Another Summer, Another Funeral Post

I go to more funerals in the summer than I do through the school year simply because it is logistically easier to do so. Also, I can justify skipping a funeral in favor of sending flowers if I would have to take off work to go. In the summer, though, it is harder to justify not going to pay my final respects and give my condolences to families in person. Of course, all of this is complicated by the fact that most of the funerals that I want to attend are over two hours away. If the funerals were down the street here in town, I would actually go to more of them.

The funeral I am going to today is that of an old friend's grandmother. Her name was Iva. (Of course, being from the Ozarks, "Iva" is pronounced "Ivy." My mom named me "Laura" and has always called me "Laurie," too. And while we are the subject of pronunciation, the "au" in my name is pronounced like the "a" in "car" rather than the "o" in "core.") Ivy is the grandmother of Joe Jr., who was my brother's best friend when we were growing up. Joe Jr. went to our church and to our school, so we saw a lot of him. Joe Jr.'s mom, Linda, (Ivy's daughter) taught my Sunday School class one year. This is one of those situations that comes up a lot in small, close knit communities. I was not close to Ivy. I may or may not have ever spoken to her. But our lives intersected. Even with all that, though, I probably would have just sent flowers or a card if it were just up to me. 

But it is not just up to me. My brother is heading north for the funeral today and I am riding along.  I will be glad that I went, because I'll see people who were once important to me. Funerals up home tend to be a cross between a family reunion and a fire-and-brimstone, scare-them-into-heaven pentecostal (or Church of Christ) church service. I don't know what flavor of religious service I am getting today, but I know that I'll run into someone I know, and I'll be glad I did. 

Graves are imporant

Graves are important to us hill-folk. Tending to those who have gone on before reinforces our connection to the past. I remember being little and my mamaw taking me to the cemetery to "work the graves" of her parents, grandparents, and siblings. We also usually made it over to see to her father-in-law's grave as well. All had to look good for "Decoration Day" when people might be coming to visit the cemeteries.

This week, my high-school friend Amy went to check on her mother-in-law's grave. (Her mother-in-law is Arvilla, whom I've written about before.) Anyway, Amy and Sonya (Arvilla's daughter) had put a ceramic angel on the grave, and someone threw it out. I am sure that it was some teenage boy or other that they paid minimum wage to clean up the cemetery.

Because a lot of us don't do it any more. I never go up and tend to the graves. My mom and my aunt do, I guess. Although I'll ask about it, I won't go check and make sure they did.

When they are gone, though, I guess I'll have to. I can't imagine anyone else would.

My turn with the funeral post...

Today I went to Arvilla Smith's funeral. Arvilla and I were not that close, but she and my great-grandmother were. Arvilla came from a big family, and, as I understand it, kind of got lost in the crowd. My granny (the afore mentioned great-grandmother) was raising her grand daughter, Patsy, who was about the same age, and so Arvilla kind of adopted the family.

So Arvilla was always around. While she was not technically related, I saw her more often that I did many of her cousins (except Wardena's kids mentioned in the Pond story recently).

We went to my granny's on Sundays, after church and after lunch. About every month or two, Arvilla would be there. As far as I know, she never came empty handed. She was always bringing a pie, or flowers, or something. When granny got older and couldn't take care of herself, Arvilla got a job with the Area Agency on Aging so that she could come and get paid to take care of her. Arvilla is the only person I know that could bake an apple pie that tasted like my granny's. And I think granny had her bake the pies for us, really. She liked circus peanuts (which I still like stale, because that is how granny's always were, because she stored them on top of the refrigerator).

Eventually, Arvilla got a different job-- one that was full time with benefits. Which is a good thing, because, like everyone I love, she got cancer. She won a couple of rounds, but with cancer, you always lose the war. Cancer won June 15.

It is not that Arvilla and I were that close, really. I have only seen her a handful of times since my granny died. But I still loved her, if that makes any sense. When she came to my mamaw and papaw's house after my papaw died, we all cried together. She came to the house for my mamaw's funeral as well. She was part of the family. Any of us would have done anything for her.
And more than herself, personally, she is part of my childhood-- my life at "home." That life keeps slipping further and further away. I used to kid myself and say that I would move home, if I could get a job that paid anything, but Todd was actually offered a job there a couple of years back that he turned down. That is not who I am any more.

But it is hard watching that world evaporate. Arvilla's kids are not like her (and the one that is most like her lives in Greenbrier, not at home). My mom is not like her granny. And I am not really like either one. I wish I could capture that world, because there is no where like it. It was anachronism twenty years ago, so it would be even more so now.

But, oh, how I wish it weren't.