Two Deaths in May and the Lessons Learned

I had a gentle introduction to death.

The first funeral I remember attending was the one for my Aunt Aggie Thomas Jeffords (1897-1966). She was my grandmother’s sister, and I was six years old.

My family crammed into our Buick after dinner on the evening of May 31st for the 9-hour journey to South Carolina where Aunt Aggie lived and would be buried. My father, my older sister J., and my mother’s brother, Carlisle, sat in the front seat. I sat in the back between my mother and grandmother.

There was a sense of urgency, and I could feel the tension emanating from the adults. I finally fell asleep as did my mother, grandmother, and uncle. J. stayed awake and read highway signs for Dad. I think he needed the conversation to keep him awake.

The next day was the viewing and visitation. The place was packed. An odd mix of sadness and joy snaked its way through the crowd as people offered condolences and hugged each other.

Curiosity led the way

Aunt Aggie’s casket and body were in a side room so that people could have privacy when viewing her. I stood close by and watched people go in and out of the room. The grief showed on their faces, and several of them touched her hands or face as they cried.

I loved Aunt Aggie although I didn’t know her well. My grandmother (Florrie Thomas Martin 1894-1979) lived with my family when I was growing up, and Aunt Aggie had visited with us for a few weeks about 7 months before she died.

She was there for my sixth birthday, and for my chipped ankle and the cast that came after that. Aunt Aggie and Grandma laughed together and smiled a lot. And Aunt Aggie was an encouragement to me when I was learning to use crutches. I could feel the love in her.

No one pushed me to go to the casket. I was curious and I wanted to go to it, but I wanted to do it alone. I waited until the viewing room was empty, and everyone was busy and not looking for me.

            Aunt Aggie looked to be sleeping, but I knew she wasn’t. I cautiously reached out to touch her hand. She was cold and firm. I stood there for a few minutes taking in what I could understand about death at this age. Then I slipped out when others came in to pay their respects.

I don’t remember the funeral at all. I do remember the heaviness lifting off the attendees when we were eating afterwards at my cousin’s house. And I remember playing with cousins outside in the bright sunshine.

Life went on as usual…until it didn’t

I attended many funerals after that – older church members, distant cousins, and a teacher from school. I understood funeral etiquette, but I hadn’t personally been touched by any of those losses.

The fall of 1973 changed all that. Between November 1973 and August 1978, we lost five family members, four of which made up half of my grandmother’s eight children.  Each funeral was in a different city so different funeral homes and different services.

But there was a common knowledge among the seasoned mourners that I couldn’t identify or understand until later. They all understood that no one cheats death, that people we love may die, that the grief lessens in time even though the loved one is always missed, and that we are to keep on living as long as we are here.

Sometimes you have to live it to understand it

As much as I loved my aunts and uncles that had died, I didn’t start my journey toward being a ‘seasoned mourner’ until the first of May in 1979 when my beloved grandmother died. I was 19.

I was going to wear pants to Grandma’s viewing, but my Aunt Millie (one of my grandma’s remaining children) told me to put on a dress. “Mom said I could wear pants,” I protested.

“Your mother’s upset and doesn’t know what she’s saying. You put on a dress.”

I started crying, and Aunt Millie said it wasn’t something to cry about.

“I just want Grandma,” I managed to say. Aunt Millie hugged me and put her pain aside long enough to comfort me. And, yes, I changed into a dress.

Joyce and I cried so much at the viewing that Dad took us to the funeral director’s office so we could calm down. Dad was a well-seasoned mourner, and he understood our pain.

The May 4^th funeral was standing room only, and the ride to the cemetery was long. After it was all over, many of us returned to my parents’ house to have a bite to eat and to decompress.

We sat around the kitchen table – my parents, my sister, some aunts and uncles, and some cousins – and we played Uno.

We let go of the day, and we let go of the pain for a little while. We laughed, and we smiled. Forty-six years later to the day, that is still one of the most bittersweet memories of my life, and it changed me forever.

I knew each one was hurting as deeply as I was or deeper, but they knew how grief goes. They knew there could be laughter and tears at the same time, and sadness and joy at the same time. They knew the grief would soften, and that life would continue on even with the wound of this loss.  

And as I sat there surrounded by the love and safety of my family, I began to understand that, too.

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