There is never an occasion when I drive up Ochs Highway without thinking about a little story my mother told me many times across all the years.
Long ago, the pretty two-story house on the righthand side of the road was the home of the principal at St. Elmo School, and one day she passed away. As a mark of respect, the children from the elementary school--my mother and all her peers--lined up and marched single-file, seven blocks up Alabama Avenue to the late principal's home. There she lay in peaceful repose--in her bed, wearing a white gown--and all the children reverently filed past her, paying their respects. And then they marched right back down Alabama Avenue to the school, and life went on.
~~~~~
It was a whole different universe when those little pupils made the pilgrimage up the road to honor their head of school, and my mother never seemed worse for the wear. In fact, Margaret always told the story with a particular equanimity about the this rite of mourning from a time gone by; I'd like to think this was the beginning of her lifelong reverence for most everything involving mortality.
Growing up, we were always regulars driving through Forest Hills Cemetery, reserving a special slowdown and collective reverential look-to-the-left for the moment we passed where our loved ones lie on that side of the road. She read the print right off the obituary page of the newspaper, kept Hallmark busy producing sympathy cards, and it was very important for her to get to the funeral home any time anyone she knew had died ("I'm going by to sign the book"). From time to time over 30 or so years, she casually mentioned in conversation that, while she was out running errands, she had dropped by the funeral home to "talk about my plans". Like Delta, Margaret was ready.
Tomorrow marks a decade since my mother left us, and the ten years that have come and gone have been ones which began with great sadness but, over the course of time, have worked their way into a profound richness and appreciation for Margaret, and the whole journey of life as a wonderment.
As she headed into her 80s, my mother surprisingly revealed that she would be leaving this world with only one regret: She would not get to see William and Annabelle grown. At the time, both children were safely headquartered at Morris Brandon Elementary, and contemplating their adult versions in the vast, far distant future was a nebulous and scary thought for me.
But, here we are, sitting in that great big tomorrow, with William 22 years old and set to graduate from UT in December (the place she always wanted him to be), and Annabelle will turn 21 in only 11 days. In the last ten years, my children have slowly changed into grown-ups at the exact same time my sadness has steadily moved onwards to reach wonder about how life is such an intriguing journey, filled with lovely nuances, grand adventures and, above all else, a myriad of relationships all along the way.
I really, really hope Margaret would be pleased with William and Annabelle and the big people they are becoming. And I would like to think she could see some reflection of herself and all the family members she held so dear in each of my children.
I am ever thankful for a mother who had a cordial sort of relationship with mortality, her outstanding record of remembering people who left this life, and the front row seat I had for so long. We remember her always, particularly on drives through Forest Hills, with a slow roll and a left-facing gaze of adoration, this time especially for her.
Growing up, we were always regulars driving through Forest Hills Cemetery, reserving a special slowdown and collective reverential look-to-the-left for the moment we passed where our loved ones lie on that side of the road. She read the print right off the obituary page of the newspaper, kept Hallmark busy producing sympathy cards, and it was very important for her to get to the funeral home any time anyone she knew had died ("I'm going by to sign the book"). From time to time over 30 or so years, she casually mentioned in conversation that, while she was out running errands, she had dropped by the funeral home to "talk about my plans". Like Delta, Margaret was ready.
Tomorrow marks a decade since my mother left us, and the ten years that have come and gone have been ones which began with great sadness but, over the course of time, have worked their way into a profound richness and appreciation for Margaret, and the whole journey of life as a wonderment.
As she headed into her 80s, my mother surprisingly revealed that she would be leaving this world with only one regret: She would not get to see William and Annabelle grown. At the time, both children were safely headquartered at Morris Brandon Elementary, and contemplating their adult versions in the vast, far distant future was a nebulous and scary thought for me.
But, here we are, sitting in that great big tomorrow, with William 22 years old and set to graduate from UT in December (the place she always wanted him to be), and Annabelle will turn 21 in only 11 days. In the last ten years, my children have slowly changed into grown-ups at the exact same time my sadness has steadily moved onwards to reach wonder about how life is such an intriguing journey, filled with lovely nuances, grand adventures and, above all else, a myriad of relationships all along the way.
I really, really hope Margaret would be pleased with William and Annabelle and the big people they are becoming. And I would like to think she could see some reflection of herself and all the family members she held so dear in each of my children.
I am ever thankful for a mother who had a cordial sort of relationship with mortality, her outstanding record of remembering people who left this life, and the front row seat I had for so long. We remember her always, particularly on drives through Forest Hills, with a slow roll and a left-facing gaze of adoration, this time especially for her.
