make their presence known on the third verse and the final verse adds the sopranos; each part is different yet they all blend beautifully, sending chills up my spine every single time.

But today that song brought far more than chill bumps. We sang that song at my father’s funeral and it was especially beautiful then. A friend of mine even commented on the singing afterwards, telling me how wonderful it was. But on this particular day—my birthday—it brought me anything but joy. I know my nose turned a dozen shades of red and it took all the will power I could muster not to cry . . . or leave . . . or cry and then leave.

After my mother’s death a friend of mine warned me. You may think you will miss them most at Thanksgiving or Christmas or on their birthday, but that won’t be the case. You will miss them most on your birthday. And she was right. For as long as I could remember after I went to college and then married, the phone would always ring bright and early on my birthday and my hello would be met with the traditional birthday song, performed by my parents. It didn’t matter that I might be seeing them in an hour or two; I was still serenaded via AT&T. Even after my father’s mind and body began to fail him, that phone still rang and they still sang . . . until he no longer could.

My phone had not rung that morning, as it has not for several years. There was no “happy birthday to you” in my father’s wonderful tenor and my mother’s quivering soprano. And “The Greatest Command” was a painful reminder of what I had lost. Grief will do that to you, sneak up on you and whisper “Boo” in your ear when you least expect it. My mother died over seven years ago and my father almost six, but I know enough to know that time, although the great healer, does not erase the scars. There will always be those moments when something will trigger that response, when my nose will turn a dozen shades of red as I struggle to maintain some semblance of composure. But I will deal with the devil known as grief and accept that his sneak attacks will probably continue for a very long time. It simply means I loved and was loved.

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Bound Together

Thu, 27 Aug 2015 02:51:00 GMT

The service had ended. The last scripture had been read, the last prayer uttered. The pall bearers removed the roses from their lapels and moved toward the tent, flowers in hand. The first four laid theirs on the casket, as was customary. The fifth handed his to the daughter. The last moved toward the granddaughter, handed her the rose clutched in his hand, and the two of them wrapped their arms around each other. It had been a long journey, an emotionally trying journey, a journey that was drawing to an end. For a brief moment they clung to one another, each knowing how much the other had lost.

To one he had been a mentor, giving him his first opportunity in life, starting him down the path that would lead to this exact moment in time. There had been encouragement through the years, training by word and by example, until he was no longer able to fill that role. It was then that the student became the devoted friend and the person who would care for his body when his spirit was set free.

To the other he had been a father figure when it was needed so desperately, a confidant and teacher of life’s lessons. Again, those lessons came through example, not so very different from those taught at work for they exhibited honesty, integrity, and compassion. And when he was no longer able to fill that role, the grandchild became the caregiver, making certain his needs were met, assuring that those who tended to his daily care did so as she would have had the task fallen directly to her.

On that day they both said good-bye to someone who helped mold them into the people they had become, someone who generously shared of his time and his wisdom and his love. His role in each of their lives was very different, but the impact was immeasurable and the void will be impossible to fill. Voids like that never really diminish; the darkness just lessens as time moves forward. They will continue with their separate lives, walking their separate paths, yet always bound together in their love, respect, and admiration for one very special man.

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But What About the Books?

Wed, 19 Aug 2015 20:45:00 GMT

I am a lover of books, pure and simple. I do not want my reading material on an iPad or a Nook or a Kindle or any other new-fangled piece of technology. I want to hold a book in my hands, to feel the pages beneath my fingers, to be able to close it when I am finished and place it back on the shelf with a sense of accomplishment. And I want to own it. I do not want to check it out or borrow it—and I prefer hardback volumes to paper. They simply last longer.

You might say I have a certain degree of reverence for books. They can take me places I will never visit otherwise and introduce me to people that I can watch from a distance while delving into their lives. That reverence might, on occasion, be misinterpreted as an obsession. At least some might think that when they walk into my library (yes, I have a library . . . don’t judge me). Shelf after shelf is filled with books, most all of which I have read, with the exception of those that I “inherited” from my grandfather and my grandmother-in-law. I place that word in quotation marks because they really came to live with me by default. No one else wanted them. So I adopted them and gave them a good home. It’s how I came to possess a complete set of “The Books of Knowledge” as well as a 1925 copy of “College English Grammar” with my grandfather’s handwritten notes penciled throughout and his name, Paisley Shackelford, inked onto the first blank page along with the notations that he was to “write an 8 word sentence with each word a different part of speech” and “make a list of 20 idioms found in speech and writing”. I don’t even know what an idiom is.

It’s the reason I am the proud owner of “Pork Production” by William W. Smith, a book that bears the inscription, “To a dear boy on his birthday, June 20, 1951. From Mother, with worlds of love.” This from a woman who looked like she could spit nails in every picture I’ve ever seen.

And now, I am caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. When my parents’ furniture was no longer of any use to them because they were no longer here, my son and his wife asked if they might take the dining room suite for their new-to-them house. It consisted of a solid cherry table with matching chairs and a matching china hutch with doors that slid across the top and opened on the bottom. And there was one really nifty door that spanned the center of the hutch and could drop down to function as a sort of serving area. I’m sure it was a new purchase when they built their house in 1955; the style is right for the time period and it was around as long as I can remember . . . and I came along in ’56. When they moved, so did the dining room furniture, but with a new purpose. It lived upstairs in the sitting area, to be used for school work or playing games, or just to take up empty space without added expense. And the hutch became the storage cabinet for my mother’s cookbooks. Actually, it became the clown car for her cookbooks, for when I began to empty it once my brother and I agreed that it could reside elsewhere, it took every box I could find, and still I have mountains of cookbooks scattered across the floor.

Cookbooks are not my only issue. If I walk to the other end of the sitting room and begin opening the cabinet doors there, I find a treasure trove of Earl Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason mysteries, tons of Mary Higgins Clark novels, and who knows what else that is hidden behind the first rows. When the time comes, as it surely must, where will it all live?

I can’t give books away. Not my mother’s cookbooks with her notes and handwritten recipes stuffed inside. Not the mysteries or the school books or whatever else is currently collecting dust. What if no one in the family wants them? I remember watching a television show once where the families were basically hoarders and this person would come into their homes and help them dispose of items that were deemed unnecessary. In one episode, the wife had inherited her grandmother’s Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. I love those books. I have scads of those books. There are volumes of those books hidden away in the apartment. And this person suggested . . . actually almost demanded . . . that the wife choose five of them and get rid of the rest. After all, she had her memories . . .

THOSE WERE BOOKS!!!!! You don’t “get rid” of books!! You keep them and love them and surround yourself with them. You hold them in reverence and marvel at their survival through the years . . .

Until there comes a point when there is no more room. When the shelves are full and the attic is full and choices must be made. As with any family attempting to empty a lifetime of memories from a now abandoned abode, I know the time is rapidly drawing nigh when those choices will be forced upon us—and as difficult as that will be, I know I can’t keep the world on a shelf, gifting my children with the responsibility of disposition.

Or maybe I can . . .

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Walk With Me

Wed, 12 Aug 2015 21:40:00 GMT

My phone rang at work this past Sunday. Not an unusual occurrence, even less so since it was my husband calling. My hello was met with “You want some more bad news?”

No. No, I do not. Why would anyone want bad news, let alone more bad news? That was my first thought, immediately followed by: one of the dogs is dead in the middle of the road; he ran over one of the cats pulling into the driveway; there’s a tree down over the driveway and I’m gonna have to hike uphill two tenths of a mile in the dark to get to the house; someone broke into the house; the house is gone. In a matter of seconds I concocted all manner and kind of evil before asking, “Now what?”

“George Williams died.”

My stunned silence spoke more of my disbelief than my questions that followed. He was a friend. He was a co-worker. He was a good man, too young to be dead—especially since he was my age. He was an indispensable part of our operation. He was . . . he was . . . he was . . . always in the past tense, no longer in the present. The list continued indefinitely and the hours and days began to move in slow motion as we prepared to say good-bye, to take care of George and his girls as he had taken care of us.

If you look at the cartoon versions of funeral directors, we’re often rendered as almost vulture-like, waiting . . . patiently waiting . . . dressed all in black with shoulders hunched and hands clasped behind our backs, necks craned forward, heads cocked to one side as we anticipate the approach of Death. After all, it is our livelihood. It puts food on our tables and a roof over our heads and the little pleasantries of life within our grasp.

Nothing could be further from the truth. You may not believe this, but I hate Death. I hate hearing the phone ring and seeing the secretary reach for a first call sheet. I hate seeing the families come through our doors, clothes in hand, pictures ready, eyes red and swollen from crying or lack of sleep—or both. I never, never want business to “pick up” when Death seemingly takes a holiday; I would gladly find something else to do with my life if no one ever died again. You see, we see the raw emotion, the overwhelming pain when Death first strikes. We feel the loss that we cannot alleviate—and we know that every time that phone rings, the odds are greater that the loss will be ours. We know you must be careful what you wish for; it is why we never do. There are times you will not like how it is granted.

So if this job is so terrible, why do we continue to do it? Why subject yourself to such heartache and pain? I have cried more tears over George than I have in a very long time. Wouldn’t it just be easier if I could go home and not face his family, not see him in this very natural yet surreal and unacceptable state? Yes. Yes, it would. But Death is not going away, at least not today. There are still those who are hurting, still those who need or want a guide to aid them in the process of saying good-bye, someone they can look to for advice and counsel and clarity in the fog that grief brings. It is a path we have chosen to walk with them, a calling and a ministry that is ours. Despite our own sorrow, in spite of our own loss, we will continue to walk that path with those in need, knowing that one day we will need someone to walk with us.

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Out With the Old . . . In With the New

Wed, 05 Aug 2015 23:26:00 GMT

Generally, I’m on the front row at church, not because I like the front row but because no one else does, so I always have a place to sit. It’s actually the front side row since we have two small sections to either side of the auditorium with eight or so pews in each. But this particular evening, I am on the back row of that section, mainly because that’s where my husband was sitting when I got through with my kindergarten class and made my way to the devotional service.

I found myself seated behind a gentleman I’ve known all my life. He had been a teacher at our local high school; I graduated from there with his son, and his wife had been especially kind to my mother when her mental faculties began to decline but she still wanted to be present on Sunday mornings. She would sit in the auditorium class and this wonderful soul would keep her company until my class ended and I could join her. Now in his nineties, the years are beginning to take their toll and, although his mind is still good, his body doesn’t always want to comply with his wishes.

Tonight, for whatever reason, we were asked to stand for the first song. That seemed like a monumental task when you’ve just finished teaching five and six year olds. Sitting was quite nice at that moment but, muttering under my breath, I stood as requested. He was directly in front of me and my attention to the service ended as I watched him try to stand. With his hands on the pew in front of him, he tried twice to pull himself up, but the strength wasn’t there and his legs offered little assistance in the process. Accepting this temporary limitation, he settled back into his seat and began to sing. His voice was clear with the slightest quiver, the words committed to memory from years before. I could hear the reverence, the worship in his voice and, though tinged with age, it brought tears to my eyes.

When it came time for the final song of the night we were asked to stand again, and again he tried. Twice his hands gripped the pew before him, twice his legs could not offer the necessary support, but the third time he slowly rose, almost losing his balance as he did. A young lady next to him placed her hand on his back, affording him the opportunity to steady himself, to lift his head and stand erect. And he began to sing again, the notes still clear and sweet.

I know of his history, of his service in the war and his dedication to his family and his community. I know of the respect his children hold for him and how much he must miss his wife since her death. I also know that in many families, as his health declined, he would be ignored, relegated to a place where they would not have to “deal” with him, care for him, or even think of him. Such places are not so bad, unless the family views them as a substitute for their own involvement. Fortunately, that will not fall his lot; others will not be so lucky.

These days, society seems to believe that newer is better, whether we are discussing technology or people. We want the latest phone, the latest tablet, laptop or car. The younger the person, the more creative they are perceived to be, the more energetic. If we are not careful, we view age as a thing to be feared and disdained. We do not want to become what our futures may hold and we may not wish to be burdened by those who have already reached that plateau in life. But they still have wisdom to share. They still have experience upon which we can draw. And when their minds and bodies fail them to the point they can no longer share either, they should have our gratitude and respect for the years they gave us.

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Everything . . . and the Kitchen Sink

Thu, 30 Jul 2015 04:09:00 GMT

If you follow our Facebook page, or even just glance at it occasionally, you probably know that we’re undergoing a major renovation in Savannah. We put in a handicapped accessible restroom and completely redid the men’s. We’ve gutted the women’s restroom and are putting it back while redoing Parlor B after redoing Parlor C. There will eventually be new furniture everywhere with all new flooring (except in the foyer . . . we’re not allowed to use dynamite and that’s what it would take to remove the pavers)—and a lot more space because now we have access to a once inaccessible area.

That additional space comes from the apartment, a place most folks never realized existed. When the building was constructed in 1977 and ‘78, an apartment was included in which my parents would reside. I’m not sure why my father thought that was a good idea other than he didn’t have to get out in the rain to go to work; I think my mother approved because it was easier to start from scratch than redo their entire house. There was a combination den and kitchen, a living room with a separate dining room, and a master bedroom and bath on the first floor. That’s right—on the first floor. Upstairs there was a sitting area and two nicely sized bedrooms with their own full baths and walk-in closets. And now, all that space is available. Not empty, but available.

The first area to fall victim to the renovation was the master bath. With some sawing through the wall and a lot of chiseling in the concrete, it morphed into the handicapped restroom. It was a little disconcerting seeing the tiny corner tub hauled away and placed in storage and the sleek beige toilet and the poured marble sinks disappear. The one inch square tiles on the floor were jackhammered into oblivion and the corner shower that was built to accommodate my father’s height was dismantled. I cleaned out their respective vanities, tossing hairspray and toothpaste that had been hidden away for years, packing away my father’s tattered manicure kit with the zipper that had come unsown and was hanging loosely from the leather case. The front few feet of the bath were walled off to become the vending machine area for the lounge that will eventually live in their bedroom and the den and kitchen. The families we serve will no longer have to climb the stairs for a Coke and a candy bar or a cup of coffee.

It was more disconcerting to move their clothes to the closets upstairs, to rummage through my father’s ties and shoes and suits and the pants my mother favored in her later years . . . and the boxes and boxes of shoes . . . and the purses that still held the tissues and hard candy and other odds and ends she tended to accumulate. It was hard to watch the closets being deconstructed after the bed was disassembled and the dresser and chest moved to another room. And again there was the sawing, opening their world to the world at large by creating a door that would lead from the main building into what had once been their lives.

But this week . . . this week has been the hardest of all. The pots and pans and dishes were all packed away and I knew it was coming. I knew there would be a day when I walked into the kitchen to find the kitchen wasn’t there. When the cabinets would be removed so they could be reconfigured for the new lounge. When the counter tops would be gone and the sink and the ovens and the stove top moved from their homes of over 30 years. I knew. Really, I did. But knowing and actually seeing are two entirely different things. I walked into an area that once held the aromas of home cooked meals, of feasts to celebrate every conceivable holiday, a place where we gathered as a family and the kids watched T.V. while the adults prepared the food and set the table, running over each other in anticipation of the deliciousness to come. I walked into an area filled with memories to find that everything tangible was being removed.

It is difficult to pack up the past, to relegate to a box or someone else’s safekeeping what once mattered to someone who mattered to you. It can make your chest tighten and the tears well up in your eyes and the past spring into the present. But it is also a necessity. As nice as it would be, the apartment cannot remain as a shrine to life as it once was. As difficult as it may be, life continues to move forward and, if we refuse to move with it, we will most certainly be left behind. Yes, it’s going to hurt even when we wait years to begin the process. No, it doesn’t mean we are being disrespectful to what once was. It simply means we have acknowledged that, despite our best efforts and fondest wishes, the only constant in life is change—and the greatest change of all is also the hardest to accept.

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A Safe Place

Wed, 22 Jul 2015 17:38:00 GMT

I went to Corinth, Mississippi this past Tuesday, as a passenger rather than a chauffeur, which allowed me to actually look at something besides the highway that stretched before me and all the dogs and cats and squirrels standing at the edge of the road, just waiting to jump in front of my speeding vehicle. As we traveled through the country outside of Shiloh, I began to notice all the storm shelters—nothing new-fangled or high tech, just the good, old-fashioned kind that burrowed into a hillside with only a bit of wall and a small portion of roof visible enough to announce their location. Oftentimes, even the doors were hidden from sight, recessed into a mound of earth to protect them from the ravages of whatever storm might be approaching. And they were always close to the house so their safety could be quickly reached when needed. As I reflected upon the metaphorical nature of said shelters, I also began to notice that the newer homes were shelterless. Maybe they had basements or interior rooms their owners trusted to protect them in the event of a tornado or other severe storm, but the original, dug-into-the-side-of-a-hill shelters could only be found coupled with the older homes along the road.

The occupants of generations past understood the need for a safe place. There were no storm sirens or emergency weather broadcasts then, just the roar of the approaching funnel cloud and the rising wind to declare that all material possessions must be abandoned in order to preserve life. At that moment, priorities had to be in order or survival could not be assured.

There are so many times today when we need a safe place, one that protects and shelters us from the storms of life—not the frequent thunderstorms or the devastating tornados, but the storms of loss and grief. Whether they are generated by death or simply the disturbance of life as we know it, one cannot survive those storms without a safe place to which they can retreat when it becomes too much to bear. That shelter may be the shoulder of a friend who will hold you as you cry and listen as you pour out your heart, or a quiet corner of the house where you can hide with a favorite book and a cup of hot tea. You may find your solace in the darkness of the woods or the lapping of the water against the shore. Perhaps your peace is found in reaching out to others who are also hurting. Wherever that place may be, whatever that place may hold that offers comfort, each person must find their own and embrace it.

Unlike tornados that wreak their havoc quickly and with little warning, life storms slowly devastate their victims, often taking months or years to wear away the fortitude of those who try valiantly to weather their effects. But those safe places, those places of comfort and peace, can renew you; they can afford you the opportunity to refocus on the beauty and the blessings of life instead of being mired down in all that is wrong. Take a lesson from those who traveled before us. Find your safe place. Keep it close. And use it when the storm becomes too great.

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Is That You, Herman?

Wed, 15 Jul 2015 21:11:00 GMT

I was driving home from work one evening, just about dusk. My van was on auto-pilot, making its way down my street while my mind was replaying the day’s events and trying to remember anything I might have forgotten from my to-do list. As I reached the grain bins behind the farmer’s co-op, the corner of my eye registered a tiny cat head peeking over the edge of the shallow ditch that runs beside the road. I seem to have cat radar and that night was no exception. Since ours is the only house in that neck of the woods, I pulled into a nearby parking lot, got out of the van, and called to the kitten.

For the non-cat readers, cats are not nearly as trusting or dependent as dogs. A puppy that has been abandoned will run toward you while a kitten, no matter how hungry, will snarl and hiss and spit and eventually depart unfed. But this kitten was exceptionally friendly and as it darted across the street toward me, I realized it was Herman. Herman was the kitten I had adopted from the tree of a friend who lived close enough to a major highway that Herman would have been flat in a matter of days. I had no idea how he could have gotten out of the house, much less down the drive that’s two tenths of a mile long, across the bridge that traverses the small creek that runs through our property, and into that ditch. I picked him up as he rubbed and purred—so happy and excited to see me—put him in my lap in the van and proceeded down the road, up the drive, and across the last cattle guard to the house. Picking up Herman and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I walked down the shrub-covered sidewalk and up the steps to the porch and the kitchen door . . . behind which stood Herman, waiting expectantly.

I looked at the kitten in my arms, actually said “Then who are you?” out loud, and then very gently put him down. My experience with stray kitties has not always been pleasant. But he followed me up the steps and into the house and made himself quite at home.

I named him Sherman.

That little episode reinforced a very valuable lesson I learned years ago. Things are not always as they seem. The Hermans of the world may actually turn out to be Shermans, and we really cannot accurately assess the situation until we have all the facts. But sometimes, those facts are not ours for the taking . . . and assessment isn’t always required.

There are times when Death comes to call and everyone knows its arrival was anything but natural. Perhaps they were too young, or too drug-addicted, or too depressed, or any number of other indications that nature did not take its course this time. But guess what? That’s really none of your business, and when you start asking what happened or fishing for details that are painful at best and horrific at their worst, you are not helping. If the family wants to share the circumstances of their loved one’s death with you, they will do so. And if they don’t offer those details, there is probably a very good reason why they made that choice. So please, allow them their privacy. Don’t engage in the Spanish Inquisition or try to play Twenty Questions—and by all means, please don’t resort to speculation or gossip. The reason why is of no consequence to you and should not alter your relationship with those left behind or change in any way how you respond to them in their time of sorrow. Ill-advised persistence, however, may prove painful for all concerned. Instead of ending up with two very nice kitties who look like they could be brothers, you may find the very people about whom you are so “concerned” avoiding you like the plague. Our mission on this earth should always be to leave places and people better than when we found them, and that’s very difficult to do when we can’t stop asking questions long enough to actually listen to what someone really needs.

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Come Together

Wed, 08 Jul 2015 20:43:00 GMT

We met in the service hall of the funeral home. We had grown up together, although not exactly the same age, but we were in high school together and attended church together. As we aged, our paths had taken very different directions; one was an elected county official, one a cosmetologist, one an accountant turned funeral director from necessity. But tonight we all had a single mission—to help a grieving family deal with their loss.

The cosmetologist was there for hair and make-up at the family’s request. It’s an important part of the process for if it isn’t exactly right, there’s a stranger in the casket instead of a loved one. The county official was there for moral support and the accountant turned funeral director was there to grant them access and to answer whatever questions they might have.

When the work was completed, the accountant/funeral director was paged to the room by means of a text message and asked to pass judgment on the effort. Looking at the face before them was difficult for all three. This was someone they had grown up with, a peer of their parents, the mother of their friends. In life she had been a beautiful woman, both inside and out, and death had not taken that from her in spite of her illness.

As all three walked down the hall, back toward the front of the building, one of them remarked, “Who would have thought when we were teenagers we would be doing this now?” She was so very right. Life occasionally presents you with a situation you could never have foreseen, even with a crystal ball.

Under the best of circumstances, death brings people together. Family and friends gather to offer comfort and support and often the funeral home becomes the site of reunions where distant relatives catch up on the latest news and friends who rarely see one another reminisce about the good old days, sharing stories about the one life that brought everyone to this same place in time. The problems come when we believe that comfort and support are no longer necessary, that we have progressed as a society to the point when we no longer need one another in times of sorrow.

Our paths separated once more as we each went our own way. We will come together again at the funeral and probably more in the future since I’m fairly certain death will continue to call. But in the meantime, it is comforting to know there are people in this world that will put their lives on hold to be there when it matters most.

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Life Lessons Learned From Death

Wed, 01 Jul 2015 20:39:00 GMT

You might not think that working with death can teach you about life but the truth of the matter is there are some very valuable life lessons to be found on the other side of the grave. And just in case you doubt that to be true, please allow me to pontificate.

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

On the business level of our trade, you just understand that delaying can be disastrous. One minute you may be quietly twiddling your thumbs and the next doing your best chicken-with-its-head-cut-off impersonation. Just because you go home at 5:00 with a free day tomorrow does not mean you will wake up to the same set of circumstances. But on a more personal note, there are so many things over which we procrastinate that will never get done—and I’m not talking about the daily chores of life or that magnificent trip around the world we intend to embark upon someday. I’m referring to that plate of cookies you keep meaning to take to the newly widowed neighbor down the street or the hike through the woods with the kids or learning that new language you’ve always wanted to speak. There are tiny little dreams and goals that we tend to push aside, thinking there will be time tomorrow . . . or next year . . . or when I retire. But the day never comes and we leave this earth with all the good intentions and none of the accomplishments.

Take time to be kind.

You will never regret the time taken for an act of kindness, but you will always regret those kindnesses left undone. ‘Nuff said.

Hold your friends close, but your family closer.

A good friend is a treasure, worth more than all the gold in this world, and should always be treated with the love and respect the relationship deserves. Unfortunately, we don’t always extend the same courtesy to our family members. Those folks with whom we share DNA are often on the receiving end of our worst moods, angry words, and unrealistic expectations. They should be our ultimate support group, those on whom we can count when everyone else flees the scene of our crimes; instead, our words and deeds end up pushing them away. And that is never more evident—or sadder—than when a family comes to make funeral arrangements and cannot set aside their differences long enough to honor the one who has died.

Never take anyone for granted.

I’ve said it before (at least a thousand times) and I’ll say it again (at least a thousand more), we are not guaranteed one second on this earth. To believe that we will have tomorrow to apologize or say “I love you” or perform that good deed is to place our faith in a terribly uncertain future. Enjoy every minute you have with the people who mean the most to you. And PUT DOWN YOUR PHONE. Yes, I just yelled at you. Immerse yourself in those around you, converse with them, look them in the eyes, discover who they actually are, without a piece of handheld technology in between the two of you. You may be pleasantly surprised by the experience.

Realize what’s important in life.

This sounds so simple, so obvious, you might think it shouldn’t take death to teach you that, but so often it is only at life’s end—when correcting the mistakes of the past is an opportunity lost—that we come to learn our focus has been all wrong. It isn’t the job or the money or the house that will keep your memory alive long after you are not. It’s how you have touched the lives of others. It’s the little random acts of kindness, the smile in the ‘midst of chaos, the time you took to listen and share in someone’s joy or pain that will make the biggest difference in the world around you. And if you should happen to read this particular point and realize that maybe you have some room for improvement but you have no idea where or how to start, I would kindly refer you back to lesson number one.

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As I Age

Wed, 24 Jun 2015 22:33:00 GMT

I believe I may have mentioned before that my father was a pilot; one who was instrument licensed in single engine planes, planes in which he ferried the living in need of immediate medical transport and the deceased . . . but never my mother. Well, rarely ever. She had a terrible fear of flying, especially in a tiny little plane with only one engine. So she usually flew commercial while he flew privately. And occasionally, I was allowed to tag along. With him, not her.

On one of those trips, we were returning from the National Funeral Directors’ Convention in Kansas City. I don’t remember which Kansas City, but it was one of them. I had purchased a new Doonesbury book, filled to overflowing with Doonesbury comic strips, and a package of peanut butter crackers for the return trip. So while he piloted the plane (actually, he usually put it on autopilot and went to sleep—a rather scary proposition if you didn’t feel comfortable enough to poke him periodically) I read my Doonesbury book and consumed my peanut butter crackers. I could do that back then without retching up my toenails. Not so much anymore. We were cruising along, minding our own business, when the engine suddenly spluttered … and then died. Now, before I continue with this heart-stopping tale, there are a few things upon which I should probably expound.

Most single engine planes of the type my father flew were rather loud, necessitating the yelling of any conversations to be held, hence the usual lack of conversation. And they came equipped with four fuel tanks, one in the body of each wing and one in each wing tip. My father, being the frugal person he was, would try to drain every last available drop of fuel from one tank before switching to another. Now, back to our story.

The engine suddenly spluttered and then died. There was absolute silence in the cockpit. I stopped in mid-cracker and looked up from my book to find my father fiddling with the controls. There was the briefest eternity during which nothing happened—then the engine roared to life. He looked at me with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes, chuckled and said, “Let the tank run dry”. I chuckled then said, “Don’t let it happen again”.

Even after that, it didn’t bother me to fly with him. And it didn’t bother me to fly commercial. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t much that actually bothered me in the way of fearful things, except of course, the dark. Not much, that is, until I had children. Suddenly, so many things gave me pause for consideration prior to engaging. And the older I got, the more things gave me pause and the longer the pauses became. For a good while, I had difficulty in determining the root cause of all this pausing and then one day it hit me.

I had finally realized I was not immortal. I was not invincible. If I continued to fly down the road at my customary breakneck speed, I could end up very hurt or very dead. Every time I engaged in risky behavior I increased my odds of coming back mangled or worse. And the longer I live—and the closer death comes—the more I realize that, if I’m not somewhat careful, I will hasten his already imminent arrival.

There are those instances when a fear of death can be paralyzing. We as human beings reach a point in life where we do begin to contemplate our ultimate demise, but that contemplation does not have to signal the end of all things challenging or adventurous. Rather, I’m hoping it results in a gentle shifting of priorities, remembering that the decisions we make and the behaviors in which we indulge affect far more lives than just our own. By adjusting our focus and directing our efforts to the benefit of those around us we can, to paraphrase Mark Twain, live so that when we die even the undertaker will be sorry.

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Herding Cats

Wed, 17 Jun 2015 21:04:00 GMT

So when my grandsons came to spend the night one weekend, I had this glorious idea that they needed a tent and sleeping bags. But it had to be a free-standing tent ‘cause it had to be set up inside; there is no way this old body is gonna sleep on the ground and actually move the next morning. So we took them shopping, got them all excited about a tent and sleeping bags, and then struggled to actually get them to go to sleep once they burrowed in.

Now, whenever night spending takes place, they want to know if we can put up the tent (in the living room since there’s enough space for a four person tent and not much else) and can they sleep in it. After our last round, the tent was dismantled and piled on the sofa . . . along with the poles and the rain cover and the bag. It was my duty to fold and store said tent.

Have you ever tried to fold anything that required a large amount of floor space with seven cats in attendance? Now we don’t have seven that are full time house cats. Only two occupy that position. The others come in if the door opens and they are outside—or go out if the door opens and they are in. But for some unknown reason, I thought it was a good idea to fold and bag the tent at feeding time. So I brought it into the kitchen (where I could multi-task by watching “ Bones” at the same time), spread it out on the floor, and proceeded to shoo cats away or pick them up off the tent or fish them out from under the tent or take the ties away from them or pull them out of the bag or . . .

Get the picture? I finally managed to fold the tent, reclaimed the bag, and stuffed everything inside (I know you’re wondering why I didn’t just put the cats outside; probably for the same reason I decided to fold the tent while cat feeding). At least I didn’t have to sweep dead leaves and grass off as I rolled it up, but there’s probably a fair amount of cat hair clinging to it.

What in the world, you may ask, does any of that have to do with death? An excellent question which I shall now attempt to answer. When death occurs, the end result is almost the equivalent of trying to herd cats, and I’m not referring to dealing with the survivors. Loss takes normal and makes it anything but and until you experience that loss, you really don’t know how you will react—and no two losses ever generate the same feelings. There are days you may think you’re a pinball, bouncing from post to post at the whim of some random human operating the flippers . . . or someone trying to fold a tent while besieged by cats. No matter how hard you try to focus or how much you want to be functional, the distractions brought by grief can take the routine and make it impossible. The key throughout it all is to remember that you haven’t lost your mind along with your loved one. Everything you are experiencing is normal. You aren’t going crazy. You’re just temporarily herding cats.

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A Single Rose

Wed, 10 Jun 2015 20:48:00 GMT

It was January 31, 1980 and I had just learned that my elementary school principal, Mr. D. G. White, had died. Death had come quietly as he slept, its presence discovered by his wife that morning. Growing up I had always viewed him as a Santa Claus shaped man, minus the beard, who could strike fear into the heart of a school child as easily as he could make them smile. His wife was my third grade teacher, the one who made it her mission in life to correct my method of grasping a pencil while writing. By the end of the school year I had conformed to the acceptable position of the pencil resting on my middle finger, guided by my index finger and thumb instead of it scooting down a finger and being clutched by my entire hand. Every time we practiced our handwriting, she would stroll up and down the rows of desks, always pausing beside mine, always repositioning my hand. I’m not sure she would have let me out of third grade had I not mastered that skill—and I hate to break it to her, but arthritic thumbs have given me just cause to revert back to my original pencil pushing position. Hopefully, she can forgive me.

For reasons I really can’t explain, his death touched me greatly—possibly because he was one of the first major figures from my childhood to travel from this world to the next. I had only been out of college for a year and a half, married for slightly more than a year, and still very new to this independent adult thing. While pondering his death and trying to imagine how his wife must feel, I tried to think of something I could do for her. A visit didn’t seem to be in order and food preparation isn’t really a spur of the moment thing. I settled upon a single red rose, delivered to her house, rather than waiting to have something sent to the funeral home and possibly lost in what I believed would be a mass of floral tributes. The arrangements were made, the flower delivered and, when I saw her at the visitation, not a word was mentioned. I didn’t expect her to say anything, but when she didn’t it made me wonder. Did she actually receive the rose? Did she recognize the name on the card? It really didn’t matter, as long as it told her that someone, somewhere, was thinking of her.

Years later I saw her again; I don’t remember where or why. But as we spoke she smiled thoughtfully, her mind moving backwards in time, and she mentioned a single red rose, sent by someone she held dear, someone she would always remember for a kindness shown. And as she smiled she looked at me and I knew that she had known.

Sometimes it isn’t the big things that have the greatest impact. Sometimes a thoughtful gesture, a few minutes to listen, a simple I’m sorry, can do more to alleviate the suffering and pain of grief than some monumental offering. Nothing will ever have the power of a magic wand, banishing the feelings of loss for all eternity and lifting the burden from the hearts of those who grieve, but sometimes that one small act—that single red rose—speaks volumes, for it says that someone cares.

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Thistles

Thu, 04 Jun 2015 04:33:00 GMT

You see, thistles come with homegrown protection, intended to keep animals from making a meal of them. Those prickly little things that you see all around it are just that, prickly little things that hurt like the devil when touched, no matter how gentle that touch may be. But I’ve always heard that if you approach a thistle with confidence and firmly grasp it, the sharp, painfully pointy leaves and spines will collapse under your fingers and you will avoid being skewered by the infernal thing. And since I just happen to have about ten acres of field as my front yard, complete with several accommodating thistles, I decided to put the theory to the test. After all, wouldn’t that make for a great blog? Firmly approach something like grief with a decisive frame of mind and you can overcome any obstacle it may cast in your path . . . (kindly read that with a heavy dose of sarcasm). Think of the dedication to the craft that must be possessed, the willingness to put one’s own fingers in jeopardy for the greater good. Okay. Maybe not.

Whatever the motivation, I chose a sunny morning when the grass in the field was fairly dry, stopped the van about three quarters of the way down the drive that’s two tenths of a mile long, and spotted my guinea pig. It wasn’t too far from the asphalt which was good since I rarely ever wear shoes that cover my toes once the weather is warm enough . . . if I even wear shoes. So, with camera in hand, I carefully picked my way through the tall grass that will soon be bales of hay, watching for the possible snake that’s waiting to nibble on my toes and give me heart failure, and approached my target. First there was the picture taking, followed by the observation that this is a beautiful yet evil looking creature. Very gingerly, I touched one of the spines and immediately came to the realization that I might not be as courageous as I thought I was. Defying what I now questioned as truth—that the firm grasping of said thistle would allow me to prevail—I gently placed my hand around it and slowly began to close it.

That was my second mistake. My first was believing I could do this.

After several minutes of tentative thistle touching (which sounds absolutely awful in retrospect), I found that if I slid my hand up from the bottom of the stalk, the spines actually did flatten against the bloom and the leaves caressed the plant . . . and I could hold it without bleeding all over everything. It took some doing . . . and some time . . . and a good deal of self-convincing, but I finally found a way in which I could hold a thistle.

And therein lies the moral to the story. Despite my firm belief that I could deal with a thistle, the actual thistle caused my resolve to waiver significantly. Only after a great deal of contemplation was I able to reach my goal and then not as I had originally planned. Losing someone we love can generate that same set of circumstances. No matter how much we plan or how prepared we might think we are, the actual loss can throw us into a tailspin. To quote Robert Burns, “The best laid plans of mice and men go oft astray” and loss and the grief that follows are masters at undoing even the most well laid plan. Those pesky thistles may prick your fingers, but grief will prick your heart and soul and the scars it leaves will never truly heal. We just have to learn how to hold it so we can minimize the pain.

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In Memory

Thu, 28 May 2015 03:49:00 GMT

Despite the fact that Death did not take a holiday on this particular holiday, I managed to find time to go to Shiloh and wander about the grounds of the National Cemetery. With camera in hand I slowly, quietly moved among the monuments, noting how many were merely blocks of marble with numbers carved into the tops, or upright arches marking very simply the grave of an “Unknown U.S. Solider”. And before every marker was placed an American flag, thousands of them precisely one foot away from every stone, forming line after line of red, white, and blue. The monuments run before you as you enter the cemetery, fanning out in all directions, yet always straight, always neatly aligned, row after row after row. For those fortunate enough to be identified, there is a name carved across the face of the stone; for those truly fortunate, a date of death is included. Very few of the earlier ones bear a date of birth or any other personal information. In the days that followed the battle, there was no time for individual graves. The used though probably not preferred method of burial was in trenches dug to hold hundreds of bodies at a time—communal graves offering more sanitation than sanctity.

Following the war, the trenches of the Union soldiers were opened and their bodies moved to what is now the National Cemetery. Somehow, two Confederates managed to find their way in, their graves marked by monuments with tops that come to a decisive point rather than the gently sloped arch of their Northern brothers. Legend has it they were so to keep the Yankees from sitting on them, but given that Congress did not approve that design until forty plus years after the war, that may not hold water. Surely as a nation we had healed to the point where desecration of Confederate graves was unacceptable. Maybe.

Through the years the cemetery has accommodated others who desired to consecrate their remains to her soil until the grounds could no longer welcome those whose status as veterans or the spouse of such would allow their interment. As you wander among the graves you will find monuments with names carved on both the front and the back. Those belong to a veteran and his or her spouse, buried one atop the other, in an effort to conserve space and allow for the entrance of a few more who have served their country honorably.

The peace of this place brings about a serenity that cannot be described. The quiet calms the soul and mind—and the realization of who lies beneath your feet is deeply humbling, for the majority of those who dwell beneath this sod are those who gave their lives fighting for a cause in which they believed . . . a cause for which they were willing to die. Far from home, fearful of the finality each day might bring, they found a resting place in a place of beauty, surrounded by those of like mind and heart, forgotten for the most part, until days designed to bring forth their memories once more.

We honor those who have made the ultimate sacrifice, but in so many ways most everyone who rests in the arms of Death has sacrificed to some degree. Whether it is the mother who spent much of her life caring for her family or the father who lived as an example for his children while providing for their needs or the spouse whose focus in life was the happiness and well-being of another, each has sacrificed, perhaps not so greatly as to give their life in death, but a sacrifice none the less. And each is worthy of the honor given them—and the reverence that comes when we wander among their graves.

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Beautifully Imperfect

Wed, 20 May 2015 21:38:00 GMT

Last night, while occupying my bed and chasing sleep, I listened to them. This morning, while attempting to ready myself for vacating the house, they droned in the background. And when I open the door . . . any door, it really doesn’t matter where . . . they grow louder. As a matter of fact, the volume has increased on a daily basis; if it continues at this rate we’ll soon have to yell at each other just to be heard.

Of course I’m talking about the cicadas, those lovely creatures which have escaped their underground prisons and inhabited the planet at a ratio of 600 bugs to every one adult (I really think that’s closer to a million . . .). But one of these days, when we’ve grown so accustomed to their incessant singing that we don’t even notice it anymore, they will stop. Quiet will descend upon the world and suddenly something won’t seem right. It may take a while to put our collective fingers on it, but the quiet that follows the weeks of humming will seem strange. Despite the fact that everyone complains about it now, we will miss it when it’s gone. Maybe not for very long, but we will miss it because we have grown used to hearing it.

People can be equally annoying with their irritating habits. If they aren’t snoring the night away, they’re hogging the covers every time they turn or leaving the toilet seat in an unacceptable position and the top off the toothpaste. Perhaps they ask too many questions . . . or not enough. Aging parents may tell us the same story for the thirty-seventh time or call every day, interrupting whatever life requires of us at that moment. Children will tug at our sleeves or scream for our attention or just generally make a mess wherever they are. But someday the phone will quit ringing. The snoring will cease. We can leave the toilet seat wherever we like or complete a task without interruption or walk through an uncluttered house. And when those times come, we will miss what once was. Those annoying habits, those distractions calculated to arrive at the most inopportune time, tell us that those we love are still with us. They can still afflict us with their imperfections, they can still annoy us with their incessant interruptions, but the day will come when that will no longer be the case and we will realize that, no matter how irritating those things were, we would give almost anything to experience them one more time.

Several years ago a friend of mine sent me a link to a video in which a wife eulogizes her husband. She begins by telling everyone that she is not going to sing his praises or talk about what a good man he was—others had fulfilled that task. She was going to make them uncomfortable by talking about his faults. His horrible snoring. His tendency to generate “wind action” (in her words) while still asleep. And she continues by telling them that, as funny as these things may be, they told her that he was still with her. Two of my co-workers and I watched the video and when it ended, there was absolute silence. They slowly walked back to their desks and I simply sat there, my eyes filled with tears and my nose glowing bright red. Her closing words to her children were “I hope someday you find life partners who are as beautifully imperfect as your father was to me”. That statement rings true no matter the relationship. Spouse or parent, sibling or child, it really doesn’t matter. Everyone in our lives is beautifully imperfect and it is those imperfections we will miss when they are gone.

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Just One Card

Wed, 13 May 2015 17:19:00 GMT

Mother’s Day in 2008 rolled around just like it always had; the date was May 11 ^th and, as usual, I was standing in the card aisle at Wal-Mart a few days before, trying to find an appropriate card before they were so picked over that only the sucky ones were left with no envelopes to match. This year was very different though. This year my mother had beaten my father to Death on May 1—not literally but sequentially. Everyone who knew them firmly believed my father would be the first to go for though her health had declined significantly over the past few years, Death did not seem to be on my mother’s horizon, much less right outside the door. Her funeral had taken place just a few days prior to my Wally-World run; the dirt hadn’t even settled good at the cemetery.

So why was I standing in the card aisle, vacantly staring at the Mother’s Day cards? Because I am the purchaser of cards for our family. My husband, being a man, does not often see the need of both a card and a gift. I, on the other hand, believe the card to be the most important part . . . unless, of course, you just grab the first one you come to and head to the nearest cashier. And my mother-in-law was still very much alive and very much deserving of an appropriate card to celebrate her contributions to our lives and to express our gratitude for said contributions.

I can’t begin to tell you how odd the entire process seemed. There should be two cards. There had always been two cards. Sometimes I cheated and bought the same card for both my mother and my mother-in-law, but I have always been somewhat picky about the wording on the cards I give and when I would find one that satisfied my high standards I was usually smart enough to realize the odds of finding a second one were slim and none. I refuse to buy the cheesy ones and I shy away from those that rhyme. They usually sound contrived and forced . . . and cheesy . . . so they have no chance whatsoever of qualifying for a one-way ticket to my house.

But this time, there would be only one. From then until some unknown point in the future, there would be only one. And to this day, the entire process still seems so very odd—and sad in a way. The simple act of selecting only one card for a very special day brings a flood of memories—and sometimes a few tears. It’s a feeling that will probably never completely go away, and I’m okay with that. It just reminds me of how dearly I was loved and how blessed I truly am.

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The Bumpy Wheel

Thu, 07 May 2015 04:03:00 GMT

I am a Wal-Mart shopper. That is not stated with any pride whatsoever, simply as a matter of fact. They occasionally provide everything on my list in one large, expansive, overcrowded, difficult to navigate location. And they occasionally do not hide the items from me so I can eventually find what I think I need.

On those evenings when I dare to face the crowds and the lines at the checkout, I will enter on the grocery side (always through the entrance doors—my internal regulatory system will not allow me to enter through an exit) and stand briefly surveying the available buggies. I do not, under any circumstances, want one with a bumpy wheel, and you can never tell if you have one until you get into the store and onto the vinyl tile. For some reason (probably to provide a more durable, non-skid surface for entry—and to obscure the fact that you have a bad buggy), the designers of Wal-Mart stores put ceramic tile at every entrance . . . rough, uneven ceramic tile. So if the buggy bumps and makes that horrible racket that announces your arrival long before you actually arrive, you don’t know until it’s too late.

Actually, I don’t suppose it’s ever really too late. There have been evenings I’ve made a sharp U-turn once I hit the vinyl and gone back to initiate a buggy exchange. And there have been evenings I’ve done that more than once . . . or twice. But I draw the line at three times. After that I just accept the fact that tonight’s gonna be one of those nights and rattle my way into the store, usually with a buggy that’s worse than the one I started with before swapping.

I just love the way the other Wal-Mart shoppers will turn and look at me as the buggy announces my presence. I need a sarcasm font here, in case you didn’t catch that. They never say anything. They just look at me like, “Couldn’t you have done any better?” I want to tell them I tried but simply could not find an accommodating buggy that evening, but I never do. I just lean on it a little harder, hoping that will help (it never does) or try to load it in such a way that perhaps most of the weight is over the offending wheel (which also never helps). No matter what measures I take, I’m still going to rattle my way through Wal-Mart, being stared at by everyone in the store.

Did you ever stop to think that grieving people are a lot like buggies with bumpy wheels? Probably not since most people don’t really think like I do, so allow me to explain. Most of us have trouble responding to someone who has suffered a significant loss, especially if that loss is a child or a spouse. When they walk into the room, we look at them, but we don’t really know what to say. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make matters worse? And then we try to pretend that everything is all right and nothing has happened that turned their lives upside down and inside out. Like the offending buggy with the wheel that’s out of round, their pain is obvious and we can clearly see it, but we choose to remain silent feeling there is nothing we can do.

My response to that response would be this—all you have to do is ask how they are managing, how they are doing—and then listen. Chances are that’s all they need. A listening ear and a loving heart go a long way toward smoothing the path of a person in mourning and, although I have yet to be able to fix the broken buggies of Wally World, surely I can overcome my own discomfort and reach out to those in need.

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Look for the Helpers

Thu, 30 Apr 2015 03:23:00 GMT

We live in an age where nothing can be hidden, blessed with technology that constantly reminds us of death and destruction and devastation, of carnage and war and those whose only goal in life is to gain for themselves that which they must take from others, no matter the cost. We cannot turn on a television or listen to a radio station, log in on a computer or pick up a newspaper without being beaten over the head with all that is wrong with this world. And it takes absolutely no time for the worst possible news to spread like wildfire. If it isn’t a bright red banner across MSN’s home page, it’s comment after comment on Facebook or text messages from those with knowledge assuring the rest of us are informed.

Maybe that’s a good thing, but there are days it certainly doesn’t feel that way. I cannot fix most of what transpires in this world. I can’t provide homes for all the homeless, food for those who are starving, justice for everyone, or enduring comfort for the bereaved. Whether the events that afflict us are wrought by Mother Nature or man, whether by accident or intent, they are beyond my control but can still fill my eyes with tears and my heart with an ache that will not let go. In short, I am not able to control most of what goes awry in this world but, if I am not careful, it can control me.

There are times when it almost becomes too much to bear. The devastation in Nepal. The violence in Baltimore. The tragedies in our own small, close-knit communities. The death and destruction screams at us, demanding our attention, daring us to look away, but within those events, if we search deeply and long enough, we will find good. I don’t mean that there is good to be found in the massive loss of life brought about by a natural phenomenon. I would never believe that good can be found in anger and destruction. I cannot find one single solitary note of good in the untimely deaths of those whose lives have just begun. But think about the rescuers in Nepal, those who search for survivors and recover the remains of those who died. Look at the 1,000 volunteers who came to the most damaged areas of Baltimore the day after the riots, their sole intent being to restore what they could for people they did not even know. Think of those who reach out to the families so torn with grief over untimely loss. As Mr. Rogers said, “Look for the helpers,” for they bring far more than willing hands and hearts. They bring compassion, love, and hope to a grieving world. I challenge us all to be those helpers, to do what we can where we can with what we have. The day may come when we will pray fervently for someone to return the favor.

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Give It Time

Thu, 23 Apr 2015 03:46:00 GMT

Now, is there anything I can do to hurry this tree along? After all, it does get a little tiresome having folks tell me year after year that it’s time has come and it needs to go. I suppose I could water it a lot, although Mother Nature currently seems to be doing a fine job of that. Perhaps I should visit with it on occasion. They say talking to your plants is beneficial for their well-being; maybe the same goes for trees. Maybe I need to berate it for being slow and not keeping up with the other trees, not shading its particular spot as quickly or for as long as its neighbors. After all, a tree with no leaves tends to make people question its willingness to fulfill its place in society and the sincerity of its efforts toward behaving like a real tree.

Grieving people are a lot like the trees in my yard. Some of them recover faster than others. Some of them move through the process with more ease than others. And then there are those who, like my leafless tree, need more time. It doesn’t matter how much we may talk to them or encourage them or try to shame them into re-entering life on our time table, the grieving process cannot be hurried. Each person must approach that period of adjustment at their own speed, on their own terms, in their own time. So my response to those who deem it their responsibility to “help” someone along would be the same as my response to those who would suggest my tree needs to be cut down. Just give it time.

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Through the Storm

Wed, 15 Apr 2015 10:14:00 GMT

One morning, while trying to make my way to the kitchen end of the house and the driveway beyond without tripping over a cat, something outside my front door caught my eye. It was just the briefest moment of shocking pink . . . the kind that makes you back up and take a long, hard, second look. Before I proceed, you probably need to know that my yard currently resembles a jungle, but that’s by design. I love the clover and the wild violets and the yard is presently covered in both, the clover raising their tiny purple heads above the other weeds (it may not be grass, but at least it’s green), happily surrounding the violets that are quite content to nestle in their shadow. I know once it’s mowed they’ll be gone for another year, so I enjoy them until I can’t see the cats anymore once they go outside. This also means what passes for shrub beds up next to the house are equally overgrown. Yard work used to be my thing. Not so much anymore.

But as I passed by the front door—the front door that’s mostly glass and looks out on the sidewalk to nowhere and the clover covered yard—I saw it . . . and I stopped . . . and I opened the door that’s rarely ever opened and walked out onto the porch that’s bigger than any porch really ought to be. And there, very close to the steps that lead to the sidewalk to nowhere, is one lonely little azalea. It used to be much larger, but the outer branches died and some kind soul pruned it back a couple of years ago. You probably also need to know that I don’t trim very much, if anything . . . which is why you can’t get to the front door from the driveway unless you’re willing to leave the sidewalk.

But this lonely little azalea had been trimmed, the dead wood cut from it until it was half its original size. And then it had withstood the winter of 2015. The one we just had, not the one to come. Granted, compared to our friends to the North, our winter was virtually nothing, but for us and anything attempting to survive outside, it was cold enough, with snow not once but twice, enough that you could build a semi-decent snowman and indulge in snow cream. And then there was the ice, the ice that coated the world, making everything sparkly and threatening to nip every bud that dared show its tiny little face.

Yet now, in the middle of the April showers that allegedly bring May flowers (and uncontrollable hair for some of us), was this beautiful azalea. Despite the snow, despite the ice, despite my constant neglect and haphazard approach to landscaping, it had not only survived but had done so beautifully.

The strongest people I know are those who have been tested by the storm. They have withstood the snow and ice, the heartaches brought by tragedy and loss. Their smiles have more meaning, their souls more depth, their words more wisdom. In understanding they cannot avoid the pain, they have chosen to move through it and in so doing have emerged not unscathed, but beautifully scarred. And as the writers of Criminal Minds noted, through the words of Agent David Rossi, “Scars remind us of where we’ve been. They don’t have to dictate where we’re going.”

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Top Ten Reasons to Reconsider Cremation

Thu, 09 Apr 2015 02:47:00 GMT

We were in bookkeeping not long ago (have you noticed that a fair amount of insanity originates from this location? It’s kinda like the Bermuda Triangle but for intellectual thought instead of ships) when one of our number mentioned having read where someone’s ashes were placed in an urn that resembled a purse, and that the house where said urn lived had been entered illegally and the “purse” stolen. That was the only thing they took. The purse. Don’t you know they were surprised when they opened it? Anyway, the police never found the urn and the family was naturally devastated. If something like that could happen, what other horrible fates could befall someone’s cremated remains? And thus was born our “Top 10 Reasons to Reconsider Cremation”, which I will now present for your reading pleasure and edification (and which, I might add, are in no particular order).

1. Someone could mistake you for a drug stash and steal you.
2. Someone could mistake you for a drug stash and use you accordingly.
3. You could get left under the seat of a van by a carnival worker who was involved in an accident and fled the scene. (That really happened . . . they are currently living in the closet under our stairs. The ashes, not the carnival worker).
4. The cat could knock you off the mantle and use you as a litter box.
5. Your family could just “forget” to come back and get you.
6. Your family could move away and leave you in the closet . . . which means you’re going to end up in our closet.
7. If you need to travel a great distance immediately after you die, it’s easier to get a body on a plane than a box of ashes.
8. If you do get to live on the mantle, no one will ever be allowed to throw a ball in the house again.
9. If you get spilled whoever is cleaning up may have a hard time telling you from the dust.
10. Scattering can be a challenge if the wind is blowing the wrong way.

There you have it, the product of temporary insanity. And although we make light of the matter, rest assured, we operate under no illusions that the reasons listed above would ever change anyone’s mind if they were seriously considering cremation as a method of disposition (which was not the intent to begin with). And did you notice the word I used? Disposition. That’s exactly what cremation is—disposition—a manner in which one disposes of a deceased human body. Just like burial but with flames instead of dirt. The important part is what comes before either of those takes place—memorialization.

For some reason, cremation has gained the reputation of being the beginning and end of everything where a funeral is concerned and nothing could be farther from the truth. Without that time of honoring and remembering, of visiting and sharing, of laughter and tears, there is the very real possibility of denial. Even though we know this person is no longer physically with us, the visitation and the service force us to acknowledge that in a manner that cannot be accomplished by any other means. As a society, we may believe we are beyond the need for that ritual, that we have progressed to a point where we are psychologically superior to our ancestors and able to handle death even when we don’t confront it. But folks, they had it right. The denial of death does not make it go away and they understood that honoring the one who has died acknowledges their importance and allows us to begin the adjustment to life without them. So whether you choose earth burial or cremation is really beside the point. What matters is how you choose to honor those in death who helped you through this life.

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Life and Death Decisions

Wed, 01 Apr 2015 18:30:00 GMT

For weeks now I have watched in horror and disbelief as the story behind the crash of Germanwings flight 9525 unfolded. Upon hearing of the tragedy, my first thought was that it could not have been an accident and sadly enough, my first thought proved to be correct. As I sat contemplating how anyone could intentionally take the lives of 149 innocent people, the realization dawned that Andreas Lubitz had, in that single moment of decision, chosen Death as his destination. Not only did he make that decision for himself, but for those who had trusted him with their lives when they boarded that plane.

I wondered how he must have felt as he manipulated the controls to begin the descent into the Alps. How could his breathing remain calm and steady as the pilot, realizing what was happening, became more and more aggressive in his efforts to regain entrance into the cockpit? He must have heard the screams of the passengers when they finally understood. How could he ignore that? How could he remain unaffected? When given the opportunity—when faced with the choice between Life and Death—Andreas Lubitz chose Death.

I began mentally reviewing history in search of others who, at some point in their lives, held that same power and, for whatever reason, Harry Truman came to mind. I could not imagine how he must have wrestled with the decision to use the atomic bomb during World War II, how many sleepless nights there were, knowing that tens of thousands of lives would be taken and that they could not pinpoint the devastation so as to avoid civilian casualties. In that instance he chose Death—not for himself but for so many others—believing it was the only way to assure continued life for those who had fought for four long years. And after viewing the images and reading the reports following the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Truman called a halt to any further use of the atomic bomb. He could not bear the thought that hundreds of thousands more would die.

Every day we have a choice. Granted, it may not be as cold and calculated as the one Andreas Lubitz made or as far-reaching as that of Harry Truman. But we are constantly choosing between Life and Death, and we don’t even realize it. Do we check the text message we just received or, worse yet, respond to it while we’re driving? If we’re running late do we fly through the stop sign, try to beat the caution light, or ignore the speed limit as we weave in and out of traffic? Do we indulge in alcohol then slide behind the wheel? Do we light up the next cigarette or do we decide to quit, pack on the pounds while we vegetate on the couch or decide to take better care of the one body we’re allowed in this life? Such mundane matters, such seemingly inconsequential acts, yet each one—and so many others—are actually a choice between Life and Death. We never give those decisions a second thought; they are habits that we have cultivated for years and many times we think they are as necessary as the air we breathe. And each time we engage in those behaviors, we choose Death over Life. Fortunately, most of the time when we make that choice we are granted Life instead. But the day will come, if we flirt with Death often enough, that he will wink back.

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The Light Beneath the Door

Thu, 26 Mar 2015 03:39:00 GMT

As I have mentioned previously, there are those evenings when I end up being the only living person in the building, usually due to work that I haven’t managed to accomplish during the day. On those occasions I’m in and out of the office up front, digging in the records or the candy bowl that sits on the counter—meaning before I can depart for home I have to lock the door from the office to the foyer and the door from the foyer into the service hall. And lately, whether or not we’ve had a visitation and no matter who actually locked up the building at 5:00 or sometime thereafter, the light has been on in the men’s restroom. I started to say bathroom, but someone told me we don’t bathe in there . . . although there are some folks who have.

I can see the door right before I pass through the last door I have to lock. Since I’m walking across the hall to the restrooms and the lounge that will someday live on the first floor, I will glance in that direction. You know, just to make certain no one is hiding in the dark, waiting to pounce on me as I come around the stairs. And the restroom light is always beckoning to me from beneath the door.

I didn’t think much about it the first time . . . or the second . . . but by the third I was beginning to wonder. I would knock on the door (as though anyone hiding in there is going to tell me it’s occupied), then push it open just enough to reach in and flip the light switch. (That way no one can grab my arm and yank me into the Twilight Zone.) The first time I just turned and walked back toward the foyer, through the door into the service hall, and never looked back . . . just like I did the second time. But the third time . . . the third time I stopped before entering the back hallway. I stopped and I turned and I watched the door, the door to the men’s restroom. I stood and I watched that sliver of a crack, fully expecting it to light up again.

The whole time I was standing there, which seemed like forever but was probably a hair shy of that, I contemplated what I would do if the light actually came back on. And what would that mean? There could be a short in the switch. There could be someone standing on the toilet (so I couldn’t see their feet if I actually looked under the stall door), waiting until everyone left so they could frolic about the building. Or we could be haunted by a ghost that was afraid of the dark and liked to hang out in the men’s room. The only one I was okay with was the short in the switch, and ascertaining that to be the problem was beyond my area of expertise. The other two required making a hasty exit to I-didn’t-know-where ‘cause every door in the building has a cantankerous 37 year old lock that may or may not cooperate at any given time, and if I’m being chased by something, I don’t want that to be a time of cantankerousness. And it needs to be something that’s really slow.

So why is it such an issue if the light is on or even if it refuses to remain extinguished until the next business day? Because I don’t understand it. I can make up all sorts of reasons, but the fact remains that I don’t understand it. It constitutes an unknown—and unknowns are the things many of us fear the most. Enter the analogy with Death.

Although we understand the body’s response to death, we have no one who can actually tell us what happens to that person based on their own experience. No one is alive today that has ever come back from the dead and reported on the trip. So we don’t know if we’re aware of what happens around us. We don’t know if we’re in a holding pattern waiting for some future event or if it’s like falling asleep and not waking up for the next million years. We just don’t know. Religion answers that question based on their particular belief system; atheists provide a completely different response. The fact is what lies immediately beyond death is perhaps the greatest unknown of all. And when faced with that unknown—and the certainty of its coming—many of us deny its existence instead of preparing for its eventual arrival. If we’re not careful, that fear will suck the life right out of living—and what good is being alive if you’re too afraid of death to enjoy the trip?

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I Can’t Adjust

Thu, 19 Mar 2015 03:22:00 GMT

I know I’m not supposed to hate. I’ve been taught that for as long as I can remember . . . but I would like to state, for the record, that I absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, HATE daylight savings time. Did you know it’s a scientifically proven fact that the Monday following the implementation of this heresy—after we “spring forward”—is the worst Monday of the year because everyone is grouchy and moody and cranky and sleepy because they lost an hour of their lives? (I would also like to state that I much prefer “falling back”. If we’d just do that enough we could eventually gain a whole day . . .)

I can’t adjust. I. Cannot. Adjust. My brain and my body have yet to understand that it isn’t 11:00 P.M. anymore. It’s midnight. It’s midnight and I’m still going strong because I don’t normally hit the sack until an hour later. My brain and my body also refuse to acknowledge that it’s time to get up when the alarm on my phone starts howling an hour earlier than that to which they are accustomed. There is something terribly, terribly wrong when I have to crawl out of my soft, comfy bed before the sun has to crawl out of his . . . or hers, whichever is appropriate. I know, I know. There are people who have to do that on a daily basis as a part of their job and new parents who stumble around in the dark at the beck and call of a screaming infant. But I’m not any of those people. I appreciate them all, and there have been those times when I’ve been required to rise in what was obviously the middle of the night. But not on a daily basis over an extended period of time where I was expected to consistently function like a rational, clear-thinking human being.

There isn’t enough coffee in the world to fix this.

Why is it so difficult to adjust to something so simple, so insignificant? It’s just one hour. All I have to do is make myself go to bed an hour earlier than I think I’m supposed to for a few days and, before you know it, this will be my new normal and it will all be okay. But I don’t do the one thing I know will make it all better, or at least bearable (until that glorious weekend when the “falling back” occurs) and then I wonder why I struggle with it so much.

There are people in this world who have to adjust to far more than a lost hour. Lost jobs, lost possessions, lost homes, lost lives, they all bring about that same insanity—the unbearable desire for life as it was, knowing it can never be that way again. But instead of taking the steps we know might eventually bring about a bearable “new normal”, we continue as we always have and wonder why life never improves.

I’m very fortunate. Even if I never train my body to accept this new schedule, in approximately six months this abomination will go away and my internal clock will be in sync with everyone else’s time keeping devices. But people trying to cope with any kind of loss are not so blessed. There is no law that will decree a return to a time when life was comfortable and secure and routine—and time alone isn’t going to bring about healing or adjustment. We have to take the steps necessary to begin the process, to help it along. That may mean joining a support group, meeting with a counselor, educating ourselves on what we are experiencing, or just finding someone we can lean on when the going gets tough. The steps are different for everyone but one thing is the same across the board. Although there may be those who will never manage to adjust to their altered lives, the majority can—but it is only possible if we are willing to work for it.

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Which Way is Up?

Thu, 12 Mar 2015 03:28:00 GMT

Anyone who knows me knows that I am somewhat directionally challenged. And anyone who knows me probably thinks that’s an understatement. I can most definitely find my way out of a paper bag, but I don’t do north and south and east and west. I do left and right and up and down. And I have an affinity for landmarks, not mile markers. Tell me there’s an abandoned store on the right before I enter a long curve and then I take the next left. Don’t tell me to go east on Highway 64 for seven miles and then turn. I just told you, I don’t do east. (I also don’t do highway numbers so now is the time for a disclaimer. Any highway numbers mentioned in this post are only there because I asked someone while I was writing. And if you give me a street name there better be a sign big enough that I can see it a mile away.)

So when I learned I would have to travel to Memphis by myself on business, going to an office in Germantown, I was slightly apprehensive. Yes, I have been to Memphis before but my excursions usually involved a straight shot on Highway 64 which was not at all what I needed to do this time. Yes, I had been to this office before—that doesn’t mean I can find it again. And yes, I have a GPS into which I could enter the address. But the GPS and I do not always agree, directionally speaking, and therein lies the rub.

I have a Magellan which I named Maggie, mainly because it has a woman’s voice that sounds slightly British and makes me think of a younger Maggie Smith. And it just makes sense because it’s a Magellan. Get it? Maggie the Magellan . . .? So I typed in the address while sitting at the end of my driveway, then off I went.

We had our first disagreement when I turned left on Highway 22 headed toward Shiloh. My plan was to drive to Corinth, get on Highway 72, and breeze into Memphis from Mississippi. Maggie did not agree. As a matter of fact, she spent the next five miles insisting that I make a legal U-turn at the first available opportunity, even providing specific directions when such opportunity was upcoming. When she finally realized she wasn’t going to win, she fell into a pouty silence. No “Recalculating”. No, “Oh I see what you’re doing”. Just that “well, if you aren’t going to do it my way” pout. Eventually she came around and decided to talk to me again, I think mainly because she believed she could trick me into turning right at the four-way stop which would have put me on Highway 57 and back on her path. But I was too smart for her and again, she spent the next five miles insisting I make a legal U-turn at the next available opportunity.

Fortunately, the only times I really needed her assistance were in getting through Corinth and then getting off of 72 and making my way into Germantown and to my appointed destination—and at those times we were on the same map, so to speak. The trip back, however, was no better. She allowed me to head toward Corinth, even assisted in the process, but as I flew by my exit off of Highway 45, she never uttered a peep. I remember thinking, “Shouldn’t I have turned there?” but she was silent and I foolishly decided to trust her. Obviously, she had not paid much attention on the trip in; otherwise, I would never have ended up in Eastview.

Now, my locational references may not mean much to some of you, but let it suffice to say, Maggie knew where I needed to end up, but she didn’t necessarily know the best way to get there. Sometimes, if we’re not careful, we make the same mistake with family members and friends who are struggling to accept loss and adjust to life as it has become. Just as there are a zillion ways to get to Memphis, depending upon where you start and where you need to land, there are a multitude of ways to reach that state of acceptance and adjustment—and the best way is different for everyone. Don’t be the Maggie in their lives. You can help them along the way by offering support—a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on and cry on as the need arises, a presence that understands and does not condemn—but don’t try to map out their course and insist that they adhere to your directions. After all, they may be trying to get to Shiloh while you’re sending them through Eastview.

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It Was Monday

Thu, 05 Mar 2015 04:05:00 GMT

It was Monday. Was it ever Monday. It was the Monday from the flaming theological nether regions, so much so that three of the four of us occupying bookkeeping had gotten a little giddy. Ok. A lot giddy. In the course of our descent into ridiculousness, my daughter mentioned that at Disney World they occasionally have to stop the Pirates of the Caribbean ride to clean the cremated remains out of the machinery (I have no idea how that worked its way into the conversation, so please don’t ask). It seems that sometimes folks thought it a good idea to have an unauthorized scattering and it usually gunked up the works. She learned this while attending a national funeral directors’ convention at the park; the Disney Institute conducted one of the sessions and mentioned it in passing. Upon being asked why they just didn’t open a scattering garden (as in a specific spot where cremated remains could be scattered without bringing something to a grinding halt . . . literally . . .), they responded, “Well, we probably would if we could figure out how to fit it into our brand, but we’re supposed to be the ‘Happiest Place on Earth’. How, exactly, does a garden filled with deceased human remains—even if they are reduced to ashes—fit into that?”

Having now lost all concept of reality—and in an effort to help the Disney folks out—we began to brainstorm about how to fit a cremation scattering garden into Walt Disney World and it still meet all the Disney criteria. It was my daughter, the consummate Disney aficionado, who put forth the first, and perhaps best, suggestion. I probably should mention that both she and I would live in Disney World if given the opportunity. I have often said that when my children didn’t need me anymore (as in grown and with families of their own . . . which is now) and my husband was dead (which is not now), I would move to Disney World and live in the castle. In exchange for my lodging, I would happily move plants around all night long after the park closed. But that’s beside the point.

She proposed that it be patterned after Hades in the movie “Hercules”(I should probably mention here that the Hades of Greek mythology, from which the story of Hercules sprang, is not the equivalent of that flaming nether region to which I referred earlier. It was the place where all the dead “lived”), and I chimed in that only those with ashes to scatter would be allowed in the area. She added they would have to pay the ferryman—after much debate as to what this person is actually called—for passage across the river Styx with the coins that were once placed on the eyes of the dead (did you know that’s why they did that? The dead needed the fare to cross the river Styx which formed the boundary between earth and the underworld—and which was not named after the band; I think it’s the other way around. Otherwise, their souls were doomed to wander the banks of the river for all eternity). Once across, they could scatter the ashes wherever they chose with no fear of being ejected from the park for clogging up some ride’s mechanism.

If that didn’t work, they could always replicate the elephant graveyard from The Lion King.

Now absolutely none of that had anything to do with what we were actually trying to accomplish, which was basically just to keep our heads above water. But our brains were on overload and we needed that moment of insanity so we could put our noses back to the grindstone. In case you don’t already know, there are circumstances—and days—when the only way you can survive is to laugh, and you find it where you can, no matter how small. After all, as we have stated before, the beloved Erma Bombeck reminded us if we could laugh at it, we could live with it, whether it’s work or life or death. And by the way, Disney . . . you’re welcome.

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I Want a Reason

Wed, 18 Feb 2015 00:00:00 GMT

I don’t know if they still do it or not. I’m fortunate enough not to have a teenager permanently entrenched in our house, so with no one in high school, I don’t know if they still publish an anthology of student poetry each year. But they did when my son was a senior, so of course he submitted two great works of art, one of which I am about to quote for you now.

Forbidden Passion

I see the viking with his horned helmet.

I see the walrus with tusks of iron.

I see Napoleon with a teddy bear.

I see Helen Keller talking to Jimmy Carter.

I see Sinead O’Connor with her shaven head.

I see lives wasted away.

I see teachers, wild and uncontrollable.

I see students silent and content with work.

I see Abraham Lincoln skipping through a field

With Sammy Davis Jr. and Troy Aikman.

Forever.

Now you may ask, what in the world does any of that mean, which is exactly what the teachers around HCHS were wondering for days afterwards. While going from class to class, he would hear his literary effort being discussed. Such imagery! Such depth of meaning! What do you suppose this particular line was intended to convey?

Wanna know a secret? It didn’t mean anything. Absolutely nothing. He took the most ridiculous stuff he could think of, strung it all together, put it on paper, and submitted it to see what would happen. And the world not only tried to make sense of it but actually thought they had.

Which brings me to my point. There are things in this life we simply can’t explain because there are no rational explanations for them, like why are you sick all weekend and all better come Monday morning, or why is it when you’re in a hurry you hit every single red light along the way? All rather annoying bumps in the road but still just that—annoying. But what about the sudden death of an infant, the single car accident that steals a teenager or young adult or mother of two, the devastating disease that strikes the kindest, most loving person ever placed on this earth, or the mindless violence that snatches away life as though it had no value other than to be taken? There are no good explanations for much of the sorrow that afflicts us, and it serves no useful purpose to continually demand some rational, logical reason when there is no rational, logical reason to be had. To do so leaves you stuck, mired in grief, longing to understand that which cannot be understood.

There comes a time when, if we are to survive and eventually thrive, we must look beyond the very human need for control—and that’s really what our need for understanding is—and focus on adjusting to life as it has become. And that’s hard. That’s really, really hard because we believe that understanding a tragedy will somehow make it better when all too often the “explanation” only serves to deepen the anger or remorse or depression that is consuming our lives. It is far better to focus on acceptance and adjustment than to try and figure out why Abe Lincoln is skipping through a field with Sammy Davis, Jr. and Troy Aikman.

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With Dignity and Honor

Wed, 11 Feb 2015 23:51:00 GMT

We had a funeral home.

The only thing a funeral home provided for a teenager was a constant source of aggravation. It did come in handy when we had to have an insect collection and everyone else was going to the drug store for the chemical needed to make their “killing jars”. I could just use stuff out of the prep room. (Note to self . . . do not smell of it just to see what it’s like.) As an aside, I made the mistake of watching one after I placed it in the jar. From that point forward, I searched the area for already deceased bugs. Needless to say, I had a very small collection.

As I aged, the funeral home provided a job and I began to realize maybe it wasn’t such a bad legacy to have. Granted, they didn’t buy me a new car or offer me new clothes (we’ll have no cracks about burial garments being split up the back) or shoes (which I don’t like very much anyway), but when Death came to visit our family, it was a different story. I’m not talking about a free casket or the best vault available . . . I’m referring to the last thing we could ever do for one of our own.

When my uncle died, my father and brother drove to Bolivar and performed the task of embalming his body. And when my parents died, my son was the one who tended to their remains. At a time when it truly mattered, family took care of family. With reverence and love and respect, they closed the eyes that had watched them throughout their lives. They positioned the hands that reached out to them . . . cleaned and prepared the body that provided a home for the spirit of someone they loved deeply and would miss forever—someone who helped make them the person they were. And those of us who could not perform that task saw to the details of their service, planning and preparing for that last farewell.

There are those in this world who will tell you the body doesn’t matter because the person they knew isn’t there anymore, and in one respect they are right. At death a portion of that person ceases to exist as we knew them, but their body remains. That body is the physical manifestation of their lives, the vehicle in which they lived and breathed and cared for those around them. It is the picture that springs to mind when you close your eyes and think of them, the picture that we never want to lose as the years proceed without them. To care for those remains after death is an honor, a duty, an obligation—and a blessing when it is one of your own. It is the last act of service we can perform, allowing us to recognize their importance in our lives and the pain that comes with their absence. It allows us to escort those remains from life to their eternal resting place with dignity and reverence. And I’ll take that over the newest and bestest car on the lot any day of the week.

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Is He Mean?

Thu, 05 Feb 2015 04:03:00 GMT

I’m sitting at my desk, up to my bleary eyeballs in 1099s, when my cell phone rings. The screen tells me my son is on the other end. Question 1: Are you at work? Answer, yes. Question 2: Are you busy? It is January 29th and I have two days to get a gazillion 1099s for eleven different corporations printed and entrusted to the personnel of the United States Postal Service. No. Of course I’m not busy. I’m just hangin’ out at the home, playing Text Twist and Sudoku on the computer, waitin’ for 5:00 to roll around. He needs to come by (it is his day off) to take care of some business and wonders if his children—my grandchildren—can hang out in bookkeeping for a while. That’s just about the only interruption he can propose to which I will acquiesce on January 29th.

Of course, food is in order since they’ve just left their respective schools. Wilson requests a rice cake covered in peanut butter (yes, I have both at work) and Anderson attaches himself to a package of peanut butter and honey crackers (are you seeing a recurring peanut butter theme here? It’s genetic, encoded into the Shackelford DNA). Anderson settles in at the desk occupied by my cousin when she’s working in Savannah (I’m sorry, Claire. I tried to get the grease off of everything—but you may want to check your chair for crumbs) and begins the task of cracker consumption when he looks to the left and sees a cartoon she has taped to the printer. The wording is irrelevant (and probably not something I really need to repeat here) but next to the words is a rather ugly picture of the Grim Reaper. Anderson, to say the least, is intrigued.

“Mona,” he asks, “who is that?” to which I reply, rather matter-of-factly, “That’s Death.” Picking up another cracker, Anderson studies the picture for a moment then looks at me and asks, “Is he mean?”

Hmmmmm. Is he mean? I suppose it would depend upon who you asked. If you are the mother of the child who simply did not wake up one morning, Death is a thief who has stolen from you that which you cherish more than life itself. If you are the young husband with two small children whose wife has just died from some terrible, incurable disease, Death is a monster—a cold-hearted, unfeeling monster that cares nothing for the misery it inflicts. If you ask the parent whose child did not come home tonight because the car in which they were riding was involved in a horrible accident, Death is an evil that sucks the very soul from your body, leaving you empty and helpless in its aftermath. In those instances, “mean” might be the nicest description you could apply.

But suppose you are the child who has watched their aging parent decline year after year, succumbing to the ravages of dementia until they are no longer able to recognize even those to whom they were closest? Or what about the wife who has watched her husband of sixty plus years endure unbearable, unrelenting, incapacitating pain with no hope of recovery? To those people who love so dearly . . . so deeply . . . so unselfishly that they plead for an end to the suffering of those for whom they care, Death is a blessing.
Charles Caleb Colton said “Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console.” To use a literary analogy, Death is the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of the netherworld—benevolent on the one hand and the devil incarnate on the other. So when a four year old asks you if Death is mean, what do you say? Sometimes . . . but not always.

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A Lamp to Light Our Way

Thu, 29 Jan 2015 01:11:00 GMT

There was a point, approximately a lifetime ago, when I routinely made trips to Jackson (as in Tennessee, not Mississippi). If it wasn’t doctors’ appointments for the kids it was shopping for the kids or something else for the kids. It was always an adventure of some description, especially since I had one that became car sick at the mere thought of motion. A roll of paper towels and a box of Ziplock baggies and we didn’t even have to stop—most of the time—which was good since I was usually the only adult present and the thought of stopping on a lonely country road did not appeal to me in the least.

Back then the preferred route (at least my preferred route) was the winding road that ran through Milledgeville, Morris Chapel, Enville, and on to Jacks Creek before hitting the big city of Henderson—which was big compared to Milledgeville, Morris Chapel, Enville, and Jacks Creek. It was usually a nice drive, minus the throwing up, and I would find myself being entertained by the likes of Weird Al Yankovic and whoever that guy was that sang “The Streak”, “Ahab, the Arab” (you have to read that so Ahab and Arab rhyme) and numerous other ditties that presently escape my memory, just like his name has. Those were definitely not my favorite artists, but the kids loved them—and I knew the day would come when I could listen to all the Mannheim Steamroller I wanted because I’d be the only one in the car.

It was on one of these excursions that we first saw it, just on the other side of Enville—an old used-to-be-white frame house. It was fairly close to the road, overgrown with privet, and obviously uninhabited. Except for one thing. There was a lamp. A rather small, very old lamp sitting in a window that, for whatever reason, the privet had elected not to obscure. And the lamp was lit.

Odd is not exactly the term I would use to describe the situation. Why would a lamp be lit in an obviously abandoned house? Was it allowed to burn constantly, no matter the time of day? Our first sighting had been at night when a glowing lamp would be easily seen from the road, especially since said road had very few if any street lights. All the way home, we talked about the house and the lamp and why it seemed to burn for no one in particular.

The next time we traveled that way the lamp was still on our minds and, as we flew through Enville, heading toward our Jackson destination, we caught the quickest glimpse of a glowing lamp, still waiting in the only window to be seen. Again there came the questions and, again, we made up our own answers. Perhaps the lamp was left as a reminder that the house still lived behind the rapidly growing, all-consuming privet. Maybe it served as a memorial to the former occupant who, for whatever reason, would never return. What if they’d been abducted by Martians and never had the chance to turn off the light before being swept away by their captors? What if they’d been eaten by bears? Long drives to Jackson with children will occasionally lead to temporary insanity.

For months we passed the house and for months the lamp glowed gently, quietly through the window as the privet crept higher. Surely the bulb must have burned out at some point; it had been so very long and, no matter the time of day, the lamp was always lit. Who would replace it? Why would they fight their way into a house so lost to the brush that it had almost ceased to exist—except for one small, welcoming light? There must have been great meaning to that house for someone to so faithfully tend to its sole remaining occupant. And then one day, it was gone. The lamp no longer burned and, as time passed, the house slowly decayed, collapsing bit by bit . . . piece by piece . . . until even it was lost.

Someone’s history was bound up in that place; for someone it held great meaning and, even though the physical structure was gone, I’m sure it did not lessen the attachment. As human beings, we cling to those things that remind us of our past and those who inhabited it. There is no shame in that, only a comfort that often cannot be found elsewhere. To have those things disappear before our eyes can often trigger renewed grief and an overwhelming sense of loss.

I still drive that way on occasion, although mostly during the day when the deer are not so prevalent and, should they decide to attack my van, can be seen coming so I stand a fighting chance of escaping unscathed. Drives at night now go through Selmer where the roads are better and straighter and less populated by four-legged creatures. It’s hard to remember where the house once stood but I still look for the spot. I still try to remember. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who does.

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The Infection of Grief

Fri, 23 Jan 2015 01:27:00 GMT

He was young . . . strong . . . incredibly healthy. Everything had been done correctly and with great care. The deep, jagged gash in his leg had been cleaned and sutured, bandaged to ward against the entrance of germs, the possibility of infection. Yet here he lay, his leg fiery red, swollen with a road map of red streaks running in all directions. Despite every effort, a massive infection had set in and the only way to save his leg—and his life—was to reopen the wound and expose the infected area.

With time and patience and an extraordinary amount of care he survived. To look at him today you would never know how much pain he endured, how close he came to losing so much. When someone experiences an injury of that magnitude coupled with such potentially devastating complications, we never question the gravity of the situation; we never doubt that caution must be exercised, that treatment recommendations must be followed and that time will be required for healing. Why is it that we often do not show the same consideration for the grieving?

Grief can be as devastating as any infection and must be acknowledged and treated accordingly. Failure to do so guarantees its continued presence, its slow yet steady consumption of life until there is nothing left but the grief we have tried to conceal. Our job—and the role of the funeral—is to open the wound and expose the pain. Only then can the healing begin. Only when the loss is recognized for the life changing event that it is can we begin to move forward. The funeral is not the end of that process, it is the beginning.

Despite popular belief, the funeral does not offer closure for those who are left behind, nor is it meant to. It is not this magical point which marks the last moment in which we will have to deal with a loss. Rather, it gives those directly affected by the death a safe place to say good-bye, a place where raw emotions are accepted and the cries of anguish are met with compassion and understanding, a place where family and friends can gather to honor and remember a life lived and where they can offer each other the support needed to gather strength for the journey. Though some would have us believe it is a barbaric ritual whose time and place have long since vanished, nothing could be farther from the truth. Funerals may be about the dead but they are for the living, to help them begin their journey through loss to that place beyond the grief—to that place where life can continue without the ever-present feelings of despair. As with any physical injury, healing from loss requires time and patience and an extraordinary amount of care. But on any journey there must always be a first step and in the journey through grief, that first step is taken when we acknowledge the magnitude of what we have lost and pay honor to their importance in our lives.

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My House is Haunted

Wed, 14 Jan 2015 21:08:00 GMT

Just in case anyone cares, my house is haunted. I know that may seem a little disturbing to some of you, especially if you were planning a visit (which is highly unlikely), but I felt the need to forewarn anyone who might take it into their heads to arrive unexpectedly. (Please don’t.)

And how, you may ask, do I know this to be true? Because I see the signs everywhere . . . lurking in the corners, hovering around the windows, sprawled across most every flat surface in the house. Truly, the ghost of Christmas past has overtaken my home and refuses to depart. Ok. That’s probably a little overly dramatic. But yes, all my Christmas stuff is still up . . . and out . . . and hanging everywhere. Almost all the trees are still intact although the cats are becoming braver about messing with the ornaments and ribbons. The stockings are still hung by the chimney with care, except for Joe’s and his is draped over a nearby chair. Everywhere I look—‘cause everything gets Christmased at our house—it is still visible, unboxed and displayed in all it’s now inappropriately seasoned glory.

One of these days I’ll be home long enough to do some significant unChristmasing. I have managed a tad, but not enough to be noticeable. One of these days I’ll have the energy to drag all the boxes and bags out of the attic and pack everything away so it can patiently wait for the next unveiling. But until then, we’ll just live with it and maybe pretend it isn’t there, which is a little difficult when the first thing you see is the wreath on the door and the eight and a half foot tree that blocks your line of sight to the living room beyond.

And why, you may ask, should you even care? Actually, you shouldn’t, so if you were feeling guilty because you were not feeling somewhat sympathetic, don’t worry about it. I only mentioned the continued presence of Christmas at my house as a lead in to my ultimate point. Every day untold numbers of people walk into homes that are haunted by the ghosts of those they have loved. Pictures are scattered everywhere, the favored recliner is still sitting across from the TV, the closet is still filled with clothes that are no longer worn. Tangible reminders continue to collect dust but something keeps us from removing them. Maybe it is a lack of time that forces us to walk among them. Perhaps it is a lack of energy; grief can be overwhelming and, in some instances, will suck the life right out of you. And maybe there is a kind of comfort to be found in the remembering, even though pain resides there, too. After all, your life has already been turned upside down and wrong side out. Why on earth would you want to create even more bare spots in your world?

Whatever the reason rest assured, you don’t have to rush. Despite what others may try to tell you, packing away someone’s life is not mandatory nor is there a time table by which it must be done. Unlike Christmas decorations which are probably . . . ok, definitely . . . out of place in July, those things which speak of a person after their departure are acceptable. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Can you become so obsessed with the material possessions of the dead that they overwhelm the living? Of course. But as long as you understand them for what they are—a connection to a time and a person that you miss deeply—and not the embodiment of the person themselves, then the boxes can just stay empty a while longer. To rush the process and quickly remove every reminder is to deny the loss and the grief that follows. As time passes, the need for their material possessions will lessen and the day will come when you can comfortably clean out their dresser drawers and confiscate their closet space. You will know when that time is right—and for some it may never be—but everyone’s timing is different and no one should ever be made to feel there is something wrong with them because they aren’t operating on someone else’s schedule.

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Whose Body Shall This Be?

Thu, 08 Jan 2015 02:40:00 GMT

Spoiler alert. This is an educational blog post. If you are opposed to gleaning new information or have a fear of learning, especially where after death matters are concerned, do not proceed. If, on the other hand, you or someone you know has trust issues or no remaining family, then this is information you need.

Let’s pretend you are dead. According to the law, who will have the privilege/responsibility of making your final arrangements? There was a time when that was not an issue, when families had not fractured into a thousand different pieces, when parents and children actually remained on speaking terms and spouses did not just walk away without benefit of a divorce. Unfortunately, today those circumstances—and so many more—roll through our doors all too often. So . . . to paraphrase the Sadducees as they quizzed Jesus, whose body shall this be?

In the State of Tennessee, the legal next-of-kin has the right to arrange for their loved one’s funeral. If you are married then that person is your spouse. If you are single or your spouse has died, then your children over the age of 18 are responsible. No children? Then your parents, if they are still living, are next in line. No living parents? Then we are down to your brothers and/or sisters. Beyond that, life – and death – gets very complicated. If your children have been adopted by someone else, then they are no longer your children and no longer have the right to arrange your funeral in that capacity. If you and your mate reside in Tennessee and are living together without the benefit of marriage, then you are also out of luck because Tennessee does not recognize common law marriages. Although some of these situations may seem a bit absurd, we have encountered each and every one of them – and many, many more. Even though the last potentially responsible party on the list is “An adult who exhibited special care and concern for the decedent”, if folks exist who fall farther up on the list, rights must be waived or efforts to locate them documented before forging ahead. But, for those of you with concerns about your final arrangements, there is a way out of this mess.

The laws of Tennessee provide for the appointment of someone to serve as your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare, a legal position which allows that person certain limited powers after your death. One such power is to see to the disposition of your remains; in other words, to plan your funeral. This is very different from a general Power of Attorney or a Durable Power of Attorney, both of which cease to be effective once you die. You need to exercise extreme caution when you name someone as your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare. Not only are you granting them the right to make your funeral arrangements, you are literally granting them the power of life and death over you. You should also remember that, just because they are your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare and can make your funeral arrangements, does not mean they have access to your money or insurance. Unless you make some type of arrangement for payment, you may find your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare unable to function in that role unless they are willing to pay for your funeral out of their pocket.

In the past few years, the Tennessee Department of Health has issued two forms to be used as Advance Directives. The Appointment of Health Care Agent will get you through till death, but not any further, meaning it is useless if you are trying to make someone responsible for your funeral arrangements. The Advance Care Plan, which is the equivalent of a Living Will, does offer the option of including instructions regarding burial arrangements, but it does not carry the legal weight of a Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare.

So here’s the deal, if you think there’ll be a fight over your body after you die—or worse yet, no one wants to step up to the plate—name someone you trust as your Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare. Don’t think putting it in your will is sufficient. It isn’t. Don’t think just telling someone what you want will work. It doesn’t. If you have no next of kin to entrust with this responsibility, then your next—and really only—option is a Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare. Your friends and extended family who care about you but can’t legally proceed after your demise will be grateful, as will the poor funeral director who may have to sit across the table from someone and explain why they can’t plan your funeral.

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Resolutions

Wed, 31 Dec 2014 03:09:00 GMT

It is Christmas Day night and my brood is gathering for our traditional meal of Christmas Eve leftovers, after which we will open packages, turning the Christmas card scene in my living room into something resembling the aftermath of a tornado. My little one and her husband have just arrived, her brother and his crew are not far behind. Still bundled in her coat with hands stuffed in her pockets, she walks up to me, leans in, and rests her head on my chest. The mommy in me wraps my arms around her and asks, “Are you tired, Sweetie?” to which she replies, “Too many of my friends’ parents are dying.” And then I understand.

My child has been slapped in the face with her parents’ mortality. As she walked up on the porch her father met her at the door and told her of a death call we received. It was the father of her childhood friend, a man she had known for years who lived just down the road from us. Our children had been constant companions and playmates, sharing giggly nights and tea parties and church trips over the years. She had been a guest in their home and, in recent months, listened as we discussed his declining health, as his wife absentmindedly dropped bits and pieces of information that indicated death was on the horizon.

I assured her I had no plans for going anywhere on a permanent basis for several years, knowing full well that I could not promise her my continued existence. “Good,” was her response as she moved away to repeat the scene with her daddy. Even though we all work in funeral service, even though we all are made acutely aware of Death’s presence on a daily basis, it is departures such as his that bring that knowledge uncomfortably close to home.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post. In case you have been residing under a rock and haven’t noticed, we are approaching a new year. The chaos of the holidays is drawing to a close, as is the blanket of goodwill, kindness and patience that seems to cover many of us during this time. Life will return to whatever our version of normal is and we will once again become immersed in our individual daily grinds. Many of us will take this opportunity to make those silly New Year’s resolutions—those things that are the end result of the best intentions and which generally fall by the wayside less than 30 days into their implementation. Diets disappear, the gym membership goes unused, the attic is in greater disarray due to our efforts at organization . . . the actual result is never what we intended on January 1. So this year I would like to make a suggestion. My resolution won’t cost you anything; it won’t even take up too much of your time—and exercise is definitely not involved.

Tell the people you love that you love them. Do it every day. And don’t just say it—show them. Breathe deeply when you are angry and choose your words wisely and carefully. If you have children, hug them whenever they are in reach. It doesn’t matter if the world is watching, tell them it’s required by law and you’ll get arrested if you don’t. They’ll know it isn’t true, but they’ll probably groan and bear it. Then one day they’ll actually greet you with open arms, knowing the inevitable is inevitable. Understand that life is not forever, it may not even be for the next 60 seconds. There are no guarantees. I want to scream that from the rooftops and plaster it across every billboard I can find. I want to stamp it across the heart and mind of every human being. Please don’t make the mistake of believing there will be a next time to say “I love you”, a next time to speak softly or grant forgiveness or perform an act of kindness. Treat everyone as though it will be the last time you will ever see them, the last time you will ever touch them or speak with them. You see, one day you will be right. The problem is we just don’t know which day.

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The Gift of Memory

Tue, 23 Dec 2014 20:59:00 GMT

I have a Christmas tree . . . well, to be more precise, I have seven. There’s the one in my daughter’s room that is all silver and white with ornaments we’ve had ever since we decided she needed her own tree. There’s the one in my son’s room that at one time belonged to his uncle—so many years ago, in fact, that the price of $18.88 is written on the box from Rexall Drug Store. It’s an aluminum tree that stands about five feet tall. There there’s the Disney tree in the living room (bet you can’t guess what’s on it), the old fashioned tree in the library with bubble lights, pine cones and hand-crocheted snowflakes, hats, and bells, and the one in the dining room that has antique Christmas post cards gently tucked in its branches. Oh, and the flocked one in the guest bedroom that has little Ginger Cottages scattered about its snowy branches. You can google Ginger Cottages if you want to know what they are.

If you’ve been keeping count, that should be six. That’s because I left my favorite tree until last. Ever year it occupies the widest part of the step from the kitchen to the den; being 8.5 feet tall, that’s about the only spot in the house it can occupy and not go topless. We bought it a hundred years ago when it was ten feet tall from a florist who didn’t realize it wouldn’t fit in her shop when she ordered it—meaning we got a bargain. At that time we lived in a house with a two story foyer, so the tree fit perfectly and we could place the angel on top by climbing the stairs and reaching through the banister. A change of residence required removing the bottom layer of branches, cutting it down to a more manageable size.

It’s a wonderful tree, the kind you can’t buy anymore. The branches are spaced far apart, leaving room to decorate all the way to the center, and goodness knows, I need every inch of every branch. You see, this is the tree that took years to create, the tree that evolves with the constant addition of ornaments. Nestled within its branches are the ones my children made while in school, those given to me by my Wednesday night kindergarten class kids from church, the ones we’ve received from friends and family through the years, including some turquoise ones that graced my family’s tree when I was growing up. There are the ones I used to decorate the tree I gave my grandmother years ago, the tree my mother said she wouldn’t like, the tree that she refused to allow to be packed away each year because that would mean the ornaments would not be exactly where I had placed them at the giving. There are the plastic canvas snowflakes that my husband’s grandmother made for us. She gave us a dozen, so when my children married and started their own trees, I let them come and take from ours whatever they wanted that had meaning—and some of her snowflakes were among the first ornaments chosen by each. And yes, the silver snowflakes bearing the names of my parents and their dates of birth and death are also there, along with the ones I made in college because we needed a tree in our room and didn’t think we could afford the ornaments for it. We probably spent more on the stuff to make them than we would have had we just bought some. But they would not have meant nearly as much.

This is a tree with meaning, filled with memories that spread across decades. Each ornament holds a story that connects me to people who were a significant part of my life, many of whom are no longer here. And every year, as I unpack the boxes and choose just the right spot to hang them, I am allowed to remember.

Memory is a wonderful thing, but in the words of that great fictional detective, Adrian Monk, it’s a blessing . . . and a curse. Memories can be so painful when they center upon someone that is no longer present in our lives, but what would we do without them? The joy of life would be lost forever the moment it passed, never to be recalled, never to be relived. And those who have been such a part of us would truly disappear when Death claimed them. As difficult as it may be, as overwhelming as the pain can become, I will endure it all as long as I can close my eyes and see their faces . . . as long as I can remember. This Christmas may we be thankful for that gift; may we be warmed by our memories and the people who dwell within them.

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The Changing of Tradition

Thu, 18 Dec 2014 04:56:00 GMT

It is December 25, 2009. My mother-in-law is standing before me, waiting expectantly to see if I like the gift she has carefully selected for me. But I can’t give her the enthusiastic response she wants. I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be with them, or with anyone else for that matter. I don’t want to be anywhere and I know it shows in everything I do.

The night before my brother and his family and all of my crew gathered in the apartment at the funeral home—the apartment that had been home to my parents since 1979 when they moved from their house on Church Street to the newly constructed facility. I never lived there since I married before it was completed, but my brother did. To him it was his last home before starting a family of his own. But this time it was different.

My father had been incapacitated since 2003, occupying a hospital bed in what was once their bedroom. His condition had deteriorated to the point that he could no longer communicate . . . or turn . . . or even acknowledge your presence on some days. But he was still there. And we would still gather every Christmas Eve, even after my mother’s death in 2008, to enjoy a meal together and visit with him. He might not know who we were or understand the occasion, but we knew him and that was all that mattered.

But there would be no visiting tonight, no joyful celebration of the season. My father had died on November 23—exactly one month and one day before we gathered. Even though we had the apartment decorated, even though the tree was up and the stockings hung and the meal prepared, a sadness lingered, for we knew it would be the last time. The apartment could not stay the apartment forever, sealed as a shrine to my parents and all they meant in our lives. And there would be nothing to draw us to this spot.

In years past my father had always gathered us in the living room, settling himself on the steps that led down to its sunken space. We would sit ‘mongst a floor full of gifts and listen as he read of the birth of Christ from the book of Luke. He never wanted us to forget. When the time came that he could no longer fill that role, my brother would, reading from the same passage, with the same emphasis. But this year my nephew had played the part of Linus in “A Charlie Brown Christmas” so instead of the passage being read he quoted it, word for word, without hesitation or mistake. And I sat. And I listened. And I quietly cried.

I am a keeper of traditions, one who treasures the past with all of its rituals and meaning. Tradition grounds me; it connects me to all that came before. It is my remembrance of times long since gone that were special and comforting, of people who were so much a part of my life. But when those people physically leave us, the traditions cannot remain unchanged. Like the apartment that cannot be frozen in time, our lives—and our traditions—are forced to change whether or not we would have it so. That doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to cling to those pieces that can remain. Even new or revised traditions can incorporate the old without a betrayal of our past. But with each change, with each required alteration, there are those who must adjust, and for many that adjustment is difficult at best and impossible at its very worst.

In the years that have followed we have gathered at my house on Christmas Eve, as we will do again this year and hopefully for many more to come. We will eat our traditional meal and enjoy the time we have together. We will laugh at the children and think about how much my parents would have delighted in their antics. And we will miss the times that were and the people who made them memorable.

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Does it Ever Quit Hurting?

Thu, 11 Dec 2014 04:07:00 GMT

I don’t know why my eyes focused on her, but I watched her through most of the Service of Remembrance. Although she was seated with several others, she seemed to be alone, and as the service progressed I could see her physically struggling to maintain what little composure she had left. At times her body shook as she sobbed silently, and she would pull her coat tightly around her, as though it could shut out the pain as easily as it could shield her from the cold.

When the service ended everyone rose to leave, heading toward tables of Christmas ornaments or to visit with friends who were also in attendance. But she remained, never moving from her seat, never lifting her eyes—quietly, vacantly staring at the floor. I sat down on the pew in front of her and asked if she was all right, knowing full well it was a foolish question. She looked up and nodded slightly. I sat . . . searching her face . . . waiting for the truth that I knew was hidden behind the not-so-convincing mask. Her eyes met mine and, in less than a breath, her lips began to quiver as the nod became a no. With tears brimming she asked—with unbearable pain and sadness, she pleaded, “Does it ever quit hurting?”

I could see the anguish in her eyes, the hope for an answer that would provide a light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel; for the briefest of moments I paused, knowing what I was about to say was not at all what she wanted to hear. “No,” I whispered, slowly shaking my head. “No. It is always going to hurt.” Those words brought the tears she had fought so hard to keep at bay, and again her body shook with her sobs, but it was the only answer I could give her. It will always hurt. Too much has been lost for life to ever be the same. It is the price we pay for having loved. But I continued. “It will always hurt, but it will get better.” The time will come when she will be able to remember and smile, when the tears will not come as frequently and that terrible ache and emptiness will subside. But there will always be those moments, no matter how far removed the loss becomes. There will always be those moments when you walk into a room and a favorite book catches your eye, when you hang a particular ornament on the tree, when a phrase or a smell or a song triggers the feeling that they are there, close beside you, but still so very far away. At those times it will hurt. The pain will come again—but there will be a sweetness that accompanies the longing for life as it once was.

I am about to make the understatement of the century. Death is always difficult but holidays make it even harder. The happy times that were shared with family and friends are changed forever because a very important piece of the puzzle is missing. Whether you continue with the old traditions or create new ones to accommodate the loss, it will be very different. And the fresher the death, the more difficult the days, but as the years pass so will the overwhelming pain. There is a light at the end of that long, dark tunnel, but it is not the light of complete recovery. It is the warming glow of adjustment.

Our grief counselor was still in the building and with her permission I introduced the two of them. As I walked away he had wrapped one arm around her as she cried over and over, “I don’t think I can do this.” Twenty minutes later they emerged from the chapel and she looked at me and smiled. The sadness was still there, but she knew she wasn’t alone. There were those who would help her through her journey if she would only allow it—and although the tunnel was still so very long, she had begun to see the faintest light.

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Don’t Judge My Grief

Thu, 04 Dec 2014 03:52:00 GMT

Through sheer will-power she had managed to get ready, forced herself to leave her house and drive, of all places, to the funeral home to order more Christmas ornaments. Her son’s name would be on them, his dates of birth and death also engraved there. His death had been, and still was, devastating. Life had ground to a halt and there were days when she could barely function, when it seemed there was no reason to continue. In the conversation that usually comes when the newly bereaved enter our office, she talked about the struggle, how hard it was, how overwhelming. And then she related a comment made by a “friend”, someone who, for whatever misguided reason, observed that she must not be grieving too much. After all, she hadn’t lost any weight.

Excuse me?

This poor, struggling soul felt the need to explain to people who cared and understood, but knew her only through her loss, that she was a comfort eater. Where others might have no appetite, she ate . . . and ate . . . and ate. Her grief compelled it, demanded it. Because of the thoughtless remark of one person, she felt a need to justify her response to a loss most of us will be blessed never to experience—a remark that only served to send her further into the already overwhelming depression from which she was suffering.

It angered those of our number who stood close by, and those of us to whom the story would be told later. It angered us because that one remark was so callous and so unnecessary. It served no useful purpose and its utterance defied comprehension. And we could not help her. Although we could and would willingly listen, we could not bring back her child. We could not lessen her pain—and we could not take away those terrible words. They will forever echo in her mind, condemning her for not grieving according to someone else’s standards.

Let me make one thing perfectly, abundantly clear. No one has a right to find fault with someone else’s grief. Period. Even if you think you’ve walked in their shoes because your parent or spouse or child died, you haven’t because everyone’s grief is different. Grieving people are like snowflakes, no two are ever the same, and to judge someone else’s response to death and loss by your own shows a complete lack of compassion and understanding of that person’s pain. Are there those whose grief becomes unnatural and prolonged, threatening to seize control of their lives with a grip that will never lessen? Yes, but hurtful comments and well-intentioned but unreasonable demands will not help them to move forward.

Grief is painful. Grief is overwhelming. Grief can and will last a lifetime, raising its ugly head again and again as the years pass. If confronted in the beginning, if embraced as the natural response to loss, it can and will fade with time, becoming manageable, subsiding into a gentle sadness and a longing for what once was. But if grief is not granted its rightful place at death, if it is denied at the insistence of others, there can be no recovery, no acceptance that life, although vastly different, can still be worthwhile. Don’t be the person who demands that denial or insists that someone’s grief is not sufficient based on the outward signs. Be the one who understands and, in love and compassion, listens and encourages for as long as necessary. If you live long enough, the day will come when you will need the same.

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It is Better to Remain Silent . . .

Wed, 19 Nov 2014 23:01:00 GMT

. . . and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt—at least that was Abraham Lincoln’s take on the matter of speaking without thought or knowledge or both. Unfortunately, we as human beings often have a need to say something, especially when we find ourselves in an uncomfortable or difficult situation. We may not appear foolish to those around us, but there certainly are times, such as when a death occurs, that we have a terrible need to speak but we really don’t know what to say. We want to offer comfort and support—and oftentimes, an explanation—but we fail miserably in the process. So, what should we say when confronted with grieving friends or family members? How do we respond to their pain at the loss of an important part of their lives? Perhaps our best approach to those questions is to first examine what we might not want to say.

“It was just their time.” I like the commercial for a particular cancer treatment center where the patient currently in remission remembers that her doctor told her he didn’t see any expiration dates stamped on her body. Without debating whether or not our days are numbered, “It was just their time” does not offer any consolation to someone whose spouse/child/parent/significant other has died and left them alone in this world. In fact, it indirectly places blame on God or Fate or whatever authority they believe commands order in this world because they did not choose to prevent the death that is so painful for them.

“At least they didn’t suffer.” Granted, this comment is only appropriate when a death is unexpected, but once again, at that moment it is no consolation to those who are grieving. They didn’t have time to say goodbye, they didn’t have time to say, “I’m sorry”, they didn’t have time to . . . and they will forever question what they could have done to prevent what was probably inevitable. Or perhaps “At least they aren’t suffering anymore.” This comment is usually uttered when the death comes after a prolonged illness and, although those left behind would never want their loved one to suffer on this earth, they still do not want to live without them and, given the choice between being alone and having that person still with them, many selfishly, silently wish they were still alive no matter the condition. In their heads, they would never want that person back as they were but in their hearts they would take them in any condition for just one more minute.

“God just needed another angel.” Oh, dear. Have we just implied that God is selfish? Our sorrow is secondary to His need for our loved one? A member of my Sunday school class once asked for advice because a friend of hers had just lost his entire family in a car accident and that comment was made many times regarding his children. She was concerned because he was so angry with God and I couldn’t help but speak up. Of course he was angry with God—he had been told repeatedly that God took his family from him. In his shoes, I’d be mad too.

“They’re in a better place.” Hopefully, that’s an accurate statement, but it still holds little consolation when the loss is fresh and the pain almost unbearable. The overriding thought after everyone leaves and they are struggling to move on with life is that wherever their loved one is, it is not here —and here is where they should be.

So, if the standard, go-to efforts at consoling are less than satisfactory, what should you say when it’s your turn to speak to the family or close friends?

“I’m sorry.” Those two simple words, coupled with a hug or gently taking their hands in yours, say more than a thousand explanations, because there is no acceptable explanation of death when you are grieving. Those two simple words offer your sympathy without conditions or reservations and allow the person to whom you are speaking to respond or cry or both. At this particular moment, they really don’t need to hear from you—they need to know that you are prepared and willing to listen to them.

“What can I do?” Before you utter these words, be sure you are willing to actually follow through. Most of the time, the response will be, “There’s nothing anyone can do,” or “Just pray for me,” but there are those times when your offer will be met with a request. Better yet, don’t offer, just do. Actions always speak louder than words.

It has been said that no explanation of death should ever be offered that cannot be given to a dying child. If you are at a loss for words when a death occurs, keep that adage in mind. If you would not be willing to say it to the person who has died moments before their death, then maybe you should reconsider saying it to those who are left behind.

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Take the Time

Thu, 13 Nov 2014 04:55:00 GMT

There are those times when, for whatever reason, I end up alone at the funeral home . . . alone meaning I am the only living, breathing human being in the place. Granted, I generally have company, but we are rarely in the same room and if we are, they are extremely quiet, minding their own business and caring nothing for mine. The silence that settles upon the building when the living leave is calming in its presence, offering a time to contemplate the day just ending or the ones to come, to ponder my mortality and that of those I cherish. It is a silence that allows me to focus, to accomplish, or to meditate if that be the need of the moment.

I’ve had folks ask me if I’m afraid when I’m in the company of the dead, to which I usually reply it’s not the dead you need to worry about. It’s the living. Those who have passed from this world to the next have never given me a reason to fear for my safety or my sanity—something I cannot say for the living.

But there are those among the living that don’t seem to know what to do with those who have died. It’s as though death necessitates a process that must be hurried along for the sooner it is over the better for all concerned, when nothing could be farther from the truth. There are families who will arrive on our doorstep promptly at 9:00 a.m. when their loved one departed on the 2:00 a.m. train to eternity. Sleep deprived and with no time to prepare, they arrive with every intention of participating in an arrangement conference about which they will remember nothing afterwards because their minds and bodies have already crossed the border of exhaustion. There has been no time to think of songs and scriptures, no time to rummage through pictures or to select the appropriate attire for the honoree. No time to process what has happened.

But wait, you may say. If death has taken its own sweet time in arriving, there has been time to prepare. Songs and scriptures may have been chosen and set aside, ready for use when the moment comes. Pictures may have been selected, arranged in chronological order and placed securely in an envelope for the trip to the funeral home – and mama may have picked out her own burial dress years ago and reminded you at every family gathering where in the closet it was hanging. It’s true, the details may have been decided, but there has been no time to process what has truly occurred. It does not matter if death took ten years or ten minutes to wreak its havoc, life is forever altered once that person is gone and no amount of “preparing” can prepare you for that loss. To hurry the process along or to shorten its duration is to deny the magnitude of what has been taken, but for some reason many of the living have a need for speed.

I can promise you this—the dead aren’t going anywhere. They will allow you the time you need. They will not care if you rest before you tackle the details of their service or don’t have them in the ground 24 hours after they breathe their last. It took a lifetime to reach this point, a lifetime of love and laughter and trials and memories. We do ourselves no favors when we presume that sooner is better than later . . . for later will come and with it all the regrets over things we wish we had done but did not think of at the time, stories we wish had been included, a favorite poem we had forgotten, people we should have called who would have come had they known. Things that, given time, would have come to mind and made the funeral service truly about the person who brought everyone together.

A funeral is like a going away party, but the change of residence is permanent and not even the telemarketers can find you. It should be filled with laughter over the good times and sorrow over the departure—and if someone put you in charge of planning that party, you’d take your time, obsessing over the details, making certain that everything was exactly as it should be. So . . .why is death so different?

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The Egg Cup

Thu, 06 Nov 2014 03:32:00 GMT

Anderson, my ridiculously cute three year old grandson, stood before me, clutching a small, stuffed pink flamingo in his tiny hands. With his wonderfully clear and somewhat pleading blue eyes, he looked up at me and asked, “Can I, Mona? Can I take him home?” He had asked for a “friend” from his daddy’s old room, a friend to take home—friend being the code word for anything stuffed and cuddly. In order to show me which friend he meant, he had escorted me to the room, climbed upon the bed, and retrieved the floppy flamingo. Behind him stood his father, shaking his head no, and before me stood Anderson, waiting expectantly.

I was about Anderson’s age when I first saw it, a tiny vase with pink roses on it, sitting on a table at my grandparents’ house. Long before the days of plastic flowers and most certainly before silk ones, someone had carefully dried miniature roses and baby’s breath, replaced their stems with wires, sprayed the whole assembly a light mauve, and arranged them in the vase. I didn’t know the vase wasn’t a vase. I’d never heard of an egg cup. I only knew that it was fascinating—a me-sized something in a grown-up world. From that day forward, anytime we traveled to their home in Bolivar, I would stand beside the table, gazing at the egg cup, wanting to hold it but knowing it was fragile and required a great deal of care in the handling. After all, I’d been told that enough times by my mother. Soon my grandmother would take it from the table and together we would examine the tiny blossoms, nestled so precisely in this tiny cup. And with every visit, I would stand before her, gently clutching the egg cup, asking if I could take it home with me. Each time she would say, “Not just yet, but soon,” knowing that I wasn’t quite ready, not quite old enough to truly appreciate the delicate beauty and to care for it accordingly.

But the day came when she said yes, and with my treasure carefully cradled in my tiny hands, I climbed into the car for the trip back home. In a few short months, she would be dead. My grandfather would leave Sunday school that morning and return home, some unseen force compelling him to check on her before the beginning of the worship service. He would find that Death had beaten him by mere minutes and claimed as his own the very one who made my grandfather’s life complete. Even though I was only five, I can still remember the funeral, the sadness etched across his face, the failure to understand why she was never there again when we went to visit.

I knelt before Anderson, wrapped him in my arms and said yes. Yes, you may take your friend home. I’m sure my son had no idea how much this child’s question had propelled me into the past, or how much it meant that there was something in my house that he wanted to call his own. I still have the egg cup. The flowers were broken long ago, the result of a grandmother’s generosity and a child’s curiosity—but I can still see them, still see myself standing before her as we examined them together. It is my tangible connection to her, my reminder of her gentleness and her joy in my presence. It was the last gift I would ever receive from her, given at a child’s insistence through a grandmother’s love, symbolizing a bond which, though brief in its tenure, transcends even death.

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Isaiah

Thu, 30 Oct 2014 02:38:00 GMT

His name is Isaiah. I know that because he told me so. And he’s five. He told me that as well. And he wrestles forks encased in plastic. I’m not exactly sure why.

I was making coffee in the lounge when he popped around the end of the island and asked my name. I told him and, attempting to be polite, asked his. It was a good, biblical name and I told him so, which seemed to please him . . . maybe. There was the momentary, awkward lull in the conversation so I asked his age—a question that was both visually and verbally answered. He told me he was trying to open the fork, not with words but with actions, as he stood the handle on the counter and pressed the plastic down onto the tines with all the might his five year old hands could muster. It eventually surrounded and I congratulated him as he happily moved off toward a table and whatever was there that required a fork.

I took my freshly made cup of coffee, walked carefully down the stairs and into the office where I did I-don’t-remember-what and then started toward the door to the service hall, a trip that requires crossing in front of the stairs to the lounge and the hall to the bathrooms prior to reaching my intended goal. Just as my hand touched the door, I heard him. “Hi again.” I turned and there he stood on the bottom step, peeking around the wall in my direction. I stopped and responded, “Hi again to you, too.” He hopped off the step and I watched as his neck grew at least two inches longer in an effort to peer passed my body and down the forbidden hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“Down this hall,” and, in an attempt to head off the inevitable, added “but you don’t get to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to work here to go down this hall. It’s only for people who work here.” I motioned toward the stairs and the foyer, trying to make them seem huge and enticing, “This part is for people who visit here,” and, motioning toward the hallway added, “This part is for people who work here.”

“Do you work here?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How do you know?”

Hmmmmmm. An excellent question. It reminded me of the Gallagher sketch where he was describing his daughter’s first encounter with a UPS man who had come to their front door to retrieve a package he was trying to ship. He was dressed in the traditional brown, driving the traditional truck and carrying the traditional clipboard. As he took the package and drove away, she asked her daddy why he gave the box to that man and Gallagher replied because he’s the UPS man to which she replied with all the skepticism of a small child, “How do you know?”

I thought about his question a lot over the rest of the day. Not because I didn’t know how I knew that I worked here (read it a few times, it’ll make more sense . . . maybe), but because I really couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t a great part of my life. Early on I learned about death, mainly because I had no other choice. It was my father’s life and his father’s and his father’s father. And my mother’s. I was literally surrounded by it. It was the supper table conversation and the reason we didn’t get to leave on vacation when we’d planned, if at all. It was why my father never took off his dress shirt and tie until it was time for bed, and even then they were laid carefully to the side in case he had to leave in the middle of the night.

But Isaiah was a different story. I was fairly certain his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents were not nearly as immersed in death as my family. Yet, here he was, happily wandering about the funeral home, but not so much so that it became a problem for those who were grieving or those whose mission it was to escort them through the process. He was learning. Someone was making certain that he met death on a personal level, even if he was only five. Someone was telling him that it was important to be there when a life ends, to honor that life and to acknowledge the loss. Did they realize the impact of their actions? Probably not. Isaiah’s attendance may have been a matter of necessity more than intent, but even then it spoke of his family’s need to offer comfort and support . . . an example he would see and hopefully learn to follow.

We really don’t do our children any favors when we shield them from the one great certainty of this life. If we do not make the introductions beforehand, someday Death will take the lead and do it for us. Despite our best efforts, we cannot prevent it. How much better would it be if they gradually became acquainted over a lifetime rather than finding themselves caught by surprise when he arrives upon their doorstep or the doorstep of someone they love? We try to prepare them for the other great moments of life; why would we not prepare them for the final one?

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Show Me

Thu, 23 Oct 2014 03:08:00 GMT

There’s a reason Missouri is the “show me” state and why we have old sayings like, “Seeing is believing” and “A picture’s worth a thousand words.” It’s because somewhere along the way, years and years and years ago, someone figured out that the best way to convince a person of something was to show it to them. After that point, there could be no arguing, no denial, no declaration that such an event had not occurred or such a thing did not exist. They had seen it with their own eyes and, from then on, it was real.

So, why is it that works with everything but death—or does it? Generations ago families and friends sat up with the dead for days on end, but given the state of medical science at that time, it was understandable. They were, among other things, carefully watching for any sign of life since death was not so easily diagnosed then. But today that’s not the case, so why put yourself through the ordeal of holding—or attending—a visitation with an open casket? Surely we’re all mature enough to know that a death has occurred, that someone near and dear to us will no longer be physically present in our lives. Of course we are. But knowing and believing are two entirely different things.

A child can know that the red burner on the stove is hot and it’s going to hurt if they touch it. We can know the paint is wet because there’s a sign hanging there that tells us it is. So what do we do? Well, if we’re like most of the rest of the world, we touched the burner at least once after being warned repeatedly not to and, yes, we stuck our finger in the paint . . . and ended up leaving our fingerprint for all eternity. As human beings we test those things that cannot or have not been proven by our senses—and death is no different

Knowing that someone has died becomes undeniable once it is seen. That first viewing triggers an avalanche of emotions, all of which culminate in belief. We are forced to acknowledge our loss and to confront the pain and the emptiness that their death brings. Is it easier to avoid that rush of emotions and the ache that they bring? Of course it is—at first. But to avoid the acknowledgement of death is to invite a lifetime of pain. As human beings, we are made to form attachments to others. Even as infants we must form that bond if we are to survive. Such a strong dependence cannot be dismissed without consequences, and those consequences range from prolonged and unnatural grief to physical, mental, and emotional illness. That first viewing is the first step to acceptance of a future without that person.

Which brings us to a last observation—one we have made before. When someone asks you what you want at your funeral (and yes, it will happen if you live long enough), tell them you want whatever they need. Too often family members start making demands and requiring promises as death approaches. “I don’t want people lookin’ down at me.” “I don’t want them parading by my casket and gawking.” Those people “parading by” and “gawking” are your family and your friends. They won’t be there to stare at you. They will be there to honor your memory, to support your closest family, to share in the loss and the memories of a life lived. They will be there to say good-bye . . . and, if you think about it, in life and in death, saying good-bye is always more meaningful when it is done face to face.

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Your Mama’s on the Roof

Mon, 13 Oct 2014 21:38:00 GMT

A man went on vacation, entrusting the care and feeding of his cat to his friend who also happened to live next door. A few days into his trip, his phone rang. His friend and cat keeper was on the other end. “Hey, man. I’m really sorry, but your cat got up on the roof and fell off and died. I thought they were always supposed to land on their feet, but I guess yours didn’t get the memo.” The man was not only extremely distraught over the death of his favorite feline, but irate with his friend for the manner in which he had broken the news. “Don’t you know you should never give someone incredibly bad news like that?! You should have prepared me . . . built up to it! Call me one day and tell me my cat’s on the roof—and then the next day you can tell me he fell off—and then the next day you can tell me he died! But never, NEVER give anyone bad news like that!!”

A few days later, his friend called back. “Hey, man. Your mama’s on the roof . . .”

There have been several times in my life when I got that call. Most of them were no surprise; age and illness guaranteed the end result. But two of those times were unexpected, and very different in their delivery. My grandfather died quite suddenly when I was in college and it fell my father’s lot to deliver the news. That alone was my first clue. He never called me at school so the mere sound of his voice on the other end of the line assured me that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He asked how I was . . . and how school was . . . and the whole time this voice in my head was screaming, “JUST TELL ME!!” And when he finally did, my heart sank . . . just as it would have if the polite conversation beforehand had never occurred.

The second time came when I took my daughter, a friend of hers, and my future (although I didn’t know that at the time) daughter-in-law to Disneyworld for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. I was just getting off the Jungle Cruise when my coat pocket began to ring. I answered the phone and heard my husband say, “Don died!” No “hello” . . . no “how’s the trip” . . . just blunt force trauma to my life. My mind went in a million directions at once, but my initial concern was Don who? I had an uncle Don, he had a brother Don. Neither of them was old enough to be dead. In the shock of the moment he had forgotten about his brother and did not realize the confusion he had just created.

So how do you tell someone a death has occurred, a death that is going to directly affect them and substantially alter their life? I am definitely no expert . . . I doubt that anyone is where this is concerned, even those who, due to their chosen profession, must deliver such news on an almost daily basis. But I would suggest that the best course would be a combination of the two I just recounted. Prolonging the inevitable does not soften the blow although it may give the messenger time to summon their courage and steel their resolve in their mission. All that you say before and much of what you say after will be lost the moment you utter the words “has died”. And changing the language won’t change the facts. Whether you say passed on, passed away, departed, expired, gone, lost, called home, left this earthly plain, drifted into eternal sleep, or whatever euphemism you may choose, the fact remains—someone is dead and someone else must spend the rest of their life coping with that knowledge.

If it ever falls your task to deliver such heartbreaking news, there are three things you should remember. It must be done simply with enough information to accurately convey the event without overwhelming the recipient. When they are ready for the details, they will ask. It must be done kindly and with love. And it must be done when you have time—for at that moment, your time may be what that person needs the most.

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The Beauty of Age

Wed, 24 Sep 2014 19:42:00 GMT

I would like to state for the record that I am highly insulted, offended, ticked, miffed, irritated, annoyed, ill, perturbed, aggravated, and any other synonym for mad that presently escapes me.

It happened while I was ironing the other morning. Yes, I iron. I don’t want to look like I slept in my clothes—and I hate hanger humps. The television was on in the bedroom which is right next to the utility room so I could listen to a news channel that shall remain nameless so there is no free publicity and no one questions my intelligence. I do that every morning so I’ll know whether or not the world ended somewhere while I peacefully snoozed. I had one eye on the ironing, one eye on the cat, and both ears on the news. I should probably explain that Sherman (the cat) is a jumper; the kind of cat that is sitting quietly at your feet one minute and staring you in the face the next—which explains why one eye is on him at all times. But I digress, as I often do.

Most mornings there are usually more commercials than actual news, and that morning was no exception. I tend to take a mental break when the commercials come on, reserving my full attention for the condition of the world at large. But this morning something caught my ear, something I had heard and seen many times before but had never actually grasped until that very moment. A ton of bricks could not have hit any harder.

“Do you want to look younger and more attractive?” That was the question posed.

I beg your pardon? Did you just say that youth is attractive and therefore, by implication, old and wrinkly is unattractive, as in ugly? Are you saying that if I go through this process and look younger then I will be more attractive but if I choose not to I’ll just stay ugly—and continue to get uglier as I continue to age? And how are we gauging “attractiveness”? Is there some universal scale I don’t know about? In less than sixty seconds I had been repeatedly assured by some paid spokesperson that if I just partook of this particular product/service, I would not only look younger, but would then be more attractive and would therefore have greater self-esteem and would beautify the world at large. Ok. That last part may have been a stretch, but youth and beauty and the idea that they must co-exist had just been espoused by this tempter in my television.

All right then—suppose I do this and I do look younger? What happens in five years . . . or ten? When do I need to look younger again? At what point does it become a ridiculously vain attempt on my part to stop Time in its tracks? Is this planned obsolescence, kind of like panty hose and computers and iPhones? Suppose I come out looking like someone I don’t recognize, or worse yet, my grandsons don’t recognize? What about my hands? You know people can see them, too, and if they’re all wrinkled and gnarled then their appearance is inconsistent with the façade improvement that took place just a few inches higher. And what happens when I take off my clothes? Does my body make a liar of my face?

Now, am I really that annoyed at a television commercial whose only purpose is to promote a particular product by enticing me with a non-surgical fountain of youth? Probably not, but there is a deeper truth here that I can’t ignore. Youth is wonderful, even if George Bernard Shaw felt it was wasted on the young. But youth does not have experience. Youth does not have an appreciation of life. Perhaps that is why it has physical beauty. As we approach the end of our time on this earth, a subtle transformation is revealed, not unlike the sole masterpiece on which an artist has labored for decades. Some of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen are those that bear the marks of their years, the wrinkles and crows’ feet that come from a lifetime of laughter, the furrows across their foreheads that have been etched by worry and pain. Some of the most handsome faces I have ever gazed upon are those that are time-worn, rugged in their endurance of life and its trials. Time has written upon their faces with lines that speak of joys and struggles, allowing me to see the person they have become, molded by events and people and years of living. I am not in awe of their outward beauty; I am drawn to their souls.

Youth was meant for the young. They are the only ones who wear it well. When I die, I want my body spent, my life stamped across my face. I have earned every wrinkle and every crease and each one tells a story. I don’t want my hands to be soft and dainty. I want them to be hands that have worked hard and reached out to others and eased the burdens of those around me. May we always remember that the face looking back at us in the mirror each morning is the face that others may someday gaze down upon. May it be a face that speaks of service and living and the knowledge that appearance is not a reflection of the person. May our lives have been such that, as Mark Twain said, when we die, even the undertaker will be sorry.

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Unpacking the Bag

Mon, 15 Sep 2014 21:11:00 GMT

I am a granny. Actually, that’s not exactly right. I am a Mona, a name concocted by my son and daughter-in-law at the approaching birth of their son, Wilson. If you know my first name, then you get it. If not, don’t worry. It’s really not that important to the overall story.

I’ve been very fortunate in that both my children chose to settle in their hometown. So I get to see or hear from them almost every day. To quote Adrian Monk from the television show of the same name, it’s a blessing . . . and a curse. They also attended church with us in the congregation in which they grew up, with the people they’d always known. That was truly a blessing because we generally all sat together and, eventually, Wilson and Anderson, my two adorably precious and ridiculously cute grandsons, would want to sit closer to their grandparents than their parents. By the way, don’t say “ridiculous” in Anderson’s presence; he will tell you we don’t say that word. Being the good Mona that I am, this required the packing of a bag full of stuff—books (particularly “Where’s Waldo” and “Little Monsters”) and small, quiet toys, and stickers and whatever else might occupy them for the forty-five minutes or so of worship. Oh, and gummies. There had to be bags and bags of gummies since, in the minds of a three and a five year old, they are an integral part of any worship service.

But the day came when, for various reasons, both of my children and their spouses chose to affiliate with other congregations. Please don’t misunderstand; I’m not finding fault with their decisions. I know exactly why they did what they did and support completely their choices. What I do not support is the fact that my son took my two grandsons with him when he left. I know. It would be unreasonable for me to think anything different should have happened, and I really don’t think that at all. But now I am forced to be an adult during the sermon, forced to listen with no distractions, forced to try and stay awake with no assistance from little people. It’s not that the preacher is boring; it’s a Shackelford thing. You sit down, you get still, you go to sleep. Period. I don’t think even caffeine directly injected into my veins would help.

Now it’s much easier to get into the building on Sunday mornings. I’m not wagging this big bag around filled with an iPad and a Touchpad (that’s an HP thingy that didn’t fly very well because they decided to write their own apps—and that now no longer exists for that very reason . . . so, of course, that’s what I bought first) and books, and small, quiet toys, and stickers, and gummies. For a while the bag rode around in my van . . . just in case. But the day came when I carried it inside and set it down in the room where the kids’ toys reside when they aren’t there scattering them from one end of the house to the other. Still, it held everything I would need to entertain two energetic little monkeys, just waiting to be put into service—kinda like the suitcase that an expectant mother packs so she’s ready to go when she’s ready to go. But the day came when I knew it was time to unpack the bag.

It was hard—hard to admit that those fun Sunday mornings were a thing of the past. Hard to know that I would not see them running around the building after services, rolling around on the stage at the front of the auditorium and jumping off the steps that led to its child-tempting plateau, generally just missing some older member who was trying to ease through the gauntlet of children and make their escape to the parking lot. I took out the small, quiet toys and added them to the basket that held the other, not so quiet toys. I took out the books, found Waldo on every page, and placed them back on the shelves. I took out the gummies, checked them for an expiration date, and ate a bag. And I cried. Not much, just a little tearing up preceded by the turning of the nose to a brilliant, glow-in-the-dark red. But my heart felt like it was breaking into at least a million pieces, which is the normal reaction to small, almost inconsequential events—comparatively speaking—when you’re old and hormonal.

Yes, I still get to see my Wilson and my Anderson, and for that I am exceedingly grateful. My reason for recounting such an insignificant event is not so I can wallow in self-pity or heap layers of guilt on the heads of their parents (although if that latter just happens to be a by-product . . .). It is to say that grief comes in many forms and from many directions. It doesn’t have to have death as a trigger. Any loss, whether it is that of a loved one or a tradition, a job or material possessions—or your grandsons running to you before the service begins with their arms wide open and smiles spreading from ear to ear—any loss can bring about that empty feeling where nothing seems right anymore and the world has been forever changed. And the size of the loss really doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you acknowledge it for what it is. When that moment comes then the healing can begin.

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‘Tis Midnight

Tue, 09 Sep 2014 15:42:00 GMT

He sat in the middle of the cemetery, the mist slowly engulfing him, limiting his sight and feeding his growing anxiety. Why in the world had he agreed to be here? Thinking back on the person who called, he decided it would be a suitable practical joke to have him sitting in the dark at midnight in the middle of a cemetery while everyone else was peacefully sleeping in their beds. Yet, here he was, surrounded by the mist and the bodies of those who had gone on before him. It was the perfect scene from a horror film; the innocent victim sits among the graves . . . waiting . . . the only incongruency being that the monuments should have been upright, old, and leaning from the ravages of time, not flush to the ground and relatively well maintained. The clock slowly inched upward, approaching the appointed hour when, to his relief, a hearse began making its way around the drive, the headlights reflecting on the fog as it drew closer. He made certain his camera was ready and got out of his car.

The day before the family had gathered to finalize the arrangements. Years before, their father had come with several most unusual requests. There would be no funeral service, no announcement of his death . . . and the burial was to take place at midnight. Only three people were on the guest list—two funeral directors and the editor of the local paper. Evidently, although there was to be no publicity before, there most certainly was to be afterwards.

They sat around the table, reviewing his selections and requests . . . and then they got to that “burial at midnight” part. The discussion had been years in the making. Whenever he would call or come in, the question would always follow, “Are we really gonna do that?” And that morning, when it became apparent that the question was finally going to demand an answer, the funeral director who was scheduled to meet with the family was repeatedly asking. The final response he received came from management and was by no means definitive. “We have always said if it isn’t illegal, immoral, unethical, or impossible, then we will try.” Yes or no would have been much simpler, but neither answer came. So when the family, all of whom were aware of his wishes, asked, “Can you really do that?” the response, very loosely paraphrased, was as follows: “When we took the call we remembered the request. And this morning, knowing I would be meeting with you I asked several people, ‘Are we going to do this?’ and no one ever said no . . . so I guess we’re having a burial at midnight.”

Unfortunately, the guest list had to be revised. One of the funeral directors was deceased and, even though he was buried in the same cemetery, would be of little use in the proceedings. The other was retired and had no altruistic motivation to be in attendance. The same could be said for the specifically named editor of the local paper. So it was determined that acceptable substitutes would be secured, and the grave crew and vault company representative would be included—that is, if the vault company would even accommodate a burial at midnight. Surprisingly, they agreed without hesitation. When questioned as to why they did not question, we learned our status as customers would guarantee acquiescence to almost any request, no matter how unusual. So we started making a list . . .

The headlights of the hearse and the equipment truck illuminated the grave as the casket was lowered into the earth. Occasionally, the flash of the camera would attempt to aid in the recording of the event for the ensuing newspaper article, but the end result was mostly darkness with a faint, unearthly glow. Conditions could not have been more perfect for the stereotypical horror movie burial. Even the fog cooperated by shrouding the cemetery and shielding the night’s activities from the world . . . except for the lone vehicle that, for whatever reason, chose to circle the cemetery at that particular time. It made a rather hasty exit when it became apparent they were not alone.

We firmly believe the funeral should be a reflection of the person whose departure we are mourning and whose life we are celebrating—and in this instance that is probably exactly what was done. It spoke of his life, it was a final testament as to the person he had been. If only every funeral could so aptly encapsulate the life being remembered . . . so long as it doesn’t have to encapsulate it at midnight.

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What if…

Sat, 30 Aug 2014 21:38:00 GMT

A little over one year ago, August 29, 2013 to be precise, I got the phone call that no parent ever wants to receive. The unnaturally calm voice on the other end of the line informed me there had been an accident. What kind of accident, I wanted to know. And from there came the details that stopped my heart while sending my head into overdrive. My son and grandsons were on their way to school and now to the emergency room with no idea of their condition. My heart prayed for their survival—my head prepared me for their deaths.

We had a happy ending to a terrible beginning. Everyone lived. Everyone was all right and all that was required were fourteen stitches and time. Once we realized everyone had managed to escape serious injury, a friend of mine asked how I would handle the what ifs. You know, those evil, nasty things that steal your joy and relief when you pillow your head and attempt to sleep, those things that hide in the dark and sneak up on you when all is truly well. I knew they would come and come they did . . . with a vengeance. What if Anderson’s car seat hadn’t been securely in place, protecting him from the devastation? What if Wilson in his booster seat had been on the side of the SUV that now no longer existed except as a crumpled, shredded mass of metal? What if Joseph hadn’t been wearing his seat belt when the vehicle rolled twice? And every “what if” was met with the same answer . . . someone would have died or, in the very best of circumstances, been seriously injured.

I hate what ifs. I despise what they do to me, especially at times like that. As thankful as I was and as much as my own eyes told me that all was well, there was a part of me that refused to accept that without reviewing all the other, alternate endings . . . and none of those endings was ever happy.

The flip side of a what if is an if only—if only I had noticed things weren’t right. If only I stopped and said something or asked if I could help. If only I had listened more closely. If only I hadn’t done whatever it was that I think brought about some tragedy. Where a what if haunts you with things that could have happened but fortunately did not, an if only empowers you beyond reasonability. I, personally, could have prevented whatever tragedy occurred. I had it within my power to change a tragic outcome and failed to do so.

We must all realize and accept our humanity. We are not superhuman, all-seeing, all-powerful, all-knowing individuals. We cannot prevent tragedy, but at the same time we cannot use that as an excuse for not becoming involved in the lives of those around us. By the same token, we cannot let the what ifs of life steal our energy, our joy in living. What ifs are good for one thing and one thing only—to remind us of what is important. When life becomes too hectic and I lose my focus on those things which are important, I force myself to think back to that day and that phone call and all that followed, and I am grateful—grateful for happy endings, knowing that others have not been as blessed as we were. Grateful for more time and more opportunities—more hugs and more “I love yous”. The lesson of a what if should be that we must always remember there are no guarantees in this life. What ifs can become if onlys at any moment; they can steal from us the last chance we have to tell someone how much they mean to us and leave us regretting the last words we ever spoke.

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Snow White

Sun, 24 Aug 2014 02:19:00 GMT

Working in a funeral home gives you a different perspective on so much in life . . . and death. We talk more freely about both, but especially the death side of life. I have looked at my children and, disobeying my own rule about afterlife demands, have told them I don’t want to be buried. I’m claustrophobic. Not standing in a crowded elevator claustrophobic but buried in a box in the ground claustrophobic. I know, I know. I won’t know so it shouldn’t matter. But I know now, and that’s all that does matter.

By the same token, I don’t want to be in the mausoleum, for the same reasons. It’s not that I think I’m going to wake up from being dead and die of fright. I’ll be embalmed and, if I’m not dead when they start, I most certainly will be by the time they finish. It’s just the thought . . .

I also don’t want to be cremated. The thought of flames and burning and me all combined just isn’t appealing on any level. I told them to embalm me and have a visitation and service and then donate me to the body farm in Knoxville so I can lie out in the wide open with the trees towering above me and the stars twinkling down at night. Granted, there’ll be creepy, crawly things and birds and animals and such but somehow that doesn’t seem as bad as small, enclosed spaces or 2,000 degree flames.

Recently, while my daughter and I were at work (in the same office—our backs are to each other when we face our desks), she told me she’d been thinking about all that and, as best she could determine, I was just going to get something I didn’t want. I mentioned burial at sea as an option—one, it turns out, that she had not considered. She decided they could just throw me in the river so I could become catfish food (since they are bottom feeders, as she observed); I encouraged the use of a substantial amount of weight to avoid the possibility of an untimely reappearance . . . never mind the fact that there’s probably something terribly illegal about throwing whole bodies into the river. But, upon reflection, I don’t want to drown either. Yes, I know. You can’t drown when you’re dead but it’s just the thought . . .

Her final suggestion was that they stuff me and stand me in a corner of the chapel foyer. That way, they’d have a picture of my great-grandparents who started this whole shebang, my parents who followed in their Savannah footsteps . . . and me in the corner. I could even be embalmed so it would look like I was waving. Of course, I would want one of those velvet ropes set up a suitable distance from my remains so small children wouldn’t come over and poke on me (right . . . like that’s going to stop them), ultimately causing me to fall flat on my face at which point my nose would probably come off.

It was then she had her epiphany. They could put me in a glass casket like they did Lenin in Russia, and put me on display. I actually found that idea appealing. I could see out and no one could go poking on me like they might if I was standing in the corner. Then it hit me. Lenin wasn’t the only one in a glass casket and I asked, “Can you dress me up to look like Snow White?” to which my daughter replied, “No, Mama. That’s just creepy.”

Like the whole conversation wasn’t?

Erma Bombeck once said, “If you can laugh at it, you can live with it.” I’m not certain that included death, although I would imagine laughter played a large part in how she accepted her own as it approached. We face the inevitable by making light of the matter, but buried within the humor (pun intended) is that grain of truth which, if directly confronted, will result in panic. Sadly, it does no good to attempt to avoid the inevitable. It will not go away because it is not acknowledged. Rather, one day as you pretend to go about your life, the fear will become reality and the opportunities for discussion and action, once ours for the taking, are lost to eternity.

Have the conversations now. I don’t mean about funeral arrangements because I really do believe it has to be what the family needs, not what the “honoree” might want or think is in the best interests of those who will remain. I mean we need to prepare for the inevitable. We need to put the insurance policies somewhere safe (there are insurance policies, aren’t there?) and let someone know where we’ve hidden them. The important papers should be accumulated, assigned to one particular spot, and large, flashing arrow signs pointing toward them. And by the way, while you’re at it, go through the bills you’ve saved since you had a checking account and shred the whole bunch . . . while you’re cleaning out the attic (note to my children – your hoarder mother does not want to hear it . . .). To summarize, realize you will not live forever. None of us do. Your going away party should be the least of your worries. Rather, try to minimize the chaos you leave behind so your family can deal with their loss instead of your mess.

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Peter

Sat, 16 Aug 2014 17:59:00 GMT

The world, or at least the world as we know it, is reeling from the death of a beloved actor and comedian, one who managed, at one point or another, to touch a nerve in the souls of most everyone. Robin Williams left behind a body of work that not only encapsulated life but often clarified it for those of us fortunate enough to witness his unique combination of madness and genius.

Unfortunately, he was like so many who suffer silently, putting on a face for the world while hiding the misery of a troubled mind. Whether or not he succumbed to the depression that haunted him, whether or not he took his own life, does not diminish the affect he had upon those who felt they knew him through his work. Sadly, he could not share in the joy with which he blessed so many of us.

His death has cast a glaring light on the depression that seems so prevalent in our society. The topic dominates every news anchor’s commentary, it’s plastered across the web, it’s a part of every conversation, if not in word then in thought. The “professionals” want to tell us how to recognize it, how to deal with it, what to do if it afflicts someone we love, but the sad truth is the severity of depression often goes unrecognized until it is too late and a life is lost. Even if that life does not physically end, there is no quality to it, no joy in the living. And in a matter of days, when everyone has adjusted to the shocking news and something else has moved it from the headlines, we will forget.

Everyone is different and there is no definitive answer for what will trigger depression or how it should be treated. We must be aware. We must listen to the people we love, to the people we come in contact with on a daily basis, our friends, our co-workers. We cannot hear if we do not listen; we cannot see if we do not look. And when we believe there is a problem, we must encourage and support, we must offer to help, understanding that we open ourselves up to the darkness of someone else’s life when we do so. But we must also understand that we cannot “fix” anyone. We cannot make them seek help or lean on us when the darkness becomes too great to sustain life. Those who are suffering must want that suffering to end and sometimes they mistakenly believe that death is the only possible solution.

In the movie “Hook”, as Peter faces Captain Hook, preparing for battle, Hook exclaims, “Prepare to die, Peter Pan!” And Peter’s reply? “To die would be a grand adventure!” However, in the last scene, Robin Williams as the now grown-up Peter Pan, stands before Maggie Smith, the aged and grandmotherly Wendy. His children have been rescued from the clutches of Captain Hook, as has he from the clutches of the world, and Wendy observes, “So, your adventures are over,” to which Peter replies, “Oh, no. To live, to live would be an awfully big adventure.” Perhaps both life and death are grand adventures, each to be experienced in their own time, in their own way. But to hasten the end of one to bring about the beginning of the other only leaves grief and guilt for those who remain.

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The Observations of John

Fri, 18 Apr 2014 15:02:00 GMT

Throughout my father’s adult life, at least the part of which I was a part, he never cared much for perfect timing—unless it was for a good joke or the beginning of a funeral. Beyond that he tended to be perpetually late simply because he would never tell anyone that he had to go. If you had his attention, it was undivided and eternal, at least until you were prepared to end the conversation.

In keeping with his philosophy, his death was the epitome of poor timing. Not that he had anything to do with it, but that did not alleviate the problem. It was the Monday afternoon of Thanksgiving week and, knowing how far-reaching it could be, we elected to wait to begin his visitation until the Saturday immediately following the holiday. We had no need to make people choose between their holiday plans with their families and funeral plans with ours. Besides, we knew who’d be on the losing end of the deal.

That particular span of time allowed for several things, one being that I could attend the devotional service at our church on Thanksgiving eve. Dad’s death had been years in the making, and forty-eight hours plus had passed so I was good. I could handle people approaching me and telling me how sorry they were and how much they would miss him and what a good man he was and all those other things we are prone to saying when someone has just died.

As I suspected, the line formed immediately following the last amen and I managed rather well until this one particular friend finally stood before me. I could feel my nose as it began to turn Rudolph red—the one tell that I have, the one indication that the tears are just beneath the surface. I scowled at him and, wagging my finger in his face, said, “You. With you I will cry.” But he put his arms around me and hugged me as best he could with a pew in between us, and whispered two very profound statements in my ear. “You are now truly an orphan” and “You are the next generation.” I assured him that, if he’d meant his words to be of some consolation, he had failed miserably and we laughed and he expressed the traditional words of sympathy, and moved aside.

Those words have haunted me since that day, I believe mainly because of the truth they carry. You are never really an adult until your parents truly leave you. It doesn’t matter if they are physically incapacitated or mentally lost to you, as long as there is breath in their bodies you are still a child. But when that connection to your past dies, literally and metaphorically, something leaves you; that stability, that lifetime of dependence, disappears forever. You are orphaned in every sense of the word and no amount of extended or immediate family will change that.

And as for my generation being next, it is a sobering and daunting thought. Within my family—the descendants of my parents—I am the generation that now finds itself facing the prospects of our own mortality. Even though in this profession we realize that life and death do not behave predictably or within our sense of order, I understand that, barring circumstances beyond my control, I am the generational layer between my children and death. I am the next to leave this world, hopefully for better plains. There are days that thought precipitates a sense of urgency. Have I accomplished anything? Have I prepared my children as best I could? Will I leave this world somewhat better than when I arrived? And then there are those days when I simply wish to be still without the demands for my time and my attention so that I may reflect upon all that has been and what might still be yet to come.

As soul-shaking as his words might have been, I will be forever grateful they were whispered in my ear that night. The death of a generation will do one of two things—it will breathe renewed life into the next or paralyze it with fear and sorrow. It may be a difficult journey of unpredictable length but, to a great degree, we have the ability to determine which path will be ours—and as long as it is within our power, I hope we will not succumb to fear and sorrow. I hope we will choose life.

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Should I be Doing Anything Now?

Mon, 09 Sep 2013 15:18:00 GMT

In May of 2008 my mother managed to surprise everyone by dying before my dad did. He had been bedfast since June of 2005 with a mind that rapidly failed him, eventually rendering him silent except for the occasional groan . . . or growl . . . or unintelligible noise that was his only form of communication. At times he would stare at you—and at other times through you, with no recognition or even acknowledgement that you were present. Everyone who knew them just knew he would die first. That alone should be a valuable lesson in the art of assuming we can predict an individual’s expiration date.

It was 8:00 in the evening when she slipped away, although it really was not a “slipping” in the sneakiest sense of the word. But once death arrived and carried her from our presence, those activities that immediately follow commenced. Their doctor—who was also a friend for more years than I had lived—came to the apartment to make official the obvious. And while we gathered and pondered, he quietly entered Dad’s room and shared the news. He believed that my father understood, but who really knew? A few days later my precious daughter told her grandfather that it was all right. If he wanted to, he could go now as well. She would be waiting for him and they could be together again.

My parents had always been active in funeral service, not just locally but also on a state and national level. My father had served as the Secretary of Selected Independent Funeral Homes, an international organization, and as a District Governor for the National Funeral Directors Association. Many of his friends in funeral service, unaware of his condition, sent cards and emails—which I dutifully opened and read and, when required, acknowledged. The names were familiar to me for many of them had visited with us or had been introduced when I would attend the national conventions with my parents. I knew those to whom Dad had been close; I knew the names he would have recognized, those that would mean something. So, a few weeks after the funeral, I gathered those cards and emails and went to the apartment. My intention was to read them to him, to show him how many people cared and had taken the time to send their thoughts and prayers. The possibility that he would not understand did not matter. I was doing it more for me than for him anyway.

I stood beside his bed, looking down at his blue eyes that seemed to search my face on that particular day. Was he trying to decide who I was or did he know and simply wondered why I was there this time? I produced the first card, holding it where he could see it, explaining that so many people had been so kind after Mother died and that I thought he might like to hear from some of his friends. I began to read but before I could finish the first one, he interrupted me, and as clearly as I had ever heard him speak, said “Should I be doing anything now?”

I stopped. There was nothing else to do but stop. It had been I didn’t know how many years since I had been able to understand anything he said. It had been years since I had heard his voice and it truly sound like the man I knew and loved. I stopped and, putting down the card, I gently laid my hand on his arm and said, “No . . . no. Robert and I took care of everything. It was a beautiful service and I think you would have been very pleased.” I told him what kind of casket we had used and what the vault had been and who held the service and how many people had come. I tried to tell him all the things the funeral director would want to know . . . and the husband of over 50 years.

He never spoke again. Until the day he died in November of 2009, he never spoke again. Something happened that day and I will never know what or how. In a moment of clarity, he had been able to tell me that he knew. He knew the woman who had been so much a part of his life was no longer there. It broke my heart to know that he could not tell her goodbye; he never had the opportunity and, even if there had been time, could he have done so? But it also told me that somewhere, deep within him, was the man he had once been. Despite the ravages of his illness, despite his physical and mental deterioration and the failings of his body and mind, he was still there. And this extraordinary event that took from me one parent, brought about this extraordinary moment that briefly gave me back the other.

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Fix It!

Fri, 19 Jul 2013 15:03:00 GMT

We were indulging in our traditional Sunday evening meal at La Potosina, joined as was customary by our son and his family. Seated next to me was the infamous Wilson of gray road fame (kindly see my previous post) and across from me, his younger brother, the notoriously cute Anderson. When their usual cheese quesadillas arrived, Wilson decided he was going to cut his into pieces all by himself. Since the table knives at the restaurant are on the slightly dull side, it was deemed permissible for him to try . . . and try he did. With a slight assist from his Mona (yes, I said Mona, as in Mona Lisa—not everybody can use that), he managed to slice/pull off two rather oddly shaped pieces before deciding this cutting business was harder than it looked and relinquishing the knife to his granny.

Now, we’ve known for some time that whatever Wilson does Anderson will insist upon trying, but for some reason that fact did not spring to mind when Wilson expressed his desire to exercise his independence. And while Wilson managed to keep his quesadilla on the plate, Anderson’s slid in all directions, threatening to leap from the table and make a break for the floor at any moment. Fine motor skills are not yet at his command and, after several minutes of breath holding and quesadilla adjusting, his daddy took the plate and sliced the quesadilla into five neatly sized pieces . . . much to Anderson’s dismay. The entire time Joseph was cutting, Anderson was crying, “I do it!! I do it!!” while standing ready with his knife in one hand and his fork in the other, but to no avail. When at last the dastardly deed was done and the quesadilla placed in front of Anderson—who now had tears streaming down his cheeks and snot pouring from his nose—he laid down his knife and fork, picked up two pieces of the quesadilla and, holding them up to his daddy with the most pitiful look, said, “Fix it.”

It was such a simple request. Fix it. Put my quesadilla back together so I can cut it up. Even though it will probably end up in the floor and you’ll have to order another one, fix it so I can, so I won’t be upset and unhappy anymore. Fix it . . .

How many times have we wanted to look at someone—anyone—and beg them to “fix it”? To make it all better. To take away whatever pain we have, to wipe away the tears and remove the crushing ache that comes when our neatly ordered lives spiral out of control. If we’re honest, there are more times than we care to count, and the things that are broken are always beyond fixing. Like a quesadilla now sliced into manageable pieces, that part of our lives cannot be made whole again.

It took a while, but we finally managed to distract Anderson enough that the quesadilla became supper instead of a crisis. Unfortunately, the weightier matters of life are never so simple and there are no easy “fixes” because those solutions are different for everyone—in other words, I don’t have any answers to offer. But I do know this: as long as we sit and stare at the problem—the broken pieces of our lives—and focus on what we have lost and of what we have been deprived, we will never be able to enjoy life. That only happens when we begin to look outward, beyond ourselves and the trials and tribulations that afflict us.

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I Do Not Like This Bumpy Road!

Tue, 25 Jun 2013 14:43:00 GMT

I have this wonderful grandson named Wilson who has an equally wonderful brother named Anderson. I am compelled to mention this because Wilson is the subject of this particular post and Anderson is just cute and deserves to be recognized as such (says his granny). Although Wilson has only been around for the last four plus years, he has managed to accumulate an enormous amount of wisdom during that time, most of which I’m fairly certain he has gleaned from his grandmother.

Not long ago my son and daughter-in-law were out killing time and burning gas, touring the countryside with their two rug rats in tow, firmly strapped into their car seats and amusing themselves as they rode through Gillis Mills, down Hollands Creek Road and onto a rather rutted, very unpaved imposter that would supposedly lead them somewhere close to Dry Creek. For those of you unfamiliar with the territory don’t worry. I am equally lost.

This gravel road proved to be the equivalent of a poorly assembled carnival ride, tossing the kids back and forth in their car seats with each rut and bump. My son would periodically glance in his rearview mirror, usually to the sight of heads being slung back and forth. I would have said tiny heads, but anyone who knows Wilson and Anderson knows that would be an incorrect statement. Wilson’s head alone ranks in the 95 ^th percentile for head size. That’s a big head—all the more to be bounced from side to side by an unforgiving gravel road.

With each bounce, Wilson would make his displeasure known with such demands as, “GET OFF THIS ROAD NOW!!!” and such assertions as “I DON’T LIKE THIS BUMPY ROAD!!!” all screamed at the top of his little four year old lungs. The final straw came with the final bump, one that elicited nothing more than a scream—no words—just a scream. And his mother, being the sweet soul that she is, twisted around to face him and said, in her kindest, most motherly voice, “Don’t you like this bumpy road?”

And Wilson’s response? “I DON’T LIKE THIS BUMPY ROAD! I LIKE STICKS AND I LIKE TREES AND I LIKE ROCKS AND I LIKE THROWING THEM INTO PUDDLES BUT I DON’T LIKE THIS BUMPY ROAD!!! I ONLY LIKE GRAY ROADS!”

So, there we have it. As with most young children, Wilson has a definitive list of his favorite things … and one very definite dislike—bumpy roads. Even at the tender age of four, he has figured out what most of us dread in this life—the bumps and bruises that will inevitably come our way—and he has managed to comprehend what very few adults ever manage to grasp. And so the analogy begins.

Despite his obvious discomfort, Wilson could, when called upon, remember that there are good things in this world—sticks and trees and rocks and puddles. And, despite his obvious discomfort, Wilson knew that there was something better somewhere out there—the elusive gray road that would allow him to sit as calmly as a four year old can and enjoy the ride. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could practice the wisdom of Wilson? Despite the trials and tribulations we will eventually face in life, there are still some good memories hiding in the recesses of our overwhelmed brains, waiting patiently until the time when we call them forth and wrap ourselves in their comfort and security. For some, those sticks and trees and rocks and puddles are things of the past we can revisit and for others, they are the blessings we all too often fail to see in the present. And, no matter how bumpy the road may become, somewhere, at some time, there will be a gray road to ease our journey. We must simply have enough patience and perseverance to reach the intersection.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

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Too Blind to See

Sat, 01 Jun 2013 14:41:00 GMT

I sat at my desk on Monday, shuffling through the pile of paper that threatens to avalanche into the floor at any moment. The usual Monday interruptions came and went—telemarketers selling things we didn’t need (and often had never heard of), people wanting to change our phone service provider or credit card processor, very nice folks offering to sell us office/janitorial/funeral supplies at prices much lower than we are currently paying … there are days it seems never ending and constantly distracting. As the day wears on and I struggle to focus on the work so I’ll at least think I’ve accomplished something, I vaguely remember hearing my daughter, who works just across the room from me, say something about a tornado and Oklahoma. It didn’t really register, except to know that it had happened, and I continued on my mission of staring at a computer monitor and trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Night fell, the building emptied, and I finally decided to go home as well … but before I closed out my email and the website—along with everything else that was open on my computer—I opened MSN just to check the latest news. The red banner across the top of the page startled me and the heading it contained made my stomach turn. As I read the article to which it led, the extent of the devastation immediately became apparent. At that time the death toll stood at 51, a number which, thankfully, was lowered in the hours that followed. But at that moment, it was reported as 51—and 20 of those were allegedly children.
Children …Two elementary schools destroyed and 20 children dead. Twenty.

Visions of Sandy Hook Elementary flashed through my brain, only this time Nature held the weapon. As I sat at my desk, plodding away at the work which lay before me, unaware of much save the incessant ringing of the phone, an act of nature so horrific in its force had destroyed the past of an entire town and forever altered their future. No one’s life would ever be the same. Whether they lost their child or their spouse or their home—or even if they escaped the wrath of nature inflicted in the form of a whirling cloud of dust and debris—they would never be the same.

As the days passed, I was constantly reminded by every news station of the ongoing search for survivors, of the number injured and the property obliterated. Piles of rubble that once were homes dominated the news. Mountains of cars twisted almost beyond recognition were on every internet news site. And while trying to process all of this, it suddenly dawned on me that this is only one event in a world of equally horrific events. Every day, masses of people suffer at the hands of Nature or, worse yet, of other people. No one is immune. No one is protected. And it doesn’t have to be across the nation—or the world. It can be my neighbor, the people with whom I work and attend church, the people who live across my town or county. I can be as oblivious to their suffering as I was to the tragedy that took place on Monday afternoon in Moore, Oklahoma, only in most instances I won’t have MSN or some other news agency to bombard me with all the details.

I need to pay more attention to those with whom I come in contact. I need to see them, to know them. I need to look for the hurt and the suffering and the pain that may be hidden from my view—and I need to do whatever is within my power to change that, or at least, for a brief moment, to alleviate it. I can’t control the weather. I can’t remove evil from the hearts of mankind. But I can smile at the person I meet on the street. I can ask how someone is because I genuinely want to know—and I can listen when they answer the question. I can realize that my inability to recognize their needs and their pain does not mean they are nonexistent. It just means I was too blind to see.

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Spring on the Square in Bolivar

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 14:39:00 GMT

Clockwise starting at top left: Small Shack performs on the square, the 2012 Car Show, Brian Lee Howell as Elvis, Crafts On The Corner, 10-0-C performs on the square, artisanal, handmade jewelry by Sharon Wisely at Crafts On The Corner

HARDEMAN COUNTY LIVE PRESENTS

SPRING ON THE SQUARE

This year marks the 6 ^th anniversary of Hardeman County Live’s “Music on the Square.”

In 2008, the Hardeman County Music Commission was formed to launch a new project for summer. Now, every Friday night from April to October, Bolivar hosts “Music on the Square,” an outdoor music series that showcases talent from all over the region right on the Court Square.

This year, the summer-long fun is kicking off in a big way with “Spring on the Square” April 26 & 27. The festival begins Friday evening with live music provided by Casting Our Pearls, Brian Lee Howell and 10-0-C.

On Saturday, things get started early at 9:00 AM with “Crafts on the Corner”, featuring handmade items from local artisans, a car show benefitting “God’s Special Kids,” the “Smokin’ on the Square” Backyard BBQ Cooking Contest and the annual APTA Historic Home Tour. There will also be a karaoke contest on the stage Saturday afternoon. Saturday night, more live music will be performed by Billy Kennedy, Steve Woods & friends, and Freedom. Food vendors will also be set up for the public Friday night and all day Saturday.

Start your summer off right by being a part of Hardeman County Live’s Spring on the Square!

Claire Shackelford is a member of 10-0-C who will be performing Friday night at the festival while Kandy Shackelford is a member of the Hardeman County Music Commission. Small Shack, with members including Jeff & Kandy Shackelford, Jillian Wisely and Robert Rosson, will be performing later in the summer on May 10 for Hardeman County’s Relay for Life as a part of the outdoor music series. Claire, Kandy, Jeff, Jillian and Robert are all employees of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Bolivar.

Here’s the schedule:

Friday, April 26 and Saturday, April 27

FRIDAY

6:00 pm – Welcome to Hardeman County Live’s Spring On The Square Smokin’ On the Square Backyard BBQ Cook-Off f or more info contact Chris Bell (731) 609-2234

6:00 – 7:00 pm – C asting Our Pearls performs

7:00 – 8:00 pm – B rian Lee Howell – Elvis performs

8:00 – 10:00 pm – 1 0-0-C performs

SATURDAY

9:00 am – C ars for Kids Car Show begins, Crafts On The Corner opens

10:00 am – 5:00 pm – A ssociation for the Preservation of Tennessee Antiquities’ Annual Historic Home Tour

1:00 – 3:00 pm – Karaoke Contest on the amphitheater stage

3:00 – 5:30 pm – S mokin’ on the Square Backyard BBQ Cook-Off Awards, Kids for Cars Awards and Drive-Thru, Crafts On The Corner Awards, Karaoke Awards

6:00 – 8:00 pm – O pen Mic with Billy Kennedy, Gospel with Steve Woods and friends

8:00 – 10:00 pm – F reedom performs

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Hee Haw Begins Tonight in Bolivar

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 14:36:00 GMT

In 1979, the Hardeman County chapter of the American Cancer Society was looking for a way to reach their fundraising goal, and so was born the “Hardeman County Hee Haw & Howdy Show,” modeled after the popular television variety series, “Hee Haw.”

Don Shackelford, Bertha Vaughan and Bunny Orr combined their efforts as founders of the production that would showcase the musical and comedic talents of hundreds of Hardeman County residents and raise money for cancer research. Don was the show’s first writer and director, serving as such for 10 years prior to retiring in 1990, while Bertha Vaughan stayed on for 18 years as musical director before handing her duties over to Jeff and Kandy Shackelford. Bobby Sain is the current writer and director.

The Hee Haw & Howdy Show, now commonly referred to as “Hee Haw,” has been running for 34 years and continues to be a success, selling out multiple performances. It’s an annual variety show that is full of laughter and country music put on by Hardeman County residents who devote months of preparation and hard work to it. Local talents provide musical entertainment for the audience while characters from the original television series, including Lulu, Stringbean, Junior and Grandpa, make their way onto the stage to deliver jokes.

Until 2006, “Hee Haw” was performed in the Bolivar Central High School auditorium on a weekend in the spring. Now, the show takes place at the Hardeman County Arts Center and runs for an entire week due to ticket demand. In fact, of the more than 1,200 seats available, over 1,000 were sold within the first week of ticket sales. What’s even better is that, thanks to the people of Hardeman County, the Hee Haw & Howdy Show has raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the American Cancer Society.

Shackelford Funeral Directors is proud to have been a long-time sponsor of this great effort. As mentioned before, Don Shackelford, former manager of the Bolivar location prior to his death in 2000, was writer and director of the show for a period of time and continued to support the show for years after. Jeff Shackelford, present manager and President of Shackelford Funeral Directors of Bolivar, Inc., is the current musical director and plays lead guitar in the Hee Haw band alongside his wife, Kandy, who plays bass guitar and daughter, Jillian Wisely, who sings and plays rhythm guitar in this year’s show. Kandy and Jillian are both employees at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Bolivar.

Tickets, though few, are still available for some of the Hee Haw performances, the first of which is tonight, March 25 ^th , at the Hardeman County Arts Center located at 1580 West Market Street in Bolivar. Other dates include March 26, 28-30 with two performances on Saturday, the 30 ^th . Tickets may be purchased for $10 each at Weems Furniture in Bolivar, 425 Tennessee Street, (731) 658-2081.

Don Shackelford and his granddaughter Jillian (Shackelford) Wisely in 1989.

Jeff Shackelford (center) with Maynard and the cuties as they do a little “Pickin’ and Grinnin’.”

(L-R) Kandy Shackelford, Mike Smalley, and Jeff Shackelford performing as a bluegrass trio.
This post was written by Jillian Wisely of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Bolivar. Jillian is the daughter of Jeff and Kandy Shackelford.

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Today

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 14:35:00 GMT

There are times that I absolutely despise Facebook. It’s not the random sharing of far more information than I often want and definitely do not need that is so very bothersome. It’s the unpleasant surprises that you innocently scroll into while wading through untold shares of political positions, cute kitty pictures, and other such stuff. Last night was one of those times.

I never really knew Hope Shull or her husband, Don, although I had the pleasure of visiting with them at least once, but my children did. She was the librarian at Freed-Hardeman University and he a professor of language and literature. It is to him that I will be forever grateful for he gave my son one of the greatest gifts imaginable—the desire to read and the need to learn. I had struggled all through his childhood to instill in him both those attributes and had failed miserably. Don Shull, however, succeeded where I could not. By the mere size of his intellect, the knowledge he possessed, and the magnitude of his personality and classroom presence, he worked the miracle I could not. And last night, while trolling the waters of Facebook, I find her picture from years before and a caption that implies the obvious followed by comment after comment about the inner beauty of a wonderful woman. I can only hope that the passing of this remarkable woman does not break the spirit of her equally remarkable husband. To quote my son-in-law, Dennis, “A kind soul and generous heart is gone, and has left the world a little poorer for its leaving.”

This sorrowful news followed closely on the heels of another, more gruesome discovery only a few blocks from the funeral home in Savannah—the body of a woman known by many and loved by those fortunate enough to call her a friend—in an area of our small town where everyone should feel safe. The “M” word was attached to her death and for hours on end, flashing blue lights and yards of police tape called loudly to everyone passing by, announcing to all the world that something horrific had happened, something that would shake our community and give rise to questions about humanity and the degradation thereof. Her friends will mourn her loss, her family will ask why, and we are all left to wonder and grieve.

All of this so closely followed the passing of 17 year old Aaron, the Amazing. Honestly, as I sat thinking about everything that was chaotically stirring around me, I had trouble bringing his last name to mind. All over town he was known simply as “Aaron, the Amazing”, and the entire community bonded together to form “Team Aaron” in support of his courageous fight against cancer. But the odds were ultimately against him and there came a time when acceptance was the better part of valor. Not surrender … acceptance. The two are quite different. When we were called at his death, a silence enveloped the funeral home—a silence born of the knowledge that an amazing human being in the form of Aaron Bell would no longer physically walk with us, but that he would always be here, for courage that awesome does not die.

There are days and times and hours when it is simply too much. Too much death, too much grief, too much to bear. We ache for the families, we weep for ourselves, we hope for better times tomorrow, knowing that we will be required to move ahead while others will have the opportunity and the permission and the time to grieve. Never rush them or try to take away their pain. It is as much a part of life as the pain that comes at birth but instead of a living, breathing child, we are left to hold the memories.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

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Open the Gate

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 14:35:00 GMT

I’m fortunate enough to live in the middle of 42 acres and still be inside the city limits of our little town. And I’m fortunate enough to see things up close and personal that a lot of other “city folks” may never experience—like a ‘possom or a raccoon two inches away from my face, on the other side of our wall of windows, eating the dry cat food out of the bowl on the porch. Or baby foxes (also known as kits for the wildlife illiterate) playing beside the driveway. Or a flock of deer (yes, I know they don’t come in flocks but they’re far too graceful to be termed a herd—that just sounds so clumsy and heavy) grazing in the front yard underneath the kitchen window. We’ve even had a few armadillos in the mix not to mention the occasional stray cat or two or ten that wanders in and decides to stay.

A few Saturdays ago I was standing at the kitchen sink, looking at the deer feeding on the clover in the front yard, when I noticed a set of ears on the other side of the fence. Before I continue, I should probably explain the arrangement of said fence. The front door of our house (that no one ever sees since it faces a 10 acre field and not the driveway) opens onto a massive front porch which one exits by means of a set of steps. Said steps take you to a sidewalk that crosses the rather sizable front yard, leading to a set of brick pillars (which are flanked by low brick walls) and a gate. Chain link fencing runs to either side, encircling the house, allowing the previous owners to have horses without having a front yard full of unwelcome surprises. For us it simply marks where we quit mowing. So basically, with no horses or cattle or other livestock, we have a sidewalk that leads to nowhere—except a gate and a field. And today, on the other side of the brick wall, I see a set of ears.

Eventually, the ears move away from the wall and out into the open, beside the chain link portion of the fence. At that moment I understand why everyone else gets to feed on the clover inside the fence and this poor little thing is left outside to watch. One front leg dangles uselessly from its body, obviously broken and incapable of bearing any weigh—meaning this young deer cannot jump the fence—and the gate is closed so it cannot hobble through.

I wanted so much to go open the gate but I knew just opening the front door would cause a disappearing act faster than even Houdini could have imagined. So I stood and I watched as the deer paced, as best it could, back and forth outside the fence, wanting so desperately to join the others. As it paced I could almost see it thinking, gauging the height of the fence, testing the strength of its remaining three legs and then, much to my absolute horror, it jumped.

I know I let out an audible gasp and my hand flew to my mouth as I watched this very determined creature almost, but not quite, clear the fence. The broken leg caught the top rail and as I watched, the deer flipped over the fence, landing in the front yard on its back, legs flailing as it tried to stand again. In less than a minute it was over, the deer was up, and peacefully grazing with the others. Eventually they wandered across the yard, seven of them moving quite gracefully, the eighth with a slight hop brought about by an incompleteness that it probably did not understand but accepted and moved beyond. And when they had eaten their fill and disappeared into the woods behind the house, I opened the front door, walked down the sidewalk to nowhere, and opened the gate. If they should ever again wish to feast in the front yard, that little one would find an easier path by which to join its family.

A friend of mine constantly tells me that I cannot fix the world. I understand that, but it doesn’t keep me from trying. A magic wand would come in handy, or perhaps a million wishes from a genie in a lamp—or maybe just some good, old-fashioned hard work and a watchful eye that sees the needs of others. He’s right, you know. I can’t fix the world.

But I can open the gate.

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The Best Christmas Present. Ever.

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 14:34:00 GMT

Yes. I know. Christmas is over. My house is a testament to that fact; a shambles, half decorated and half in disarray as I attempt to find the living space underneath all the twinkling lights and garland. I’ve always loved the way the house sparkles at Christmas when the sun goes down and the trees (yes, I said trees – as in five with two more planned for next year) are lit. I especially like the way the living room tree looks when I finally have everything wrapped (which is usually Christmas Eve) and nestled beneath its branches, waiting for Christmas Day and the excitement that I’m privileged to see on the faces of my family.

And that brings me to the story I actually want to tell—the story of the best Christmas present ever. Oh, it wasn’t one that I received; it was one that I gave. Well, actually two.

When I was in high school, and then in college, I loved to buy Bucilla kits. You remember them … maybe. The kind that contained pre-printed felt that required a great deal of cutting and an abundance of beads and sequins and ric-rac (now there’s a term I’ve not heard in a while, much less actually used) and you used all of the aforementioned—and the instructions—to create stockings or Christmas ornaments or tree skirts. I’d been through a good many of the ornaments, making the three little kittens that lost their mittens and Cinderella with her prince, pumpkin coach and fairy godmother, just to mention a few, when I got exceptionally brave and purchased a tree skirt kit. It was the Twelve Days of Christmas and I just knew it would take about as many years to finish it. But the load at school was light that quarter so there was more time to work on it and I would wag it home with me on the weekends and sew into the wee hours of the morning. I did so want to finish it before Christmas, though I hadn’t the foggiest idea why.

My mother fell in love with that tree skirt. Anytime her friends would come to visit I was required to display it for their inspection and approval. It was a pretty tree skirt, but I wasn’t sure I saw the great attraction she did. So, as Christmas approached, an idea planted itself in my noggin. And the night before Christmas, I gently folded the tree skirt, placed it in a box which I wrapped in Christmas paper, and tucked it under the beautifully flocked and ornamented tree that graced our living room. The next morning, after attacking the gifts left by Santa (yes, he came to visit me every year until I married and moved out of the house—I must have failed to leave a forwarding address), the opening of presents began. As my mother picked up the box I could see the puzzlement on her face (the tag read “from Santa”) and I’m sure she thought it was some sneaky something concocted by my father. But as she raised the lid of the box and lifted the tissue paper, I could see her eyes grow wide with astonishment—and then the tears came.

Every year after that, the Twelve Days of Christmas tree skirt graced a table somewhere in the house, and later in the apartment, with a tiny tree perched atop it. And for many years after that day, my mother would tell everyone the story of the gift she never expected but always treasured.

The other gift came a few years later, and was given to my maternal grandmother, Wa-Wa (which is what you get when you try to teach a toddler to say “Grandmother Rogers”—I mean, come on people … really!?). In all my years, I had never seen any type of Christmas decorations in her home. My Grandfather Rogers died before my mother and dad ever married so perhaps she never saw a need or had the desire. But everyone needs a Christmas tree, so I decided it would be her birthday present, an event that conveniently occurred on December 19. I found one that was about three feet tall and carefully selected ornaments that I thought were just the right size. And all the while, my mother is telling me it’s a waste of my time and most definitely my money. My grandmother didn’t want a tree, she wouldn’t like a tree and didn’t need a tree. I listened about the way I did all the other times she told me not to do something.

I will admit, her negativity dampened my enthusiasm somewhat and when the day came to present the tree in all its glory, I wasn’t at all certain I had done a good thing. But when I carried it in, her eyes lit up—one of the few times I ever saw that happen. We cleaned off the top of the table that sat in front of the window, made the little tree comfortable in its new home, and plugged in the lights. Then we all went outside to admire it through the window.

If I ever thought she pretended to be pleased so as not to hurt my feelings (something that would have been very foreign to her nature), that fear was dispelled a few days after Christmas. The woman who cleaned her house had begun removing the decorations in preparation for storing the tree and my grandmother almost had an attack. Nothing would do but I come back to her house and place each decoration exactly where it had been before. And every year the tree was stored in the corner of her bedroom, completely decorated and wrapped in dry cleaning plastic, waiting patiently for the next December to arrive.

Now, you may be thinking (if you’ve managed to get this far) that those are rather nice stories but why have I bothered to tell them. Ah—it is to point out the obvious. The best Christmas presents—ever—were not those I received, but those I gave. And the joy that was mine in the giving still warms me to this day. As we begin a new year, I hope you will continuously look for opportunities to give, for it is only in giving that we truly receive. And it is only through giving of ourselves that we can make this world a better place.

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The Carpenters

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 14:30:00 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.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

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Newtown, Connecticut

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 14:32:00 GMT

Shackelford Funeral Directors, as a show of support for the families of Newtown, Connecticut, is offering the people of our commuinties the opportunity to sign a register book which will be sent to the city of Newtown after the Christmas holiday. In addition to signing, you will have the opportunity to include words of sympathy or encouragement on cards that are provided for that purpose. These cards will be mailed with the books from each location. The books and cards are available in Bolivar, Henderson, Savannah, Selmer, and Waynesboro.

We hope many of you will take advantage of this opportunity to share in the horrific loss suffered by the families of Newtown and to assure them of our continued thoughts and prayers.

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Crematory

Sat, 15 Dec 2012 14:28:00 GMT

The Shackelford family is pleased to announce that we will soon be opening our own cremation center. Shackelford Cremation Services, Inc. will be based in Selmer, Tennessee and will serve all Shackelford facilities. The new center will be located in what was formerly the Adams House; previously the house held the offices of the McNairy County Chamber of Commerce and the McNairy Regional Alliance.

Renovation of the property began several months ago with the restoration of the original house and the enclosure of the carport that was added years after the initial construction of the home. In an effort to maintain the Craftsman style of the structure, the carport enclosure has been framed to look like a carriage house while actually serving as the location of the cremation unit. The home itself will contain the office for the cremation center as well as a reception area for families wishing to attend a loved one’s cremation and a viewing room for their use.

Once the establishment is fully licensed by the State of Tennessee through the State Board of Funeral Directors and Embalmers and the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation, all cremations for Shackelford firms will take place there.

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Church Street

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 14:27:00 GMT

I grew up on the business end of Church Street. I say the business end because I lived directly behind the funeral home, or at least what was the funeral home at that time. It faced Main Street with a parking lot in back and remained the funeral home until we moved the business to a new location in 1978. At that time, it became “the old funeral home” but eventually, perhaps because the Chamber of Commerce moved in and put up an awning with their name on it, it became known as “the Chamber of Commerce” building. I can’t begin to tell you how much that irks me. When you’ve been home to something for over 40 years, the name ought to stick. Be that as it may, our house sat beside the parking lot where my brother played basketball and I would ride my bike down the ramp that led to the drive-up window for the office.

Our house was by far the newest house on the first two blocks of Church Street. It was built in 1955 when my parents first moved to Savannah from wherever they’d been previously, built on land that at one time belonged to the DeFord family and went with the house that now resides under all that brick they adhered to the structure when it first became a funeral home. The old chapel sits atop the goldfish pond that once graced the side yard and our old house now sits in what must have been a magnificent backyard before progress and my grandfather turned a Victorian beauty into a mortuary.

I loved Church Street. Back then, in the dark ages of my youth, it was home, filled with people who had been there forever and who would be there still if the beliefs of my childish brain held any sway at all over reality. And the older folks on the block kindly tolerated me, especially when it came time to sell Girl Scout cookies. Yes, even then they were the financial staple of the organization and my ticket into most all the homes up and down the old part of the street.

My first stop was always the Hitt house on the corner of Church and DeFord. For years I believed I was visiting two spinster sisters since they both bore the last name of Hitt. Only in my teenage years did I learn they were mother and daughter. “Miss” Lorena always looked so young and spry despite the silvery mass of hair neatly pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. I think I remember her push mowing her yard well into her nineties and living several years passed one hundred. Her daughter, Miss Laura, had never married and I could never understand why not. She was one of the kindest people I had ever known and beautiful even as she aged—but perhaps the beauty was there as a result of the kindness. They always bought cookies and I was always grateful, and a guest in their home at least twice a year—once to take their order and once to deliver their eagerly awaited cookies. They may not have cared a flitter for them, but they always made me think I had done them the greatest favor by asking if they would like any.

My favorite stop, however, was not the Hitt house, although it ranked a very close second, but the Sevier house two doors down. In my eyes, Mr. Hardin and “Miss” Inez were ancient and the absolute epitome of how a couple their age—whatever that was at the time—should be. He was tall and lean with hands that dwarfed mine and eyes that held the slightest twinkle, just enough to betray the mischief that hid behind them. Slightly stooped from the passage of time, he still towered over me while she was small and frail with perfectly combed yellow-white hair and a smile that always welcomed me. Every time I would deliver their cookies, Mr. Hardin would pull his wallet from his back pocket and sadly tell me he was unable to pay for them while showing me the very empty spot where his money should have been. “Miss” Inez would just smile and assure me there was no need to worry while gently laying her hand on his arm. Then she would take his wallet from him and pull aside the flap hiding the “secret compartment” that was filled with more money than my little eyes had ever seen in one place. He’d frown at her for spoiling his fun, then laugh and hand over the required sum. It became an annual ritual, a game that I looked forward to and enjoyed in its brief duration.

I am so much older now and I know, before too much longer if not already, children will look at me the way I looked at the Hitts and the Seviers—at least I hope they do. They were an important part of my childhood and an eternal part of my life and even though they are no longer there and have not been for years, each time I travel that way, I see their homes and remember their legacy. All things must change but that doesn’t mean the memories fade. If anything, they grow sweeter with age.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

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Heads and Hearts

Thu, 22 Nov 2012 14:27:00 GMT

My parents had been told they would never have children, so the house they built in 1955 had two bedrooms – one for them and one for whatever guest might show up. Imagine their surprise when a semi-permanent one (in the form of me) arrived in 1956, followed by my brother in 1959. Given the arrangement of the house, he and I shared a room for the first several years of his life. But the day came when that no longer seemed appropriate so the back porch disappeared, a new kitchen and den were added, and somewhere in all the construction, I was moved into what was once my parents’ bedroom.

To say this was a bit disconcerting would be an understatement. I was accustomed to having company in my room, a thought that proved most comforting to someone as intensely afraid of the unknown as I was. After all, once the lights went out, anything could be lurking in the dark, waiting until I drifted off to sleep to pounce upon me and do I didn’t know what. My mind would never allow the final outcome of any pouncing to formulate. So, where most children might have had a night light, I had a night lamp—and on some nights I even had a night overhead fixture. As long as I could see, nothing could sneak up on me.

There were times when my parents insisted that I confront my fears and I would try so hard to please them. I remember lying on my back in bed with the sheet pulled all the way up to my chin, trying desperately to make myself as flat as possible, thinking that if some stranger came into my room they would just see my head and go away, thinking that’s all there was—just a head … lying on a pillow—so pouncing would be an extraordinary waste of their time. The reasoning may have been flawed, but it worked for my childish brain. I believe this was about the same time I told the Seaton boys (our next door neighbors) that those white coverings over the top of the cells of a wasp nest were probably there because the baby wasps were chewing bubble gum. You have to admit, it makes sense. Creative explanations were my specialty.

As I’ve grown older my fears have changed somewhat, although the dark still rates in the top three. If I’m walking down the hall of the funeral home at night—and I’m the only living one in the building—I still find myself looking back over my shoulder, just in case … And although I’m okay with spiders and bugs and snakes, if anything jumps out at me, one of us is going to die. Yes, my list could stretch on for a while, but the number one spot—the thing I fear most in this life—is death. Not my own but the deaths of those I love.

You see, if I die, I’m not left behind to deal with the emptiness and the loss, the overwhelming ache that will not let go. If I die there is an immediate finality to my part in the whole scheme of things, but if I am the one left behind I’m forced to endure and to persevere and to continue without someone that was a great part of my world. Selfishness on my part demands that I be the first to go; love for those dear to me quietly whispers that I should be the one to stay.

Grief is a five letter word in more ways than one; it is an emotion I do not wish to experience but have, and which I know someday will haunt me again. And when that day comes, I only hope I can live by my own “words of wisdom”—the ones I gave to my aunt when I first saw her after my uncle’s sudden death. She wrapped her arms around me, pulled me close, and barely whispered, “What are we going to do?” And I gave her the only response I had. “The best we can. It’s the only real choice we have.”

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee.

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Cemeteries

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 14:26:00 GMT

I have a thing for cemeteries, but only the old ones with upright monuments. For the uninitiated, an upright monument is one that is not flat. You’d think that would go without saying, but if it’s flush to the ground and made of bronze and granite, I’m probably not going to be interested. Not that there’s anything wrong with those, but for some reason they lose their uniqueness when they lose their height.

Probably, my most favoritest (yes, I know that’s not a word or grammatically correct) cemetery that I’ve ever visited is Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts. Entering the cemetery is like stepping back in time and among the graves I find names familiar from my childhood— Louisa May Alcott and Nathaniel Hawthorne—and names I grew to love later in life—Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. The bones of their families rest with them in graves marked with the simplest of stones to those that rise above the earth. High above the rest of the cemetery, they reside on Authors’ Ridge, nestled among trees more ancient than the graves themselves. Someone exhibiting great wisdom and restraint chose not to clear the grounds and level the hills, but to leave it rolling and natural in its landscape.

Emerson spoke at the cemetery’s dedication in September of 1855, referring to it as the “garden of the living” for it was as much for those who remained as it was to honor those who had died. Our cemeteries today still fulfill that function, giving those left behind a place of remembrance at which they may gather on decoration days or a place of comfort to visit when the ache grows so strong that they can no longer bear to be without those who left far too soon. The monuments bear witness to their lives, some more detailed than others, and give us a glimpse into the person who was but is now only a memory. And, if you pause long enough to quietly reflect upon the surroundings, you will realize that this is the only place on earth where you may not only visit your past, but also see your future. No matter whom we are, no matter how much money we amass or power we wield, someday we will all be equal in the eyes of Death. And whether we are lowered into the cool dampness of the soil, entombed in structures of marble and granite, or lovingly placed on someone’s mantel, we will all share the same fate.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

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Bread Machine

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 14:25:00 GMT

I have never had an affinity for bread machines. As a matter of fact, I pretty much blame them for the downfall of society as we know it—those and home improvement shows that make you believe you can redo an entire house in twenty minutes.

We have come to expect the impossible and to expect it with both speed and accuracy. I watched the show “Hometime” not long ago and during the thirty minutes it aired, they showed a dozen commercials, cheerfully bantered back and forth, watched as a concrete crew poured, stained, and stamped a huge porch, abnormally wide sidewalk, and an entire driveway, not to mention landscaping the whole yard while structuring a nuclear non-proliferation treaty with Iran and bringing peace to the entire known world. Okay, those last two may be a stretch, but they might as well have been included given the implied timeframe of everything else they “accomplished” during the show.

Bread machines are no better. They sit quietly on your counter, waiting patiently until you dump some stuff into them, push some buttons or turn some dials, and come back later to find a perfectly formed and baked loaf of bread. What happened to getting your hands all floury while working the dough then waiting patiently for it to rise so you could punch it down, knead it again, and go through the process one more time? The kneading and punching alone always offered a productive way to release any pent up aggression. Then to walk through the kitchen with that wonderful smell filling the room—there was a certain sense of pride and accomplishment when that loaf was pulled from the oven to be sliced and slathered in butter while still warm because we took the time to make it.

But these days too many of us rush through our lives, unwilling or unable to slow down. We hurry from one task to the next only to find ourselves so exhausted there is no energy left at the end of the day for the things that should matter the most. We wish away the lives of our children, longing for the day they can dress themselves, feed themselves, behave in public, drive to school, present us with grandchildren … We wish away our own lives, waiting for the “right time” to start a family, change jobs, pursue a dream, retire and travel, telling ourselves we can do that tomorrow or next week or next year. We take for granted there will always be time even as we find ourselves hurrying it along, until one day we wake up and the person staring back at us from the mirror does not even vaguely resemble the person we thought we would be.

Take a moment. Stop and look around you. There will not always be time. Decide what is important in life and focus your attention there. Make the most of every second of every day, even if it is required of you to use some of that time sweeping floors or crunching numbers or extolling the virtues of the latest technological device to a clueless public. No matter your lot in life, you have the power to enrich the lives of those you meet along the way—and it is never too late to begin abiding by that philosophy. Live so that when you are gone there will be those who actually mourn your passing and are better for having known you.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee.

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Tiny Little Holes

Mon, 22 Oct 2012 14:22:00 GMT

In this apartment my mother had an alarm system installed, complete with smoke detectors, some hardwired in and some that were wireless. And whenever the battery was low in one of them, the woodpecker would return – that confounded, persistent knocking that could be heard all up and down the service hall and even in our downstairs arrangement room. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Pause. It would go on endlessly. I could go to the control panel and clear the system and silence the blasted thing, but only temporarily. Before long it would return, determined to drive us to the brink of insanity or beyond. All it would take to banish the bird was a battery or two, but that was something we just never seemed to have, at least not those little watch-like things that we believed they all required.

But today, one of the guys was errand-running and I suggested that perhaps he could take this tiny little battery with him and find a suitable, well-charged replacement. He was agreeable, especially since the woodpecker was presently pecking, so I opened the apartment, drug a chair to the appropriate spot, and proceeded to open the smoke detector. Much to my surprise, this one required two nine volt batteries, something we keep on hand for the microphone in the chapel. He offered to get two and walked away with the smoke alarm, leaving me standing in the chair … waiting.

I’ve never been one to wait patiently. I have to be doing something. Anything. If I’m in the doctor’s office, I read the posters and notices on the wall. If I’m in an airplane, waiting for takeoff, I’m reading the notices over the doors or thumbing through the air mall magazine or reading the book or magazine I’ve brought with me. I can’t not do anything. I don’t know how. So while I’m standing in the chair, kinda bouncing up and down, testing the strength of the springs – and fate – I take stock of my surroundings. There’s the ramp that’s still in place, the one we built and carpeted so my mother could get down into the sunken living room without having to negotiate the two steps that she had so lovingly included in the floor plan years before, when her balance was better and her knees and hips not so arthritic. There’s the secretary that I always told her I wanted when she died. Somehow it wasn’t as appealing as it once had been.

And then I saw them, those tiny little holes, all clustered together beside the decorative trim that graced the board that traveled up the wall beneath the treads of the stairway. They were little rosettes with little sprigs coming out from them, something I imagine her interior decorator had concocted and something with which, I’m very certain, she had been exceedingly pleased. And there, in a nice, neat grouping beside each piece of trim, were at least fifteen to twenty holes. Tiny holes – thumb tack sized holes – each one representing the placement of a Christmas stocking down the stairway each December. There was no fireplace so there was no mantel, but there were always stockings. Granted, they all looked exactly alike and were especially made just for her so the colors were right for the apartment (that meant beige and peach), and they never had anything in them on Christmas day, but our names had been on them and every year my father would precisely place them exactly where they needed to be, ascending the staircase.

I got down from my perch atop the chair and walked the length of the staircase. Yes, there were just enough “damaged” spots for the entire family, at least as entire as we had been at the time – one for my mother and one for my dad. There were places that had been occupied by my brother’s and his wife’s and, eventually, their two children. And there were places for mine and my husband’s and our two children as well. And suddenly I felt so sad. So sorry that life had ended so soon for them and had been so difficult during their last years—so sorry that there wouldn’t be anymore memories. That my grandsons would never know their great-grandparents and that their great-grandparents, especially my dad, would never know them.

And that there would never be a stocking for Wilson or one for Anderson that would grace the stairway, placed precisely in the right spot by my father with his exacting eye and steady hands. And in that moment, three years since my father’s death and four plus since my mother’s, I longed for things as they once were. Grief is a sneaky little devil, one that jumps out at the most unexpected times for the most unexpected reasons and quietly whispers “boo …” in your ear. I have always hated things that jump out and go “Boo!” even if it is done quietly. And then Nate returned with the smoke detector and I climbed back in the chair, ready to return it to its rightful place so life could move on again, void of a woodpecker and two people.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee.

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Tacos

Mon, 15 Oct 2012 14:21:00 GMT

My father was a fastidious eater, to say the least; not picky, just particular. Anything still recognizable in the fridge, although fuzzy and green, was fair game for consumption, as long as the mold-covered, top layer could be removed and discarded. Bread was equally treated, but scraped with a knife instead of a spoon. However, in everything there had to be balance – an equal bite of each vegetable and meat until the plate was empty. Should he run out of green beans before macaroni and cheese, he would look around the table for a half-finished plate and, after asking permission, would help himself to the portion of the meal that was no longer available on his.

In particular, he hated messy food. Being the consummate professional that he was (and on call 24/7), he never took off his dress shirt and tie until he put on his p.j.s – meaning supper (in my entire life, I never ate dinner) was eaten with a great deal of care since it would be incredibly wasteful to have to change shirts immediately thereafter. The tie would be neatly tucked inside the shirt or thrown over his shoulder, depending upon which afforded more protection, and there was always a napkin in his lap or, on the messiest of occasions, tucked under his chin and into his shirt collar.

His greatest enemy proved to be the simple, unassuming, hard-shelled taco. In the days of my youth, taco pile-on did not exist, so the only way to achieve the taste and texture of a taco was with a taco. Short of allowing it to become incredibly soggy with salsa and grease from the ground beef, there was no drip-proof way to consume one – yet still he tried. With great precision, he would layer the perfectly seasoned meat into the shell that my mother had warmed on a cookie sheet in the oven (thereby making it even more brittle than it already was). Next came the lettuce and chopped tomatoes followed by the shredded cheese, sour cream, and salsa. With great deliberation he would lift his creation to his mouth, being careful not to allow any liquid to drain from the other end, wrap his lips around the heavily laden shell, and bite … only to hear that oh too familiar sound of the taco shell cracking down the center of the spine. After that it could only go downhill.

One night he assembled his taco with his usual care, layering meat, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, sour cream, and salsa in their usual order. Then, so very gently, almost reverently, he laid the taco in the center of his plate, raised his fist in the air, and brought it down with a resounding crunch. Looking over at me with that mischievous smile that signified victory, he cleaned his hand with his napkin, reached for his fork, and began eating.

It was a metaphor of his entire life. If he was determined, there were no insurmountable obstacles. Nothing was impossible, albeit impractical, and no amount of negativity could deter him. Only when the forces of nature conspired against him did he surrender – and even then he fought with all he had.

We could all learn so many lessons from his battle with those confounded tacos. Never give up; there is almost always another way to attack a problem. Revel in your victories for they may be few and far between – but don’t dwell upon them to the point of arrogance. Just because life throws it at you does not mean you can’t duck – or throw it back with equal velocity. Even if something makes a mess or requires greater care and effort to accomplish, that does not mean it is not worth pursuing. And always keep plenty of napkins on hand. You never know when a moment of inspiration will require a little clean-up afterwards.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee.

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The Grown-Ups’ Table

Wed, 22 Aug 2012 14:20:00 GMT

When my son was little and we would gather at my in-laws’ house for Thanksgiving, he always wanted to sit at the “grown-ups’ table” and I could understand why. His dad and two uncles were constantly cutting up so, yes, the grown-ups’ table was a lot more fun than the kids’ table, and being the oldest of the grandchildren, he knew he’d be the first to move up when the time came. The only problem was, he never realized what had to happen for him to advance in the holiday table scheme of things—there had to be a vacant chair—and a vacant chair meant someone who was usually there wasn’t.

That day finally came when his great-grandmother suffered a massive stroke and died a week later. Granted, that was in May, but it didn’t take long for the holidays to approach and the vacant chair, once so eagerly awaited by my son, was now dreaded by everyone in the family. My in-laws, however, realized that the “always had been” couldn’t be the “always will be” – and they expanded the grown-ups’ table so everyone could be seated in the same place. No more kids’ table and no realization on the part of my child as to how his wish had actually been fulfilled.

And that brings me to the point of this article—to which many of you may be saying, “It’s about time.” When there’s to be a vacant chair at your next Thanksgiving meal or an emptiness at your next family Christmas because someone you loved dearly is no longer here, how in the world are you supposed to make it through the day? The key is to remember that there really isn’t anything you have to do. You’re not required to cook a seven course meal for your family or decorate the whole house and attend multiple Christmas parties. You aren’t required to follow the traditions of years past—unless that’s really what you want to do. Some people find great comfort in the stability of traditions while others dread them and the memories they bring. How each person handles their grief during the holidays is up to that person and what they find comforting. Being someone you’re not and forcing yourself to endure the season for the sake of others is never a good idea, and this is one time where “fake it till you make it” will only make matters worse. So what is a workable solution to surviving the holidays when that’s the last place you want to be? It would be nice if there was one definitive answer that worked for everyone … but we all know things are never that simple. There are, however, some rules of thumb that might make it just the slightest bit easier.

1. Give yourself permission to say no. You don’t have to do everything. As a matter of fact, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it—and you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.

2. Take one day at a time. It doesn’t help to borrow grief from the future or to project it there. Limit your thoughts about tomorrow to whether or not you wish to accept or extend an invitation—and remember, it’s all right to say no.

3. If at all possible, open your heart to others in pain. One woman whose son died several months before Christmas began baking cookies as the day approached. And she baked and she baked and she baked. And then she took them to people all over town that she knew were hurting in much the same way she was. At every house they talked and at every house she lost herself in the moment. The very act of helping others allowed her to experience the joy of giving at a time when she thought her world had ended. And with this simple act she received more comfort than she ever dreamed possible.

4. If the old traditions are too painful, start new ones. In an effort to satisfy her grandson after the death of her husband, one woman went ahead and put up her Christmas tree, but hung it upside down from the ceiling, symbolizing how she felt her world had been turned upside down—and when her grandson walked in and saw the tree of course the first question was, “Why?” So as the two of them lay under the tree, staring up at the ornaments hanging from its branches, they talked about her husband—his grandfather—about the good memories they had and how much they missed him. It became their “new tradition” and gave them the opportunity to face their loss—not ignore it or try to pretend it didn’t happen.

One of the most important things you can do during the upcoming holiday season is to take care of yourself, and the suggestions presented here will help you do just that as will finding someone with whom you can talk. Sharing your grief can lessen its burden and there are people who will understand your struggle and willingly listen. Remember—grief is painful but it is not eternal. There are just times that it seems that way.

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It’s My Party

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 14:15:00 GMT

In 1963, Lesley Gore sang, “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to …” and soared to number one on the pop, rhythm, and blues charts. Today the catch phrase, “It’s my party …” is often used to express someone’s considered opinion that they should have their own way about something. Unfortunately, when you apply that to funerals, it doesn’t always work.

All too often, the person for whom the funeral will be held expresses wishes before their death that they really want their family to follow. Sadly enough, they do not realize that the funeral, although about them and because of them, is not for them. Funerals are for the living and serve as only one of many steps toward accepting the loss of someone you love. To be emotionally held to wishes that do not meet a family’s needs can cause even greater problems years after a death occurs. On the one hand, the family may feel an obligation to follow the wishes of their loved one and may experience a great deal of guilt if they do not. On the other hand, the dying family member may believe they are acting in the best interests of everyone involved, but they truly may not understand what their family needs once they are gone.

Is it easier not to meet with other family members and friends at a visitation, not to stand or sit for hours greeting people who share your sense of loss? Is it difficult to attend a funeral or memorial service and feel the strong emotions that come at death? Of course it is—in the short term, but in the long run, that greeting and sharing of memories and that reflection on a life lived offers a time of strength and support that reminds those closest to the death that they are not alone. Their grief is shared by others who also need a time and a place to come together and remember, to celebrate the life that was. We are not solitary creatures, we do not live in a bubble where our lives are only affected by our circumstances. To quote the English poet John Donne, “No man is an island.” In this instance, what is true in life is also true in death.

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