My in laws used to say that it seems like they went to a lot of funerals. I’m finding out it’s true. More and more, there are fewer and fewer people who remember the past along with me. My first husband and all of his family called me Lindy. There’s only one of those connections left—a brother-in-law and his wife. Today, when I hear, “Lindy” I don’t need to look to see who is speaking.
My lifelong best girlfriend and I do a lot of reminiscing. Most of the people whose names we mention have gone on to greener pastures. My children recall the neighbors who were my parents’ peers, but the grandchildren don’t. So we tell the stories to foster a sense of continuity and community among the fourth and fifth generations.
Recently, I attended two memorial services on the same day, in different towns. Both were for classmates of my children. This isn’t supposed to happen. Those men had years of love and laughter ahead of them, but were called home early. Maybe they hadn’t yet begun to ask themselves whether things they would do on any given day would be done for the last time, but I certainly have. The generation below me probably hasn’t time to give much consideration to that—I didn’t at that stage of life. But now I take time to appreciate things I took for granted back then.
The parents of the deceased were good friends and neighbors. We danced a lot of dances, played a lot of cards, and slapped a lot of mosquitos while baiting hooks for the youngsters. And learned lessons together.
My last-born needed exchange transfusions, and his father was preparing to take him to a larger hospital to have that done. I was still in the hospital, my parents were caring for the other three children, and my husband’s family all had some lame excuse about why they couldn’t ride along to the city and help care for the newborn. We had party lines back then, and our friend, Marlys was listening. She volunteered to go, and left a husband, three boys and a bunch of hired men to do for themselves during calving time. Needless to say, that couple were godparents.
A few years later, her husband, Lloyd, developed a brain tumor. While Marlys dealt with medical appointments, tests, hospitalizations, and eventual nursing home care, their boys often stayed with us. I recall saying to their mother once, “I don’t know how you do this.” Marlys looked at me straight on and said, “I’ve learned you can do anything you have to.” I learned how right she was when my own life fell apart. Some words stay with you forever.
Lloyd was a man of good humor and courage. When leaving a gathering, or even just departing from a roadside pickup window chat, his last words were always, “Be gentle.”
More words that have stayed with me forever.
There’s no way to know if the words you and I speak today will be among our last, but I pray we will speak gently.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile do your best. Somebody might like it.