Beginnings and Endings

I have two friends who are sisters. Their mother passed away this morning. She had not been well for several weeks, and it was inevitable, but when you have your mama living for 98 years, you just get to thinking maybe she'll stick around.

It made me realize that my grandmother passed away on this same date 27 years ago. As you may have read at other times, we buried her on her 84th birthday, which she would have loved.

I took note too, that my in-laws were married in 1937 on this date. They knocked on the preacher's door and he married them on the  porch in his bare feet.

I wonder how many babies were born today? And how many more folks passed on to the rest of their lives on this very day? 

Or will, before the day is ended.

It could be you, it could be me.

May first: a day of beginnings and endings.

Another Goodbye

The older I get, the more goodbyes there seem to be. 

My elders, folks that still make me a child (okay, in my mind only), are slipping away.

The other day, someone who had been very close to me all through my childhood passed away. I knew she'd been quite ill for some months, diagnosed, I believe, with kidney cancer. She declined treatment from the very beginning, being as she was 94 when diagnosed and felt it foolish to make herself sick and suffer from a treatment that in no way would enhance her life and certainly not prolong it. 

Eventually, of course, she began the decline and died last week at the age of 96. 

She was a huge part of my childhood. She camped with us a lot, hunting and fishing with the best of them. She was a real outdoors person, and after she retired stayed in blue jeans and shirts unless it was Sunday.

She was the school truant officer back in the day. Today, to be more politically correct, I guess, they are called social workers. Think about it: you are laying outta school; you get caught. Who are you most concerned about visiting you, a truant officer or a social worker?  Pffffft.

Anyway, when I was very small she would buy me things if she saw I liked them. I still have a small plastic elf that sits on my mantel every Christmas and a five inch, cast iron, pot bellied stove she found for me after searching everywhere, because I'd fallen in love with the one she had at her house. 

She had funny stories about stuff I said, just like my parents did.

I called her "Meanie" and she called me "Meanie". The reason is now lost to time. 

When I quit school in the third grade (look it up, I blogged about it a long time ago), she was the truant officer and had to visit our home. 

I wasn't nervous, she visited our home a lot. It was a little strange because she was in her school clothes; a skirt, blouse, hose and loafers, instead of her weekend clothes, blue jeans. Plus, Mother and Daddy left the room for her to talk to me alone.

I have  no memory of what was said, or what she did. But I bet she felt just as helpless as all  the other adults I was driving crazy over this.

No one should be shocked when a 96 year old person dies.

Yet, I was, sorta. I mean, if someone has been around all your life and you are 61 years old, shouldn't they stay around the rest of the time? I know the logical answer.

I've felt rather sad for a few days.

I  haven't really seen her much in years - only if I ran into her somewhere - and not at all in the past two or three.

But I knew she was there.

And now, she's not.

Speaking of Dogs...

I couldn't help but think of this story while grieving over Molly, our dog.

This story is included in a book I wrote, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree". Keep in mind it's written in the language of Appalachia, but you won't struggle if you just go with the flow.

The conversation takes place between Missouri and her sister, Kizzie. They are in their late eighties. The scene takes place about 35 years ago.

Kizzie shook her head, grinning. “Do you remember when the Reverend James Folsom got called up to the Clemmons’ household? Old man Clemmons sent word and told him to git thar quick, so the reverend got in his old truck and flew up thar to see what the matter was. Old man Clemmons met him thar on the front porch and told Preacher Folsom that Mizriz Clemmons’ dog had died two days ago, and she had him laid out in the parlor on the couch, waitin’ fer the Lord to raise him up.”

          “Land sakes! I don’t recall hearin’ about this, Kizzie. What in the world did Preacher Folsom do?” Missouri sounded shocked.

          “Well sir, he took hisself a deep breath and entered thur house. Thar laid that old dog with a blanket and a sheet up to his nose, just like he’s in a hospital or suhum. Preacher Folsom says, ‘Mizriz Clemmons, I understand yur dog died.’ And she says, ‘No, God told me He was gonner raise him up, and I’m a’waitin’.” Kizzie shook her head. “Preacher Folsom ast her would it be all right with her if he called somebody to check the dog to see if he was dead, and she said that would be perfectly all right with her.

          “So, Preacher Folsom, he gits on his two way radio and calls the EMT’s and tells old Roam Patterson to git thar quick with a shovel and a stethy-scope. Roam says ‘I beg yur pardon?’ and the preacher says ‘You heared me and make it snappy!’ Here comes Roam in the fire truck with the lights a’flashin’ and the si-reen a’blarin’, screamin’ up the hill, and comin’ to a screechin’ halt in front of the house. He gits outta that truck in a hurry.  Preacher Folsom meets him at the door, explainin’ the situation quick like. Roam approaches the couch, and pulls the covers back, gentle like, looks in the dogs eyes, and puts the stethy-scope on the dogs chest and listens. Then he slowly shakes his head and says to Mizriz Clemmons ‘I shore am sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but that dog is dead.’”

          “Oh, lord, what did she do then?” Missouri asked.

          “She said okay, they’d have to bury him. So, she sends all the men folk out in the yard to find a decent burial place. They pick a spot under a bloomin’ Lilac bush. Preacher Folsom told Roam to git the shovel and start diggin’. Just as they had a hole big enough, Mizriz Clemmons made ‘em stop and she run back in the house and got this beautiful quilt to wrap up the dog. Preacher Folsom says ‘But that’s a good quilt!’ and Mizriz Clemmons, she says, ‘And that was a good dog.’

          “They bury that dog in the three hundurd dollar quilt, and then Mizriz Clemmons turns to the preacher, and ast him to say a few words over the grave. He did.” Kizzie finished with a satisfied look on her face.

          “Reckon what Mizriz Clemmons did after that?” Missouri wondered.

          “Well, she went out and got herself another dog, what else?”

          What else, indeed.

                                                    *********

Saying Good-Bye to Molly

Molly Dog had a big job to do today.

She was in the business of dying.

She had a few rough days previously, but I guess one is never prepared.

Many years ago, when we were told to come get her, Husband hurried to where she was. He opened the truck door and she turned her head and looked.

She came flying through the meadow, went slap dab through the middle of the creek, soared into the truck seat, skidded across and jammed herself up next to Husband as close as she could get with her head on his shoulder.

I reckon we had us a dog at that point.

She was absolutely beautiful. Every time I walked her, some fella, usually in a pick up truck, would come to a screeching halt to admire her. Young or old, they loved her bull doggy stance, her intense stare coming out of her half-white, half-black face.

That stubby tail never wagged for anyone until she knew you were safe to be around her family.

And her family included our crazy cats. She considered them hers. Eli especially will miss her, since she's been there all his life.

                                                                     Eli and Molly                                                
Once, we had the great idea to take three cats to the vet all at one time. Molly watched and listened to their carrying on. When we started loading them up, she practically pushed Daughter down to get to the car. She hopped in the back seat and refused to budge.

Nobody was going anywhere with all her babies.

So Daughter rode in the back seat between a hundred and ten pound bull dog and two cat carriers.

Molly tried to save Husband from a bear. And although she couldn't get outside, she really did save him, because her barking alerted him to something going on he couldn't see. The bear was strolling down the driveway headed straight for him, but was aggravated by Molly barking on the porch, so it turned around and went the other way.  Meanwhile, Molly was frantically racing back and forth from front door to back trying to get out of the house. Other than that episode, she hated the smell of a bear and would get back in the house as quickly as possible.

When she was young she and Daughter would play chase. It usually ended up with  Daughter in the back of the truck yelling for help.

This morning our bouncy, barky, fun loving dog couldn't stand up. Her breathing was labored.

I thought she would die before the day ended. But finally we called the vet, not wanting a night to pass with her in that shape.

The vet came, checked her, said, "It's time. She's never going to get back up."

Daughter got in the floor by her and I sat on a low stool on the other side.

Molly put her head in Daughter's lap.

Those eyes were trusting, loving us until the end.

Husband took to the woods to dig a grave and grieve in private.

But before he went, he laid down in the floor by Molly and stroked her head and told her all sorts of secrets that were just between the two of them.

She had earned a white muzzle and knobby joints.

She was a good girl and we loved her so.

And she loved us right back.

Goodbye, old girl. We will miss you.