Changing Times

I sit here this day and look out to a very dark, gray, cloudy sky.  The air seems almost still.  Birds fly through the atmosphere.  Life goes on and there’s a life inside a body that has no knowledge that anything that goes on today is actually happening.  That life is my granddaughter who is due to be born any day now.

This seems eery when I think about it.  There are times on this earth that we, the humans living here, have no memory of because we did not exist.  We know prior times existed because we’ve ready many books telling us of previous times and we’ve seen photographs displaying those times.  Thinking of times before our lives existed is almost overwhelming.

There will come a day when our body is no longer on this earth.  Our body will have died.  Will we know of things to happen on this earth after our bodies pass?  I do not know the answer to this.  What I do know is that sometimes when I allow myself to be immersed in such thoughts, I bring chills to my body due to the unknown.  This is when I understand that life is so fragile.  We think we live a long time, but in reality, our lives on this earth area merely a spec of time.  It is presently the year 2012 AD.  I am 59 years old.  This means I have lived less than 3% of the total number of years recorded since Christ’s birth. There are many arguments as to how many years the Earth existed prior to Christ’s birth.  Some say several thousand years, and some say billions of years.  Regardless, you can see that our lives are merely a spec of time.

All this comes to my thinking because of my grandchildren.  I now have seven grandchildren ranging from 3 months to fourteen years of age; with another grandchild due to join us any day.  I think of the things I have seen that these children never saw.  I also think of my father who will be 90 years old in a few days.  He has memories of there being no television, no electricity, no indoor plumbing.

When I think of my grandchildren, I realize that they know nothing about black and white television.  They don’t know what an LP record album looks like.  The have no clue about an 8 track tape.  Some of them will never know what a cassette tape is or looks like.  When I first entered my profession I remember the most powerful computers filled large rooms.  Now, computers that have 100 – 1000 times the power of those room filling computers now sit on your desk, or you carry them in your hand!

My grandchildren will grow up always being able to communicate with others no matter how far away they are, or what time of day it is.  I remember times when there was no mobile communication of any type.  If I wanted to play a game, I pulled a board game out of a closet and I had to ask a friend or my parents to play.  My grandchildren grab their parents’ (or their own) smart phone, select a game and start playing.

Things change so quickly today.  But, in reality, when I think back twenty, thirty years, things changed quickly then as well.  The continued rapid development in products and technology makes me wonder what we will see in the next twenty, thirty, forty years that will cause my grandchildren to think and say things similar to what I am saying today.

I often wonder what my Mother, who passed in 1967, would think if she came back to this earthly life now 45 years later.  It’s astonishing to think she would see things that far out pass even what science fiction was predicting in books and movies back in the 1960′s!

May 1967, The Funeral, and then it was done.

It’s strange how our minds and memories suppress some things we experience in life and how they hold other experiences in complete vivid detail.  My memories of this time in May 1967 was a mixture of both.  I don’t remember exactly what day the visitation was held, but I recall some vivid details about the day of the visitation.  For example, I don’t remember getting dressed in my new suit to go to the funeral home, but I remember the smell of the flowers when we arrived at Soller-Baker Funeral Home.  I remember a chandelier in the hallway leading to the visitation room where my Mother’s body lie.  I remember a staff member of the funeral home greeting us when we arrived.  The people who work in a funeral home have a job that I would not want.  They have to conduct business while tending to grieving families.  This takes a person with a unique personality.

I remember arriving at the funeral home.  I don’t totally recall who was in our party at arrival.  I know my Dad was there, and I would assume my Aunt Mintie was with us, but beyond that, my memory is a blur of that detail.  I recall the funeral home staff invited us into a room where we sat facing this accordion type wall that could be opened from the middle.  I knew my Mother’s body lie behind that wall and I was nervous at the thought of them opening that wall because then I would suddenly realize that all this was not a dream.  The staff member opened the wall and there was the casket surrounded by flowers and plants.  On top of the casket was a large bouquet with a ribbon upon which the word “Mother” was written.  From where I was sitting I could barely see my Mother’s face.  I recall the open lid of the casket with the material inside the lid that was a contrast to the external color of the casket.  The number of flowers and plants surrounding the casket were more than I had ever seen in one place before.  The strong smell of flowers, to this day, causes me to have a flashback to that moment in time.

The funeral home staff member invited us up to the casket.  I don’t remember getting out of my chair or walking to the casket.  The next thing I remember is seeing my Mother’s face.  I’ve never thought a body of a deceased person looked good.  My Mother was a very pretty lady.  Death takes beauty from the body.  I’m sure that beauty remains in the soul as God accepts us into His eternal home.  But, somehow, I still saw some beauty in my Mother’s face.

As I looked at my Mother’s body I recalled someone telling me that she had a breathing tube while in ICU.  One of the first things I noticed about her face was a crease above her upper lip where the hospital staff had folded back her lip and affixed the breathing tube in her mouth.  The pressure of the fold and the length of time her lip was folded had left this crease.  I recall her dark rimmed glasses covering her closed eyes.  Her hair had been styled, but not in a fashion that I recall my Mother ever wearing her hair.  For some reason, this disturbed me, but until today I’ve never mentioned that to anyone.  My Mother’s hands were folded over her abdomen.  I reached over the edge of the casket to touch her hands.  The first thing I noticed was the coolness of the skin.  I then leaned over and gave my Mother’s body a kiss on the lips.  Her lips were cool. I don’t know if I cried when I saw my Mother’s body for the first time.  I was so focused on her that my personal emotions were suppressed from memory.

The next thing I recall is that a long line of people began to form.  I had no idea this many people even knew my family; but, later, the funeral staff told us it was one of the largest funerals they ever had.  Of course, my Mother and Dad were both from large families, so just our relatives alone could fill a small gymnasium.  I remember standing, shaking hands, meeting people I didn’t know and seeing people I knew very well.  I recall at one point one of the funeral home staff members coming up to me.  He evidently could see that I was tense or that he just thought I needed a break away from this experience for a moment.  The staff member took me into a small room and gave me something to drink and a candy bar.  Before long, I returned to the receiving line next to my Dad.  It seemed the stream of people lasted forever.

As the evening of visitation came to a close, our immediate party was able to again move close to the casket and pay a good night to my Mother’s body.  I recall tears in my eyes when I looked at her body this time.  I recall a tear falling from my face and landing on her sleeve.  I could barely see her face because my eyes were flooded.  After a few minutes, we turned and exited the visitation room.  I knew tomorrow would be the finality of it all.

I remember again arriving at the funeral home and again being able to spend a few moments in private with my Mother’s body.  I leaned over to give her another kiss.  Now it was close to time for people to begin to arrive.  The next thing I recall is the service starting and Rev. Jack Williams from the Stockwell United Methodist Church performing the ceremony.  I loved Rev. Jack.  Even as a fourteen year old, he was able to hold my attention more often than not.  He was a dynamic speaker and a true man of God.  He knew our family well and we knew him and his family well; in fact, his daughter, Debbie, was in my class.  On this day I don’t recall what Rev. Jack spoke of, but I know it was a good message; he always had a good message.  Again, I was in a daze with all that had happened; my mind was in a fog.

As the service ended, all the visitors exited the room and we had one final moment with Mom.  I leaned over and gave her the final kiss I would ever give her.  My eyes again were flooded with tears.  I didn’t want to leave.  I knew this was the last time I would see her.  I remember Dad having tears drip from his face.  Dad was not one to outwardly show his emotional side, but in this time he was overcome.  The finality of it all was hard to take.  We walked away from the casket and the accordion wall was again closed.  We exited the funeral home and waited outside a moment.  The casket was wheeled out and cousins and uncles were there to carry the casket to the hearse.  We were then ushered to a limousine that would be driven to the cemetery by a funeral home staff member.

My Mother was to be buried in the Rest Haven Memorial cemetery.  The line of cars in the funeral procession was amazing!  I had never seen such a line of cars before.    It seemed to take several minutes for all the vehicles to arrive inside the cemetery.  Once they arrived, there was a mass of people at grave side.  The pall bearers brought the casket to the grave.  I, among others, sat in a chair close to the grave.  I remember the chairs being green folding chairs.  Again, Rev. Jack gave a short message.  Then he concluded with prayer.  Rev. Jack then approached my Dad and I, shook our hands and said, “I’m sorry for your loss, may God Bless You.  If you need anything, anything, please let me know.”  Isn’t it interesting that my memory would recall those words he said.  But, I believe a reason I recall those words is because Rev. Jack was not only our pastor, he was a family friend and I knew he was sincere in his words.  Years later, I took him up on that offer and sought him for counsel.

It was now time to bid a final farewell.  I could no longer see my Mother’s body; the casket was closed.  I did reach out and pull a rose from the bouquet on top of the casket.  The bud of that rose is stored in a Bible to this day.  I then recall the short walk back to the limousine that would return to the funeral home so we could return to our vehicle.  I recall looking back to the grave site several times as I walked.  Again, I was numb.

That’s the last I recall of that day.  I don’t recall the ride back, I don’t recall any of the minutes or hours of the remainder of that day.  It was almost as though I was in a trance.  My Mother had passed and I was now going to have to be a help to my Dad as it was now just he, my five year old brother and me.  I knew Dad would need and appreciate my help.

This year, 2011, my Mother would have been 89 years old on May 28.  As the years pass, I think of her often, but I’m comfortable she is in Heaven and enjoying a better time and place.  One day I will be united again with her and our love will be as though we had never spent a day apart.  My Dad still lives today.  He turned 89 on May 3.  He is a vibrant, upstanding man.  He raised me to be a gentleman and I hope I have fulfilled what he taught me.

I know losing my Mother at such an age has had its effects on me.  I’ve held this all inside until writing these pieces.  I truly believe I have now unleashed some of the negative energy I’ve had built up for years.  I’ve felt such therapy from sharing this in writing.  I hope that my writing this might also help anyone else who reads this in some manner.

I’ve made many mistakes in my life and I’ve committed many sins, but thank you God that you are a Father full of Grace and Forgiveness.  I look forward to the day that I can again see my Mother’s face, see her smile, feel her hug and hear her say “Geary Dale.”  I love you Mom, and I miss you.

May 1967, The Week of Darkness.

The time after the exploratory surgery seemed to pass slowly.  Mom was in the hospital in a coma and the doctors had very little, if any, hope.  I had succumbed to the realization that my Mother was going to die in the hospital.  I would never again get to feel her hugs.  I would never again be able to experience the scent of her.  I would never again her her voice.  I would never again here her say, “I love you.”  I would never again awake and know that she would be there for me.    She was the person I was closest to in my young life; and now, I realized she would be gone.  I was in a daze.

I don’t recall many details of the next few days.  I just remember a lot of relatives being around.  My Mother was from a large family that was raised in Kentucky.  My grandfather was a tobacco farmer.  I remember going to my grandparents house as a young boy.  They had no indoor plumbing or electricity.  You went to the outhouse if you have to relieve yourself.  You went to the well to pump water into a pail.  You brought in wood for the cooking stove and heat.  If you wanted warm water for bathing, you heated it on the stove.  You lit kerosene lamps at night for light.  For milk, you went and milked the cows in the morning.  I remember all the details of their small house vividly and always wondered how they raised that large family in that tiny house.  I recall the smells in the air around that old homestead.  I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled tobacco plants, but they have a distinct smell.  To this day, when I travel to an area that grows tobacco and I take in that smell, I think of my grandparent’s place in Kentucky.

Most of the children of my Mother’s family didn’t graduate from high school.  My Mother had an eighth grade education.  After that she was expected to work in the field at home, help with chores and help raise the younger children.  She was a very intelligent lady for only having an eighth grade education.  I remember she had beautiful handwriting.  One thing I remember so vividly was that when she began having the pain and getting sick, her handwriting started to fail.  It wasn’t the pretty cursive that it had been.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but later, I was able to associate the effects of the cancer with the degradation of her handwriting.

As I said, I don’t recall too many details of the week after the surgery other than what I mentioned.  I think our minds become oblivious at times and block out unhappy things.  What I do remember is the morning of May 21, 1967.  I think I had slept on a couch at Aunt Mintie’s the night before; at least, that’s what my memory recollects.  I remember my Dad walking into the room and just bending over me, hugging me and sobbing.  It was the first time I had known my Dad to cry.  He didn’t have to say a word.  I knew what news he had brought.  My Mother had died at the age of 44 from cancer.  She was exactly one week, seven calendar days, from turning 45.  It just did not seem fair.  She was a God fearing, loving woman who gave her heart to anyone who wanted it.  I just could not comprehend why this had happened.

The remainder of that day, May 21, is blurred from my memory up until that afternoon.  Dad asked me if I wanted to go to the funeral home with him.  He knew I would want to help pick out the casket for Mom.  To some, this may seem to be a morbid thing for a fourteen year old to do; but, I was so close to my Mother that I wanted to do this.  My Dad realized how close I was to my Mother, and I think he believed I would have been offended had he not asked me.  I recall we went to the Soller-Baker Funeral Home in Lafayette.  After some details were exchanged between Dad and the staff of the funeral home we walked into this room of caskets.  While it was a different atmosphere to be entering, I was so numb that it didn’t feel morbid or objectionable to me.  I remember we picked out a dark exterior casket.  That’s about all I recall about it from that day.  I had been able to pick the place where my Mother’s body would lie.

That evening I recall lots of people being around … I am sure it was all relatives, but the fogginess of my awareness made it unclear.  One person I recall vividly was my cousin Joetta.  We called her Jody.  She was six weeks older than me.  She and I could be the closest friends or fight like cats and dogs.  Jody passed from this earth at an adult age, but too young to be fair.  I often wish Jody were still here.  I think we would have reunited in our adult years and possibly have been very close.

On this day, Jody was in the role of a close friend to me.  She was one person who would talk to me at this uncomfortable time.  I remember her asking me, “How are you dealing with this?”  She asked this in a tone that I knew she meant, “I don’t think I could deal with this, how in the world are you doing it?”  I remember responding to Jody saying, “I don’t have a choice, I’m just going to have to make the best of it.”  I didn’t feel like I was dealing with the circumstance too well, but I must have had an external display of being okay.

The next thing I remember was going to buy a suit to wear to the funeral.  I don’t remember if my Dad took me or Aunt Mintie.  I don’t recall where we went, I just, again, recall being in this daze; not really aware of where I was or what I was doing.  It’s difficult to explain the feeling. People probably think, “You had to know where you were and what you were doing.”  I would have thought the same thing; but, I tell you, it is an indescribable experience.  It was like I was in a land of total darkness, not knowing what was ahead or what was behind.  Darkness is the best word to describe how I felt during that time between my Mom’s passing and her funeral.

TO BE CONTINUED …

May 1967, Exploratory Surgery and the Week Ahead.

Monday, May 15, 1967 had arrived.  This day is a bit foggy in my memory.  I think the day was so overwhelming that it became too much for my memory to hold in its entirety.  What I do recall about that day is that I was in a state of confusion.  I didn’t know what to feel.  My Mother was going to be having “exploratory” surgery.  That may have been the first time in my brief life that I had heard that term used with regard to a surgery; however, I knew it meant the doctor was going to perform an invasive operation on my Mother in hopes of finding what was causing her extreme discomfort and pain.

I recall going somewhere with my Aunt Mintie.  She had a dark green Mustang.  It was a very nice car.  Just imagine what that car would be worth today!  I recall the day was sunny with not many clouds in the sky.  It was a warm enough day that I had on just a light jacket.  I’m not sure where we went, but on the way back Aunt Mintie was quiet.  She wasn’t normally quiet when we were together.  She was always loving and talking or singing.  She was such a wonderful lady, I miss her dearly.

The event that happened next sticks vividly in my memory.  In those days we didn’t have cell phones or any of the technology we have today.  There were land line phones, and most were phones with the rotary dial.  Because of this, Aunt Mintie had to have talked with Dad prior to us leaving her house.  As we returned to Aunt Mintie’s house, she pulled up in the drive facing the garage.  Before she turned off the car, she started to speak to me.  I don’t recall how she started, or what it was she said that gave me the message that I needed to sit in the car to listen to her; but I did.  The message Aunt Mintie conveyed to me was that my Mother’s surgery had not gone well and she was in a coma.  I remember a reference made that “the doctors had opened up my Mother and everything just went black inside.  She had cancer.”  I don’t know if this was exactly what the doctors said or really what they saw.  Perhaps it was just a reference made trying to explain the severity of the situation.  Either way, it had a profound effect with respect to what I already knew in my own mind.

Hearing this news, I didn’t cry.  Aunt Mintie didn’t cry.  She tried to put as positive a spin on this news as she could; but, I could read her eyes.  I knew Mom was never coming home again.  Looking back, I am sure I was in emotional shock.  I don’t think the enormity of what I just heard had really hit me.  How could it?  I was only fourteen years old.  I don’t know that I even knew of anyone close to my age who had lost a parent to death.  The only thing I had experienced in life that was even close to this type of shock was learning that a classmate and baseball teammate of mine had died an accidental death on a rope swing when I was eleven.  That was a difficult situation to handle, but the news of today was very much more overwhelming.

The remainder of that Monday is pretty much a blur; in fact, the next few days were nothing much more than a blur.  I’m sure I was pretty much walking around in a daze for a few days.  I don’t know what I was thinking, or what I was feeling other than numbness.  I do recall I didn’t return to school at this time.  I don’t think I would have functioned well at school had I been there.  Even though no one had actually come out and said my Mother was going to die in the hospital, I knew that was what was going to happen.  For some reason, I had known this when she was first admitted.  How could I know that?  Did God tell me?  To this day, the only answer I have is that God gave me this message trying to prepare me for what was to come.

I remember a couple of days during the week of May 15 that Aunt Mintie took me to the hospital.  Mom was in intensive care and in the 1960′s you could only visit patients in ICU for brief periods of time each hour.  I seem to recall that a patient was allowed two visitors for ten minutes.  I never went into ICU to see my Mother.  I recall my Dad didn’t want me to see my Mother this way and remember her this way.  Having heard this, I knew this was confirmation that Mom was going to die in the ICU.  I think my visits to the hospital were more to be with my Dad and have him able to see me more than anything.

I remember the waiting area for ICU being extremely sterile looking.  My memory shades everything in white.  Hospitals in those days were very drab and white.  They were not at all inviting places to be.  I recall several chairs being against a wall along what seemed to be a hall between the chairs and the doors to the ICU.  I recall a nurse coming out to tell people they could go in and visit patients. I would just sit in my numbness trying to figure out all that was happening.  To me, it just didn’t seem fair.  I experienced a wide range of emotions, but I don’t know that I cried that much “yet.”  I just remember silently asking “Why?” a lot.  I could not comprehend why this beautiful, loving, caring, thoughtful woman was being taken from our lives at her young age of 44.  It just did not seem fair.

This was all very hard for me to comprehend.  I didn’t know what to feel.  I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t know how to act.  I just remember thinking to myself.  “I am ONLY FOURTEEN.  God, help me!  How do I get through this??????”  I remember thinking that a lot!

TO BE CONTINUED …

From North Carolina …

For those of you who have been following my blog regarding May 1967, you’ve noticed I haven’t blogged on that for a few days.  The reason is that Becky and I are currently in North Carolina visiting family.  I will resume the May 1967 blog either Monday evening or Tuesday.  Thank you all for following my blog, this is certainly good for me to be able to share, I and I hope it has been good for all of you to read.

For those of you Mothers reading this, I hope your Mother’s Day is a happy one and that you have been able to relax and enjoy your families on this day.

May 1967, A Visit With Mom

I awoke the morning of Sunday, May 14, 1967 with a bit of sunlight in my eyes.  My Aunt Mintie’s house was primarily in a basement, but they had recently completed a floor above ground.  I had slept the night before on a couch located on the new ground floor.  There was a large window facing the south and when I awoke, the drapes were parted just enough that sunlight shone through and onto my face.  I awoke slowly trying to gather my thoughts of the day prior.  I quickly recalled the fact that Mom was in the hospital, it was not a dream, and that today was Sunday.  This would have normally been a day for our family to be at church in the Stockwell United Methodist Church, but with Mom in the hospital this day was unlike most.

I eventually made my way off the couch and downstairs where I found Aunt Mintie up and already beaming with that loving smile.  In her Kentucky twang she said, “Well, good mornin’ darlin’.”  She then took me in her arms and gave me a big hug, said “I love you” and kissed me on the head.  I said, “I love you too.”  Those weren’t just words, I did love my Aunt Mintie so very, very much.

Some time passed with the odds and ends of a Sunday morning, then I remember my Dad stopped by on his way to the hospital.  Dad asked me if I wanted to go see my Mom in the hospital that evening, and I certainly did.  My brother was just five years old, and in the 1960′s small children were not really welcome in hospitals.  My, how things have changed.  Dad said he would be back later in the day and we would go to the hospital then.

Later that day, the phone at Aunt Mintie’s rang.  After the conversation, Aunt Mintie told me it was Dad and what time he would be picking me up to go visit Mom.  I know it was after our dinner that Dad arrived.  I had changed my clothes, almost dressing up because I felt it was a special thing to go see Mom and for some reason hospitals had this aura of clean and sterile and I didn’t want to violate that.  We arrived at Home Hospital in Lafayette.  I remember taking an elevator to an upper floor.  Getting off the elevator I saw this long sterile hallway.  It had been since I was four or five years old that I had been in a hospital and the environment was eerily sterile and quiet.  We walked down the hall and entered a room.  The room was not lit well, in fact, I recall it being quite dark.  Mom’s bed was close to the door, so the light from the hallway illuminated her face as we walked in the room.  As Mom saw me, she smiled.  I was happy to see her and I hugged and kissed her.  I remember her lying on her side facing towards us.  Her dark rimmed glasses on; her dark hair curled, but looking like it had been flattened from lying on it.

I began to talk to Mom asking her how she felt, but she was more interested in talking about how I had done at the County Track Meet.  Dad had told her about it and he made sure I took my ribbon.  I handed the ribbon to her and she smiled ear to ear and told me how excited she was.  My Mother always made me feel my accomplishments were the most important thing in the world.  It didn’t matter how small, she praised me almost uncontrollably for whatever good I accomplished.  After several minutes, Dad said we needed to go so Mom could rest.  I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t argue.  I stood up to the bed, leaned over and gave my Mom a hug that I didn’t want to end.  She kissed me on the lips and said “I love you” and I returned the same.  I kept hugging her.  I didn’t want to stop.  I felt this was the last time I might get to hug my Mother; I didn’t want that to be true, but I had this feeling.

Dad and I left the hospital and returned to Aunt Mintie’s.  Dad said Mom’s surgery was scheduled for Monday morning, and I wouldn’t have to go to school.  For me, not going to school was different than most kids.  I enjoyed school!  I enjoyed being around my friends, and living in a rural area, the most convenient way to be around friends was to be in school.  In addition, I liked my Junior High teachers; especially Mr. Miner and Mr. Lemmon.  They were both sports minded guys and I loved that because I was a sports junkie.  Mr. Lemmon, to me as a fourteen year old, was a huge guy.  He was probably 6’3″ and probably weighed in at 350 pounds.  He had a belly, but he also had arms almost as big as my waist!  He also had the biggest hands I had ever seen.  When he held a volleyball in those hands it looked like me holding a golf ball.  However, I digress!

After Dad left Aunt Mintie’s I decided to study a bit.  We had a test coming up soon that would require us to name the bones in the body and I needed to study.  Little did I know I wouldn’t have to take that test when it was given; in fact, I ended up being excused from the test entirely.  Soon after I studied, I watched some TV with Aunt Mintie and she gave me some ice cream with chocolate syrup.  Around Aunt Mintie you never went hungry.  After eating the ice cream it was time to turn in for the night.  On my mind was what the morning would bring with Mom’s surgery.  Going to school would have been much easier and may have occupied my mind.

TO BE CONTINUED …

A small correction …

If you’ve been following my blog entries of May 1967, I must apologize.  I noticed this evening that I had made a mistake in the dates.  Rather than May 6 being the County Track meet, it was May 13.  So, I have edited the blog entries to provide the accurate dates.  Thank you …