Cleansing

I have read there are several stages of grief.  I believe that.  I’m not sure if I’ve gone through all of them.  Just when I think I’m ready to move on with my life, I see a red bird.  Just when I’ve grown accustomed to being totally alone, I see him peek around the corner of the bedroom door, just to see if I’m still there in my chair.  When I read a post on Facebook that I want to share, I remember that I can’t tell him.  And when I hear of a friend passing or the birth of a new child, I realize he isn’t there to share those precious memories or rejoice for the new life.    It wasn't all without tears, petty disagreements, big disagreements, and hurtful misunderstandings.  Far from it.  But, in the big scheme of things, we pouted, but we never gave up on each other.   

Putting my life back together after so many years is almost an impossible task.  I laugh, I joke, I talk to people, but my mind no longer focuses on the “now”.  I wonder about the “what if’s” and the "it is what it is."    I berate myself for not doing enough to overcome this immense sadness.  I hate myself for things I have said, that can never be unsaid.  I remember the times of my selfishness and pious thoughts.  I’m angry that the times we waited for, will never come and I want to say, “I told you so!”  "Why, why?"   

Things that weren't said, are just as important as things said.  It breaks my heart that we didn’t get the chance to say our sweet way we always told each other, even if just to go to the grocery store.  “If I don’t come back, I love you.”   We said it in jest, but now, I know just how much it really means to have spoken those words to each other.  It happened so fast.  Our quick parting words, “see you later” haunt me.   Oh God, how I miss him. 

I need a cleansing of my spirit and soul.  I need to know it's ok to cry, but I need peace and joy and laughter.  I need to move away from the past and look to the future.   I need to know it’s ok to be sad or mad.  I need a purpose for living.  I long for the desire to enjoy life.  I need to know he's ok,  peaceful and happy, and I need strength and determination to realign my thoughts for a meaningful life and happiness again,  wherever I may be.  I don't ask for pity, I ask for healing of mind and body.    It will take time.

TENT MEETINGS, GOAT MAN AND GYPSIES

Growing up in my house, attending the church was not optional.   It was a given.  No matter how much I fussed, cried, or feigned sickness or injury, I was going to Sunday School and church right up until I got way bigger than my little Momma.  Then, I had a little leverage, but not much.  Daddy didn’t go much to morning services but occasionally he went to the evening services.  He was a good man; he just didn’t go with us to church so he and Uncle Aubrey went off to fish.  And he didn’t tolerate me not going with Momma.  I still don’t understand that, but I sure never asked.

From time to time, Big Momma would see in the Forest Blade about a tent meeting coming up, and she and Momma hauled me off with them to get a little extra religion.   I don’t remember the denomination of any we ever attended, but what I do remember is, the weather would always be hot and sticky.   I don’t sit still very well as an adult, so you can just imagine how miserable this little girl was sitting on the folding chair, under a steaming tent, with only a funeral home fan to swat the gnats and mosquitoes.  How Big Momma could sit there and get any religion in her corset and voile dress, stockings and white shoes is beyond me.  The meetings would last for hours, with singing, prayers and preaching and more singing and prayers and Jesus calling the sinners home.  I remember one of these meetings on the south of town where the tent sat in a cleared grassy area, and the cars parked all around the tent.   I never hear of tent meetings anymore….  I guess we don’t need extra religion now.   

The old man who traveled through town with his Billy goats pulling his wagon with pots and pans clanging, was a novelty that everybody in town talked about, passing the word from one to the other, and folks would get in their cars to take a ride just outside town where the old man would be camped.  He never seemed to mind the attention, and neither did the goats.  You could smell the sight long before you could see him.   He traveled all over the eastern seaboard, but made his home place in Jeffersonville, Ga. 

Sometimes, there would be a band of gypsies camping outside town.  They didn’t like for you to get too close to their camps where they played music, banged tambourines, and danced, but I always wanted to talk to them to see where they were going, and why.  Momma didn’t let me go see them, but I usually heard about them being in town.  Sometimes, I would catch sight of some of the women with brightly colored skirts and lots of dangling bracelets and big loop earrings.   Their hair would be dark and long, streaming down their backs and sometimes they would have kerchiefs on them to tie back the long hair.  I thought they were beautiful when I did see them.   I often wondered why their children didn’t have to go to school.   They camped for a day or two and moved on.  Some people said they were thieves.  I’ve often wondered why they said that.   I’m sure there must have been honest gypsies. 

Sometimes, the local paper would advertise that there was going to be a “sing” at a local country church.  They were very popular, always with a crowd of hardy music loving Christians, who would listen to the quartets, soloists, and duets from popular gospel singing groups that came from all over the state. Gospel music was a staple for the old timers.  Sometimes, these “sings” could go on all night, or at least till the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t remember ever going to many and when I did, they fell into the same category for me as the tent meetings.  Sitting still wasn’t then, and still isn’t, my forte. 

     

SITTING UP WITH THE DEAD

         

I haven’t mentioned my Big Daddy Scott too many times in my memories.  That’s because he passed away when I was seven years old.  He was only 71, but to me, he seemed like a very old man, as did most people over the age of 50.   Now, being very old has graduated to a whole new level. 

What I remember most about Big Daddy was that he was always happy or appeared to be.  He played games inside the house with us children, and Big Momma sat in her wooden rocker next the window and crocheted.   When it was cold, we would laugh and have fun with a stupid game we called “hide the comb”.  That’s all the game was about.  Hiding a comb.  But we did it with such enthusiasm in that one little bedroom which had a small black potbellied, coal fired stove.   After several rounds of the game, Tommie and I would sometimes spend the night and sleep in the extra bed in their room which was piled high with feather mattresses.   On the mantle stood a large mantle clock that ticked and ticked so loud it made me crouch under the covers to keep from hearing it. 

The front bedroom was frigid with no heat that I remember, except maybe a fireplace, so it was always cold.   It was seldom used.  I remember Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on the front porch with the plant stands loaded with pots of ferns and various plants, rocking and watching.  The dirt road was dusty in front of the house and we children always liked to try to catch a ride on the back of the big yellow road scraper, which got us in heaps of trouble with Biggie, saying we were going to get killed.   I think we proved her wrong, thank the Lord.

In April, 1945, I remember coming home to a somber, quiet house.  Mother was next door where Big Momma and Big Daddy lived and soon she came over and told me that Big Daddy had died.  She said he had a blood clot in his leg.  At seven years, I guess children don’t have much of a handle on what death means and it intrigued me that people were coming and going and bringing food, and saying “bless your heart” and “he’s in a better place” and all the kind of things that are said to family when someone dies. 

The next evening, Mom took me over and the cold bedroom door was opened to the hall and living room and there were folding chairs lining the room.   A big casket was there in the center and there was Big Daddy looking fine, in his best suit with that sweet, kind expression on his face that was always present.  It was dark, and there wasn’t much light.  Probably a single bulb hanging from the ceiling like the rest of the house, but people would come and sit and stay for long periods of time.  Then another “crew” of people would come in and take over.  There was always someone there.  Day and night.  Sitting with Big Daddy.   

The tradition of sitting with the dead has pretty much been eliminated now due to the modern conveniences and beautiful funeral homes.  People still go and visit with the families and pay their respects, both at home and at the funeral home.  But as I think of this time now, I remember this time worn tradition with a lot more reverence.