Honoring Miss Edith

Nell's Mama is Miss Edith.  She died quietly in the night on Wednesday, May 20 after spending about 10 days at home with her family and caregivers.  Her stroke did not take away the essence of who she was, and she occasionally felt the need to direct her family from her bed (she could see her garden through the window and one day she told her son William to remove an invasive weed that was in her view -- not by breaking it off, not by pulling it, but by digging it out with a shovel). And she told them, now that it didn't matter any more, that before her stroke she had been taking advantage of the evening time after the caregivers went home to practice going upstairs (not allowed) and sometimes even took the car out. Just to show herself that she still could, and that no one else was the boss of her.

Nell will need to write a book about her Mama.

As the days went by, she gently withdrew from the conversation and slept.  On her very last afternoon, sunny and lovely, her caregiver suggested they take Miss Edith out on the deck. The family was stunned, as they were being so careful not to disrupt her breathing or cause any distress, but the caregiver wisely asked, "what is the worst that can happen?" They rolled her out to her beloved garden and Miss Edith slept in a reclining chair as they soaked up the sun together for an hour.

Nell and her brother and sister had time to organize things and prepare, while Miss Edith slept through those last days.  And before she faded into sleep, she told them what she wanted -- she wanted to be cremated, no funeral home, she wanted them to buy a beautiful Gulla basket for her ashes, and she wanted the basket to sit in front of the congregation while they celebrated a full church service. Mama had been active in her church for her whole life, and that was her second home.

The funeral was planned for Sunday afternoon, in the middle of Memorial Day weekend.  People came from Richmond and Baltimore and Charleston and all over South Carolina and of course from right down the street. Jon and I left home early on Sunday and got to Mama's house in time for lunch.

The family had spent many days on the deck, eating barbecue, sharing stories.  We were privileged to sit in the gazebo (built by Nell's father many years ago) and see all the cousins together.  The cousins are the same ages as our group of  cousins, and they reminded me of our kids -- beautiful in their youth, present for the occasion but also on their phones, hugging their parents, ready to engage with adults and answer all our dumb questions so politely.  Very sweet to see them at their Grammy's house, probably for the last time. We have known Nell's boys since they were very small and it is hard not to feel proud of them myself, although they are not my children. I know about their victories and challenges, more than they might imagine, and it made me happy to see them looking so good even at that sad occasion.

Mama's house is a story of its own, and it isn't my story to tell.  It is a large old Victorian house on the corner, surrounded by giant oak trees, with a much loved garden and many landscaping and architectural touches that were created by Miss Edith.  Inside are the artifacts of generations of Southern families.  Portraits, antiques, carpets, glassware.  A parlor that was never used but was always ready, a music room, a dining room.  All furnished carefully and lovingly. And now all soon to be dismantled and dispersed, some to family, some for sale. Miss Edith got a lifetime of joy out of putting all of that together, and now the parts will be reassembled in other settings.

I certainly learned more about Nell's beginnings. And it made me even more appreciative of the paths that she has chosen. She has traveled so far from South Carolina and her childhood home.

After lunch we went to the church down the street. Jon and I walked so we could see the houses and also stretch our legs for a minute.  It felt like we were walking through "To Kill a Mockingbird."  Not so dusty but very flat, with large trees and big old houses set back from the street. The town seems to be fading.

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, a one story brick building with vaulted ceilings inside.  We don't know much about the Episcopal traditions, but it did seem pretty close to Catholic.  Two of Mama's granddaughters played "Amazing Grace" on flutes, beautifully, and I felt tears coming.  The pews were full, the family processed in behind two service leaders in their white cassocks (not sure about vocabulary) and sat up in the front pews.

The program told us: "The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy.  It finds all its meaning in the resurrection.  Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised."  And it went on with further explanation, which helped us to understand that we would be observers more than mourners in this context.

Miss Edith's Gulla basket presided from the front.  The service leaders led us through prayers and hymns.  What I gleaned from the brief sermon was that the minister had not known Mama for very long, or if he did he couldn't think of very much to say.  She was a nice lady, and generous, with a sense of humor and a love of flowers.  Oy.  Any person in that room would have been able to add to the picture that he only lightly sketched for us.  But maybe Miss Edith told him not to get into it.

There was Holy Communion and everyone except the Hirsch family and me and Jon and the man sitting next to us went up for the ritual.

While the rest of us went back to the house, the family buried Miss Edith's ashes in her basket, in a hole at the cemetery that her son and son-in-law had dug the day before.  And, although it was not their tradition, at Edie's suggestion they each took a shovel full of dirt and refilled the hole.  This makes me happy, that they had a time to do one last thing for their Mama, without the rest of us.

The church ladies had made all the food and set up the reception, taking over Mama's kitchen and dining room and deck.  They were ready for the mourners, poised to pour the iced tea, moving the empty dishes away and putting out more and more food.  The crustless curried chicken salad sandwiches were delicious.  The Hirsch boys posted themselves next to the fried chicken.  Nell and her siblings graciously greeted everyone -- I don't think any of them got a bite to eat.

We said goodbye at about 4:30, after five hours of a crash course in Southern hospitality and Episcopalian ritual.  The trip home was as uneventful as the morning ride, and we got home by 11 PM.  As Nancy said by text, "800 miles of driving plus a funeral and visiting back at the house, all between getting up in the morning and going to sleep at night." It was a very good day. As I told Nell in a different text, Jon and I had trained for this marathon drive over the winter, and our skills were honed.

Rest peacefully, Miss Edith.  Your family took care of it all, just as you asked.