April 16, 2006

• An Easter Tale

  My uncle Warren, who died over a decade ago, and my aunt Louisa, who followed him at the end of March, were Beautiful People.  Tall, stalwart-framed and statuesque, they both owned distinctive and mellifluous voices that begged an eagerly listening ear.  They used their frugal incomes wisely at the start and bettered themselves and their offspring through education, travel, and successively more influential careers.  Their many homes, across time and geography and financial strata, were always rich in art and artifacts, well-appointed and welcoming.

  My uncle, a military officer, was buried with full honors at Arlington and so departed the world with due pomp and circumstance.  His widow led a full, active and influential life in her remaining years.  Louisa was a vital member of her church and community, a leader in both spiritual and civic life.  She enriched the local youth through mentoring programs, hosted local politicians while supporting their campaigns, wrote plays of national significance, and painted glowing artwork. 

  Louisa died as she had lived.  Diagnosed late last summer with metastasizing cancer, throughout the long winter of her decline she entertained at her home, advised over the phone, and slowly said her farewells.  On her last day of consciousness she took her youngest grandchild's watercolors and painted a glowing background of vivid white and yellow, imposed upon which a rich green seed sends tendrils swirling outwards into infinity through the outline (perhaps?) of a woman.  The painting stood on the podium at her memorial service this weekend, a wonderous and beguiling image of growth and mystery, from someone just crossing the threshold  between this world and the next.

  My aunt was an amazing person.

  Louisa's eldest son, Michael, is a Chairman-of-the-Board sort of man.  On his strong shoulders jackets fit smoothly.  Startched shirts are spotless across his broad chest, trousers flow without a crease out of place, and shining shoes are proud to shield the feet of such a specimen of sophisticated maturity.  Michael has 'class' bred in his bones, and he wears it well.

  Many skills don't come with birth, but breeding can bring them into full flower.  Michael inherited his father's rich baritone that renders even the mundanities of the passing remark something worth hearing.  At will, Michael commands a conversation, teasing a laugh or drawing out thoughtful remarks.  Corporate board rooms attend to his consideration; family gravitates under his deft direction.

  But there are some challenges that defy both genetics and training.

  When Michael walked to the podium to deliver an address at Louisa's service, before an extended audience of rapt and teary-eyed friends, relatives and associates, it was evident that he faced this performance with unaccustomed unease.

  "I am not actually sure I can get through this," he began, rough-voiced and red-eyed.  With visible effort, he segued into an light opener about a mock funeral in the entertainment industry.  He told stories about his mother's penurious handling of family finances in his youth. "We kids always had creative inexpensive sandwiches in our lunchboxes,"
  he explained.  "I'm remembering the famous peanut butter and ketchup
  masterpiece.......  Of course, she did bake bread, which we compared
  unfavorably to our friends' Wonder Bread option."  he paused.  "They, we knew, were 'building strong bodies twelve different ways.'  Our
  own benefit seemed at the time less appealing."  Michael praised and poked fun at his siblings.  He extolled the virtues of Louisa's many good works, interspersed with anecdotes of the foibles both known and hitherto unknown. 

   The audience laughed, and cried, and walked easily down the path he so masterfully laid as he wound to his conclusion.

  "When I talked to my mother on her last day of consciousness, her voice was ravaged to the degree that I couldn't understand her.  She spoke for some minutes completely unintelligibly.  Then she said the last words I will ever have from her.  'It will be all right, Michael,' she said."  His own voice, for the first time, faltered and cracked.  "And I'm okay with that," he whispered.  "I love you, Mom."

  There was no dry eye or untouched heart in the house.

  Warren and Louisa not only bettered the world before they bid it farewell, Michael, but they left offspring like you to better it in your own right.

  And we will all be all right, for that.

  • 12:42 pm
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