Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Visitation at the Funeral Parlor


(Continued from last Tuesday . . . )

Dad, Mom, my little brother, and I attended Grandpa’s visitation at McGulley’s Funeral Parlor. A large crowd of milling women and men packed the main room and the hallway.
            Grandpa seemed to be taking a nap when I saw him in the casket. When I tried to nudge him, Mom whispered, “He won’t wake up, Dodo, your grandpa’s with God now.”
            “That’s Grandpa!” I insisted. “Look at him!”
            “This just looks like Grandpa. He’s in heaven.”
            Seeing my confusion, Mom reminded me of the black snake that lived in a hole behind our chicken coop. “Remember how we found his skin? How he’d shed it and left it behind for us to find?”
            I did remember. I remembered how the snake’s paper-thin skin had stirred in the breeze when I’d held it up to the light. I remembered that the skin had the snake’s shape but it wasn’t him any longer. He’d scooted out of it.


Empty skin of a Grass Snake.

            “This is just like that. Grandpa’s in heaven now. This is just the skin he left behind.”
            “It looks just like him,” I said, content.            
            We moved aside so the next mourners could view Grandpa’s body. For what seemed a long time, we stood in the receiving line. When I needed to go to the bathroom. Mom told me how to get there. I cautiously wove my way through the crush of people. I’d tug at a trousered leg or a dress skirt and look up and say, “Excuse me please.”
            Then the man or woman or the group of mourners would abruptly cease their talking, look down at me, and move aside so I could slip between them. Slowly I moved through a jungle of legs.
            Pushing open the restroom door, I saw a young woman with a baby. Her blouse was pushed aside and she was holding the baby against her chest.  I stood slack-jawed, enthralled.



Zanzibari woman breastfeeding.

            “Hello,” she said.
            “What are you doing?” I asked.
            “Feeding Howard.”
            “What are you feeding him?”
            “Milk.”
            “He’s drinking milk? From your chest?” The news astounded me.
            “Yes. My body makes it for him. He sucks it from my breast.”
            I stood silent. Awestruck.
            She smiled at me and asked if I’d like to touch the baby. I hesitantly stepped forward and gently touched his downy head. She and Howard reminded me of the picture in Mom’s missal of Mary and the Baby Jesus.


Madonna and Child by Filippo Lippi.


            I excused myself, used the toilet, and washed my hands. Then, remembering my manners, I said, “It’s been nice meeting you and Howard. He’s a good baby.”
            When she smiled again, I confided, “That’s not my grandpa in there. He’s with God.”
            “I’m glad to know that.”
            “That’s just his snake skin,” I assured her as I pushed open the door.
            Later I told Mom what had happened. “And that baby was sucking milk,” I said. “From her chest! Did you do that with me?”
            Mom said she hadn’t because I’d stayed in the hospital with asthma. “You were allergic to my milk,” she said. “But I did nurse your little brother for a few days. You just don’t remember.”
            Then she said words I’ve never forgotten. Words that have guided my response to the many changes and happenings in my life.
            “Anna Dolores, I want you to remember that woman and her baby . . . “
            “His name’s Howard.”
            “Well, I want you to remember them. Remember what you learned tonight.”
            “What’s that, Mama?”
            “That out of death comes life.”
            I didn't know what she meant.
            “You’re sad that Grandpa’s dead. But now you’re happy that you met Howard and his mama. Good can come out of everything, even death. Remember that.”
            A few days later, I needed to hold on to Mom’s words, but that’s the story for next Tuesday. I hope to see you then.
                                                                        (Continued next Tuesday . . . )

Both photographs from Wikipedia.

55 comments:

  1. What a profound, lovely, life filled lesson! Your mom was a very wise woman, and you an unusually perceptive little girl to have hung onto that nugget all these years. I love the way you set the scene for us, taking us into a little girl's world and seeing it through her eyes. Anziously awaiting Tuesday's post!

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    1. Dear Shelly, she truly was wise and the young woman I met when I almost seven was extraordinarily kind to me. Peace.

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  2. The way you've wrapped this together amazes me--so well done. When I got to this line, it gave me chills because of the previous section: “That’s not my grandpa in there. He’s with God.”
    That was so wise of your mother to refer to the snake skin. I'll never forget that--no wonder she had such a wise daughter!

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    1. Dear Elisa, I meant to tell the story of that snake and its frequent visits to the chicken coop to eat the eggs, but somehow I forgot to do so in a previous posting! Peace.

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  3. I have goosebumps from this story. I love the kindness of your mother and the woman nursing her baby. I love that they both were open and patient with a young girl and will hold those thoughts with me as I encounter children in my life, hoping to have them remember kindness and lessons from an adult.

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    1. Dear Kari, thank you for these words because they remind me to be respectful and kind when I am with children. Peace.

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  4. This is a wonderful telling of a valuable story with invaluable lessons. What an amazing opportunity for you, as a child, to see so many aspects of life in one day. Quite wonderful.

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    1. Dear Teresa, yes, all in one days. It was a treasure-trove of a day! Peace.

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  5. I agree with the others that this is a wonderful story, showing the wisdom of your mom and the mom of the little baby. Such an important day in your life. Thanks for expressing it so well.

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    1. Dear Deanna, those words Mom said about "out of death comes life" somehow impressed me deeply. Maybe it was the scene or hearing them so close to the loss of Grandpa Ready. I don't know, but I quoted them just as I remember them. Peace.

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  6. I had to giggle at you telling her--that's just his snake skin. ;)

    Your mother told you some profound things to remember. So true!!

    I had a grandpa who died when I was around 4 or 5 and remember realizing he wasn't just sleeping and it wasn't him at all anymore...and having that knowledge that there was just a shell left. I remember feeling there was no purpose to visiting graves because they weren't there anymore anyways. Was more for the living to remember them, if anything. That never has left me, either.

    You write so very well and bring us right back there with you. Always love your stories, my friend! :):)

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    1. Dear Rita, yes, out of the mouths of babes! Thank you, Rita, for your kind words about my storytelling. Peace.

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  7. Now I learn that probably much of your wisdom came from your mother. Two valuable life lessons, the snake skin and then the baby. You describe those and also your trip through masses of grownup legs on your way to the bathroom so incredibly well. And your politeness. You are such a wonderful writer, I want the whole world to read your stories.

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    1. Dear Inger, oh, wouldn't have the whole world for an audience be wonderful! But I'd settle for having those who love cats and believe in social justice and know that kindness is always possible. Peace.

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  8. I remember that when I was about the same age as you were in this story, I went to a funeral parlor with my parents to show our respects to the family of the departed. It was the first time that I ever saw a dead person. No one explained anything to me, I have been to many since, but what I remember is that first time, what the room looked like, what the man looked like in the casket and how I felt.

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    1. Dear Arleen, those memories from our early years when they are surrounded by new experiences and sights and sounds stay with us. I so remember moving through that forest of legs and being able to see nothing in front of me or behind. Peace.

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  9. What a lovely, amazing story -- and what an insightful woman your mother was to come up with the concept you could understand about snakeskin and your Grandpa's body and linking your meeting Howard and his mother with the endless cycle of life and death! A very lovely, moving post, Dee!

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    1. Dear Kathy, mom truly was insightful to come up with that snakeskin analogy. I was so blessed in my parents. Peace.

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  10. What wonderful words your mother shared and I'm sure that did stay with you. Isn't it funny how you knew it was important, but you couldn't have had the maturity to even know what that meant at the time. I remember my mother telling in me in very strong terms that I was NOT to cry at my great-grandmother's funeral because "we want everyone to know we're happy she's with jesus." I sat there trying so hard not to cry...I've never forgotten that, and also never understood how she could have been so disconnected from the emotion of the experience. A lot of nonsense gets said to children in times of loss, and I'm actually very impressed with your mother's sensitivity towards you. I think you had a very complex childhood. I'm so glad you share the stories with us. They add up to quite a varied pattern, and give each subsequent story so much context! I'll look forward to the next installment, Dee. Blessings, Debra

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    1. Dear Debra, yes, a lot of nonsense gets says to children in times of loss and at other times also. Sometimes we adults just forget to reflect on our own childhoods and how words spoken at the time became guideposts that determined our life in a helpful or non-helpful way.

      For myself I've had to let go of some things that mom said to me that became guideposts. In the beginning they worked well for me, but as I matured, holding on to them caused difficulties.

      For instance: "tough it out." I did that for so much of my life and finally a friend helped me realize that during a very bad asthma attack in 2002, I toughed it out for so long that I almost died! And yet, when mom gave me that advice, it truly was what I needed at the time. It's knowing when to let go that's eluded me! Peace.

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  11. Hi Dee, What a wonderful storyteller you are. I love the way you write. You are your Mother's wise and kind child.

    Thank you for sharing your life stories.
    Be well, be happy :)

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    1. Dear Pam, thank you for your kind words. I'd like to think that I tell stories as well as you take photographs! Peace.

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  12. What a beautiful story, so well written, Dee. I can see you looking at your grandfather, and touching the child's head. Thank you for sharing this profound moment of your life. You ARE a good writer, and I'm so glad to have found you.

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    1. Dear DJan, it was a profound moment. It must have stayed with me because I think all my senses were touched that night: I could smell the flowers and all the perfume and touch all those people as well as my grandfather and the baby. I heard and saw and felt so much. Peace.

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  13. Dee, what a touching story of such a sad time for you. I am struck by your mother's tenderness and making death and new life, all at the same time, such a "teaching moment". The story of the snakeskin is really quite a fitting way to describe death to a child - or, for that matter, an adult.

    How beautifully you take us through the pathway of legs to the restroom. I can imagine myself, just so high, doing the same thing. Until next Tuesday, then.

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    1. Dear Penny, thank you for your kind words. I so admire the lyricism of your postings that I'm really pleased and gratified when you say this about mine. Peace.

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  14. Dee, this is an immensely touching and perceptive account of an important day in your life, when you learned lessons that have stayed with you ever since. You express your childhood experience and emotions so very well that I was with you every step of the way.

    It also gives me as a non-American a fascinating glimpse into a custom (funeral parlour visitation) which has never been part of my own experience, other than as a totally private family affair. We may share a language, but our experiences and cultures have real differences.

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    1. Dear Perpetua, I never realized that a visitation at a funeral parlor (parlour) wasn't part of the English tradition. I wonder just how many other countries do this. And here in the United States there are probably spiritual traditions and customs for many people that are different from what I wrote about. I hope you're enjoying your cottage in France! Peace.

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  15. Dear Dee, visitations/viewings are not part of my experience either. I read this post full of wonder, and awe at the wonderful words your mother had for you at a time when in many cases her own loss would have been paramount. A wise woman whose teachings are surely part of the amazing woman we are getting to know. Thank you so much for this (and every) post.

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    1. Dear EC, thank you for your comment because for the first time I've considered what Mom must have been feeling. Truthfully, never before did I consider that.
      She and Grandpa Ready were close. He valued and appreciated her, whereas his wife--Grandma Ready--saw nothing good about my mom.

      Grandpa Ready wanted to help Mom extricate his older son--my dad--from his mother, my grandmother. But Dad was never able to let go of wanting her approval, an approval she gave grudgingly, if at all, to any of us. She certainly never approved of Mom.

      So you'll helped me see that Mom must have felt deep sorrow for the loss of an ally and a surrogate father. (Her own father had died in 1936, a month before I was born.) Thank you, EC. Peace.

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  16. Hello Dee, I was shocked when living in the U.S. to see a person laying in an open coffin. We don't do this over here. But I know what you mean about looking like they are asleep. He are so beautiful presented and are a good memory for the future. As a child, my grandfather died also. I loved him so much, but children were not allowed at funerals in those days. I grieved over my loss of him for years. No one said to me he was happy in heaven, which I think may have helped. I felt everyone was lying to me. I used to sit at the window watching along the dirt road outside our farm, waiting for Granddad to come on the bus. He never came and I still remember that. I look forward to meeting both of my grandparents again in Heaven. I feel sorry for anyone who doesn't have that hope.

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    1. Dear Crystal, I find your story about your grandfather's death and your waiting for his return so touching. Thank you for sharing it. Peace.

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  17. Meeting Howard and his mother was meant to be. Such a beautiful story.

    Love,
    Janie

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    1. Dear Janie, I feel as you do--meeting Howard and his mother "was meant to be."
      Peace.

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  18. You really are a wonderful writer and story teller. I was right with you on your discoveries that day.
    I love how your mother could put those two events into something a child could relate to and understand. Wise woman.

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    1. Dear Arkansas Patti, thank you for your words of praise. My mother, I think, was indeed a wise woman. She has always been a blessing in my life. Peace.

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  19. What a beautifully told and touching memory you shared with us! Thank you.

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    1. Dear Stephanie, thank you for your kind words. The memory truly is dear to me. Peace.

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  20. I don't know what to say, except wonderful. I've caught up and can only say how much I admire you for your ability to evoke a memory.

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  21. Dear Friko, thank you for your praise of my writing. And please do know that I've been thinking of you and your Beloved and Benno ever since I read your blog and learned of his death. He was a blessing in your life and I'm sure that comforts you. Peace.

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  22. Dee, I love the analogy of the snake's skin - I'd never heard one like that, it's a great one and would have been very helpful when explaining death to my children when they were young. That's a vivid point you make about life coming from death, and I can't wait for next week's!

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  23. Dear Kim, Mom made that point to me more than once--but it's this first time at the funeral parlor that I remember it because, I suppose, of the circumstances. Both she and my brother had an awe-inspiring ability to think up analogies, comparisons, on the spur of the moment. Peace.

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  24. I am fond of watching(not in a weird way!)nursing mothers. There is often a peacefulness & wonder that is catchy.

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  25. Dear Mary, i so agree with you. I attended the Elton John musical "Aida" last night, which was staged and presented by the Starlight Theater in Kansas City, Missouri. A friend gave me the gift of a ticket. And as we left the concert hall, I saw a young couple with a baby. The man was tenderly holding the baby against his broad chest while the woman got out a diaper to hold against her breast. She was reaching for the baby as I walked by. And when I looked back from the door out to the parking area, the baby was nursing. And yes, on both their faces--both the Mom and the Dad--was an expression of wonder and deep serenity. Peace.

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  26. Thank you for stopping by, Dee.

    Peace be with you.

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    1. Dear Pam, I'm always awed by your photographs when I stop by your blog and I'm always gratified when you stop by mine. Thank you. Peace.

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  27. That was a wise analogy your mother gave you. I never thought about snake skin as a way of explaining death to my children.

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    1. Dear Melynda, I have no idea where Mom got that idea except we did have this big--6 foot long--black snake who ate the eggs in the chicken coop and scared the hens. Mom once found him there and used a shovel to get him off the eggs and out of the hen house, but he was nothing if not persistent. We lost a lot of eggs to him. Peace.

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  28. I'm thrilled to have started with your first post and read all the way to the present.
    I remember so many of your stories, Dee. You shared so much of your life with me and your other friends in Minnesota. It's wonderful to recall those times when reading your posts.

    I hope your writing is perking along, and your health is bright. I look forward to your next installment.
    Blessings Always, Sandy

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    1. Dear Sandy, wow! you read all those postings! That's friendship. As to the writing, I'm looking for publishers/editors to whom I can send queries for two children's books and one book of photographs and meditations. We'll see. Peace.

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  29. Your mom seemed to ahve a way to get you to understand abstract concepts in a concrete way

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    1. Dear Heidrun, yes, mom had a way of explaining things that always helped me understand. Peace.

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