Milepost 3: Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good)

“Wreath, I”

charcoal & acrylic on canvas

24” x24”

2018

Once a week my cousin, Sadie, and I go riding around Natchez in search of interesting things to photograph. Our weekly adventure began this past spring in an effort to get ahead in my work. I realized I should capture as many spring blossoms as possible now for use as potential subjects for paintings next year, allowing for a year’s worth planning and ensuring that I won’t be scrambling for new subjects when spring rolls around again. 

I pull up to her house, and she emerges carrying a small bag. Undoubtedly, its contents are edible. It’s hot today, and for some unknown reasons she’s wearing jeans. She sets down her bag and pulls out her key to lock the door behind her. It’s challenging; despite her many talents she just isn’t any good with locks. After a couple minutes and a few tugs later she seems confident that the door is secure. She picks up her bag and clomps down the front walk towards my passenger door.

 

“Hey, girl! What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“How ‘bout a Diet Coke? My treat.”

“Great.”

“What’s been going on today?”

“Nothing.”

“Anything good on TV?

“Your favorite.”

“Golden Girls?”

“No.”

“Cooking shows?”

“No.”

“What then, girl?”

“Hallmark Channel Christmas movies.”

“Not my favorite.”

“Yep. It is.”

“No ma’am. It’s YOUR favorite! Yours and Aunt Paula’s.”

“Could be.”

It’s always “my favorite.” It’s either my favorite food, television show, person or place. Curiously, she’s the only one that knows what my “favorite” actually is, and it tends to change without notice. Generally, it’s not my favorite, but once Sadie has declared it so, it’s so. 

This is how I’ve amassed an eclectic collection of gifts from her, thoughtful purchases she’s made over the years with me in mind. For example, she once presented me with a skullcap intended for folks dealing with hair loss due to illness. A brightly colored tropical print featuring birds and flowers, it fits loosely over the scalp and is secured with two long strips of matching fabric, tying in the back to adjust for size. She saw it in a hospital gift shop and thought of me. Sweet, right? Thankfully, I’ve yet to have an occasion to wear it. 

“What did you bring for snack?”

“Your favorite.”

I can’t help myself and choose an actual favorite of mine, albeit, one that definitely is not in her bag.

“Macaroni & Cheese?”

“What?! No.”

“How ‘bout Spaghetti?”

“SPAGHETTI?! No way.”

“Um, chips?”

“No.”

“Definitely cheese & crackers.”

“No.”

“Then what, girl?”

“Sushi.”

“You have SUSHI in that bag?”

“Yep. So good.”

“What kind?”

“California Roll.”

“YOUR favorite, huh?!”

“Maybe.”

I pull up to the gas station and leave the car running.

“Lock the doors. Be back in a second.”

“Will do.”

I run into the B’Kwik gas station and purchase a Coke and a Diet Coke and then head back to the car. The Coke is for me. Sadie can’t have them anymore. She was forced to give them up years ago, something we all feared would be impossible, but by some miracle Mama got through to her and helped her understand that she could no longer have them (nor, eventually, white bread, white rice, white potatoes, white flour pasta, or, of course, sugar). 

I’ve wished many times that I’d been there that day to know what Mama said and how she said it. Sadie rarely agrees to anything she does not want to do. Her determination is ironclad. So the fact that Mama moved her over to Diet Coke without issue is nothing short of spectacular. Sadie gave up Coca Cola overnight and immediately pledged her devotion to Diet Coke. She drinks them like water, aspartame be damned.

She sees me returning and is already reaching for the door lock to let me in. The sushi is now gone, her lap speckled with rice.

“How was it?”

“Great!”

“Well good. You ready?”

“Yep.”

“What do you think? Cemetery first?”

“Definitely.”

The Natchez City Cemetery is a picturesque spot. The vast expanse covers rolling hills lined with monuments, and there are many varieties of flowering plants, old-timey antique ones planted long ago. Of all the unique and grandiose architecture erected in Natchez across the centuries, the city cemetery is arguably as magnificent. I maintain it’s one of Natchez’s greatest local treasures and worthy of preservation. The headstones, masonry, and wrought iron fencing vary greatly from stately to unassuming. In the old sections most stones list far off places of birth, places oceans away, recording the endless chain of immigrants that defined 18th, 19th, and 20th century Natchez by making it their home. All of this is worthy of capturing on film, but today we are here for blossoms.

“Let’s make a loop first, okay?”

“Great.”

We’ve developed a particular route through the park-like setting that takes us by our departed relatives scattered across the many acres. I could navigate this path blindfolded. I’ve spent this lifetime bringing Lilies to our loved ones at Easter, greenery at Christmas, checking on Mama and her rose bush throughout the year, and laying folks to rest as they go. I’m enraptured with this earthly spot, and the Victorians were, too. They made it fashionable to picnic and recreate in the cemetery, digging cisterns all across the great expanse, enabling them to spend all day outdoors comfortably with family, both past and present.

“Look,” Sadie says. “It’s your Uncle Harry.” 

She’ll do this for everyone as though we don’t come here every week.

“Sure is. Hey Uncle Harry!”

Harry was my Dad’s baby brother, and being the closest to the cemetery gates means he always receives the first greeting. His is a double headstone, though, thankfully, my Aunt Clairece is still bopping about town, busy with their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. 

“Look,” she says again. 

“What?”

“It’s Christine.”

“Aw. Sure is.”

This time I’m grateful for her reminder. Christine hasn’t been here very long.

“Lord, I can’t believe it’s already been six months. Look. She has grass now.”

“Yep.”

Christine’s our most recent loss, having just passed Christmas Day of last year. She was one of our Aunt Paula’s sisters and one of our maternal grandmother’s dearest, lifelong friends. Unfailingly, she was always kind, always thoughtful, enjoyed a good drink, and loved to laugh. Like my Aunt Paula and Aunt Ellen, Christine was a godsend for me in the years after Mama died and then for Sadie, too, after her mother, Ellen, died. 

Sadie’s mother and my mother were sisters, and Christine to them was like another mother. Though not kin by blood, we’ve always considered her family, and Lordy, she’s been greatly missed. Though strong physically, her memory failed her, and her decline thereafter was swift. In a matter of months she was gone or “Off to the party!” as Mama would say. 

“She’s at the party!” I remind Sadie.

“Of course.”

The “party” is the heavenly gathering of our familial spirits, and from the guest list alone I can promise it’s become one hell of a sock hop. It’s the shared belief that our loved ones are partying down in the hereafter, overjoyed from being reunited. Simply, it’s just easier for us to imagine our departed celebrating their reunion at a celestial cocktail party versus contentedly strumming the harp on a cloud. (None of us feel our peoples are those kind of angels.) But essentially, at its root the concept was just our parents’ way of beginning to make peace with their losses (or maybe their parents’ or their parents’).

“There’s Paw Paw Frank and Grammaw.”

“And Uncle Buster and Aunt Shelley.”

“Let’s get out and say hey!”

“Too hot.”

“Aw. Come on!”

“Hmm. Okay,” Sadie agrees reluctantly.   

My first experience with death and loss came at age six with the passing of my maternal grandfather, my Paw Paw Frank. Vividly, I recall being next to my mother on the front pew of the Methodist church across from his flower-covered casket, holding her hand as she fought to contain her grief and endure the service. 

Afterwards, at the cemetery for the graveside service I found myself awed by the big green canopy over the gravesite and the matching chairs lined up on AstroTurf alongside the freshly dug hole. I thought to myself, “I want to sit in those chairs,” and asked my dad, “Who are those for?” My father explained that the seating was intended for Paw Paw Frank’s immediate family, and we watched as my mother, her siblings, and my grandmother filled the reserved spaces while we stood amongst the crowd. For summer funerals the shade of the canopy offers some relief from the Mississippi sun, but I can share from experience that’s the only upside to having a reserved seat there.

Year after year, I keep finding myself graveside in Mississippi saying goodbyes. Until recently, it’s the only reason my name ever appeared in the newspaper - in the obituary section reporting me as a pallbearer. Alas, I’ve carried more folks to their final resting place than I have fingers and toes, but it’s been both an honor and a privilege to perform this ritual for my family.

“Look. There they are,” Sadie says before taking another swallow of Diet Coke.

“Sure are! Hi Nanny and Paw Paw Smylie, Aunt Peggy, and Uncle Ray!”

We continue along greeting and waving in this fashion for all our kinfolk.

“Hey Aunt Alice! You know she lived to 104, right?”

“Yep. Granny’s sister.”

“Sure was. And there’s Uncle Kenny!”

“Hey Uncle Kenny! ”

“Reckon who left those flowers?” Five dollars says Sadie’s gonna say Aunt Paula.

“Could be Aunt Paula,” she says reflexively.

“Could be,” I respond, smiling, counting my winnings. 

  Mama’s coming up next, and even though it’s ninety-five degrees outside and we’ve already gotten out of the car once, Sadie knows that barring an onslaught of heavy rain, mosquitos, or Buffalo gnats I’m going to stop the vehicle and get out again. Instinctively, she unbuckles her seatbelt. 

“Hey Mama! Your rose bush (#3) is looking good.”

“It needs water.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

After all these years I’ve finally remembered to just leave a big ol’ plastic cup in my car so I can fill it with water from one of the cemetery’s spigots to keep Mama’s rose bush alive. I retrieve it from the back of the car, fill it with water, and refresh her off-white roses. Sadie’s already walking the rows between Mama and the generations of Junkins that came before, most of whom were born an ocean away. I walk over and join her. 

“It’s Granny,” she says.

“Sure is. Hey Granny! I bet she misses us as much as we miss her, huh?

“Of course.”

“Well tell ‘em all hey, and let’s go back to the entrance so I can photograph those azaleas. Hey everybody!”

“Bye everybody!”

As we climb back into the car I crank the air conditioning to max, and we motor over to the entrance of the cemetery.

Sadie chooses to wait in the car likely to soak up the AC, play Christmas music on her phone, and finish off that Diet Coke. I hop back out into the Mississippi heat and begin snapping away at the blooming azaleas. After ten minutes I return to the car.

“I think I got it. Can’t wait to paint these.”

“Great.”

“You ready?”

“Of course.”

Pulling back out onto Cemetery Road, I look back across the expanse and discover my hand over my heart. “Well, this is where they live now,” I think to myself. “On Earth you’ll find them here.”

“What about Mr. Taylor?” Sadie asks.

“He’s in Atlanta, babe. He’s not coming to the Natchez City Cemetery.”

We just memorialized Mr. Taylor back in May. My sister-in-law’s father, he was a pillar of a man, much respected personally and professionally, unfailing kind and thoughtful, enjoyed a good drink and loved to laugh, much like Christine. Father to three kind, smart, loving girls, his passing left a tremendous hole in his family, one felt far and wide.

Before marrying my brother, Reese and I were inseparable throughout our college years. We spent our free time together, worked together, and eventually even lived together, becoming family long before she and my brother exchanged their vows. Thoughtfully, the Taylors always included me in their Friday night dinners, welcoming me to their table whether at home or dining out.

The family’s favorite spot was an Italian restaurant, “Marco’s,” a place they’d dined for years, eventually becoming friendly with the owner whose name, unsurprisingly, was Marco. Upon my first visit with the Taylors it became clear that Marco was trying to place me in the context of this family. Was I a boyfriend? A cousin? An exchange student? Mr. Taylor must have sensed Marco’s curiosity and offered up the explanation that despite our many physical differences I was definitely his long-lost son. 

“Don’t we look alike?” Mr. Taylor prodded.

Marco was no fool, but he was willing to play along for a good customer, so Mr. Taylor continued this proclamation upon each visit always saying something like, “And this week my son can/can’t have wine!” 

His humor shined in the presence of his family, and I felt honored to be a part of the camaraderie. Generously, he covered many an Italian meal on my behalf throughout my college years, and all I had to do was act the part. 

After Mr. Taylor’s service I found myself watching his grandkids, all cousins, my nephews included, playing, squealing, fighting, and having fun, largely unaware of the enormity of their family’s great loss. Suddenly, I realize my hand’s moved over my heart, and I’m imagining Mr. Taylor welcomed into the party. 

Inevitably, the party continues to grow in number each year, a depressing fact for those of us left behind, but there’s a silver lining for the lonely earthbound. The party down here grows in number, too. Just as our loved ones are destined to depart, new little Junkins & Hudnalls are fated to arrive. This is the natural progression of life, and we’re all just taking our turn in it.

“He is going to miss the party,” Sadie says.

“No way! You can get there from Atlanta. I promise. You can get there from anywhere.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Aunt Paula says no one can get to Heaven without first changing planes in Atlanta.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Save us a seat, y’all!

We’re burning candles down here for you down here.

Party On!

* * *  

Paw Paw Frank

Great Granny Clarabelle

Great Aunt NeNe

Neighbors, Mary Louise & Picket

Churchgoer, Nettie Jones

Neighbors, The Barnums

Churchgoer, Jim Rogers

Churchgoer & Autoharp Extraordinaire, Dottie Havey

Lucky Dog

Neighbor, David Folks

Paw Paw Smylie

Aunt Peggy

Grammaw Helen Mae

Uncle Harry

Nanny

Uncle Kenny

Great Aunt Alice

Mama

Ruby Dog

Cousin Courtney

Baby Clarabelle

Favorite Aunt Ellen

Uncle Buster

Aunt Shelley

Aunt Velma

Christine

Mr. Taylor

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