(Read at my Grandmother's funeral Thursday, December 3, 2009)
“Twenty-one Rules for a Successful Life” says the picture on the wall in my office. Rule #1 – “Marry the right person. The poster goes on to explain that “this one decision will determine 90% of your happiness or misery.” On May 28 in 1933, Millard Cress married Fern Tomlinson – and confidently checked off rule #1, ensuring for himself 76 years of playful joy, spirited conversation and teasing laughter.
Fern Cress – Aunt Fern to some, plain Fern to others and Grandma to me – was an undeniably beautiful woman. Independent, strong, and straightforward, to me she was Hollywood royalty come to life.
She was Grandpa’s partner and soul mate in every sense of the word. Johnny Carson had Ed McMahan, Laverne De Fazio had Shirley Feeney, Frodo Baggins had Samwise Gamgee, and Millard Cress had Fern Tomlinson. She was the “straight man” to Grandpa’s bravado and the Queen of the one-liner. Grandma would quietly listen to a conversation for hours with no comment and then “Wham!” out of left field came a perfectly placed zinger that broke the room up with laughter.
I am immensely proud of my Grandmother’s life. She was the most competent woman I know. I remember standing slack-jawed at the tender age of five or six while she unceremoniously twisted the heads off of two chickens and then later dressed them for sale. Then, maybe even on the same day, this same woman would sit and patiently teach me how to tie a French knot properly or how to make sure that the back of your embroidery looked just as good as the front. She was calm in chaos and playful in silence.
Everything she did was accomplished matter-of-factly. There was no need for ceremony around Grandma. No need for drama. No time for self-pity. No need for thanks. There were simply jobs to be done and people to do them. You either joined in the fun, or got the hell out of the way – and, more importantly, either option was totally OK with her. There was simple acceptance and assumed appreciation. She was happy when she was busy. And she was happiest when there were people around to be busy with.
Grandma was fundamentally happy. Researchers who study what makes a person “happy” have discovered that there are some common characteristics. Happy people are energetic, creative, decisive, social, trusting, loving, use laughter and humor, relate to others, engage in meaningful pursuits and leisure activities, and live in a positive environment. Sounds like a recipe for Fern Cress to me.
Grandma disliked watching television and wasn’t much into the radio. She preferred silence to sound and a good book to music. If she wasn’t reading the Bible or inspirational stories in The Guide Post, then she was carrying around the latest large print romance that Judy had brought her from the library. Reading was her escape she would tell me when we talked. It was her ticket to worlds where love always prevails, where problems are always resolved with satisfaction, and where death never visits.
On my last visit with Grandma, she had just gotten up from her morning nap and seemed a little frail and fragile. She was still getting her bearings when Uncle Maynard peeked his head around the corner and told her that the cook had an egg, toast and some peach pie ready to go whenever she was hungry. “Yeah!” she said. And I smiled. The promise of a piece of peach pie was all she needed to bring honest and unadulterated pleasure rushing back into every fiber of her being. There it was – the sparkle in her eyes, the blush in her cheeks – Grandma was back.
On my last visit, we talked of cookie making, of needlework projects, of the upcoming new Sherlock Holmes movie, of her great grandchildren and of the flowers she had recently received from visiting friends. We held hands and I drank in the depth and warmth that her eyes gave to every simple word that she spoke. Her mouth would say that she was proud of her great-grandchildren. Her eyes would add that she loved them beyond words, cherished their individuality and spirit, and was proud of her children and grandchildren for crafting a legacy for her that was honorable and good.
There’s a group called the Newsboys who wrote a song that has been running around in my head for the last couple of days. It’s a song about letting your God given light shine so that it can effect change – change in the world, change in the people around you. The chorus goes like this:
shine
make ‘em wonder what you’ve got
make ‘em wish that they were not
on the outside looking bored
shine
let it shine before all menlet ‘em see good works and then
let ‘em glorify the Lord
shine
Grandma probably never heard that song, but it was written about her.
I walked into her room after she was gone last Sunday. Her bed was there, everything was like it was the last time I was there, she was just gone – maybe in the bathroom my head wanted to say. But my heart knew. My heart knew instantly because the shine that the room had once held, the youthful, vibrant, shining spirit that had once lived there was noticeably gone leaving a cold empty shell of a room. And my heart cried out with pain.
When I think about Grandma, great lines from great plays, songs and movies come to me. The kind of lines that fill you with inspiration, the kind of lines that make you want to live better, the kind of lines that are packed with meaning and have depth beyond their words. Sitting up late at night when I heard the news about her death on Saturday, one movie and one line came to mind.
The scene was a plantation home on the deathbed of a graceful woman of the south. Idgie Threadgood had just told her dying friend Ruth Jameson a joke. And while she was telling it, Ruth passed away. Idgie, who knew death was coming, was still shocked and deeply grieved when she discovered what had happened while her back was turned. She sat on the edge of the bed and she cried. From behind her, warm arms gave her a hug and Sipsey said,
“It’s all right, honey. Let her go. Let her go. Miss Ruth was a lady. And a lady always knows when to leave.”
