Love Story

My parents' funeral day dawned bright and sunny. My husband and I were wakened early by the traffic on the mountain road by their house. In olden days, it was more of a backroad. Apparently, now, it is more of a thoroughfare, with traffic beginning around 4:30 a.m.; and let me say, a fair amount of traffic for the middle of nowhere.

I had dreaded this day, and here it was. But my husband and I were facing it together, and my little sister and her husband and daughter awaited us at St. John's Church. Before all of that, though, I took a quick walk up the mountain road, and saw the light on top of Shade Mountain, which will always be my father's mountain to me.

I had done some sorting through my mother's things the night before. My little sister had placed clothing on my parents' bed, and there was plenty more hanging in their closet. So I looked through it all, tried some on, and discovered (no surprise here) that I am a more robust woman than my sweet little mama; very little of her clothing fit me!

And let me tell you: it was one of the strangest feelings in the world, looking through her closet, which was a place we kids were NEVER allowed to be, as my mother kept her purse and other important stuff there.

My husband and I packed up all of the stuff we'd brought, and all of what I'd picked up at the house, and the fan, and we tucked it in around the big board displaying the family photos we'd prepared the night before. It was tight, let me tell you! But we got it all in.

The drive to the church was quick, no more than 10 minutes. And I reflected that my dad, born at a farmhouse nearby, could have walked the distance from where he was born to where he would be laid to rest in about five minutes! That's the Juniata County way. . . .

We walked inside the church, and my sister and her family were already there. She shared some strange news with me right off, and her look was stricken, imagining how it COULD have ended up. She and I were the only two of us six kids able to attend the funeral. And as it turns out, there was a very bad wreck on route 322 eastbound that morning (the route my husband and I had to travel) that closed the road. 

Two people were killed in that accident, and it caused quite a traffic snarl. Had my husband and I not come down the day before, we likely would have missed my parents' funeral entirely, leaving my little sister to stand there alone. I shudder to think it. How fortunate that we made the choices that we did.

A trickle of visitors started out slowly but things picked up quickly. All told, there were probably 100 people who showed up. My parents were presented in coffins next to each other, each one holding a love note from the other. My mother's says this:

Dear Mama, I love you. - Pappy

Tiny Tiger had come along, and he insisted on crawling into my mother's hands one last time. He did not understand why she didn't smile at him, as she always did before. He wondered if I meant for him to go with her into that box - no, no, no! - I pulled him out before they closed the lid.

I had printed out some of my best stories about them (including the tale of their passing, miraculously, just seven or so hours apart!), and I placed a few in each coffin, with notes saying We love you, Mom! and We love you, Dad! In the photo above, you may see my mother's love note from Dad, Tiny Tiger, her wedding dress, and one of my stories with my hand-written note.

Assorted items were displayed nearby, including the wedding certificate you may see in the extras. They actually eloped and ran off to Maryland to get married. My dad, always an independent cuss, did not want to have to ask anyone for permission for my mother's hand. 

That day, June 17, 1950, they got married in Hagerstown, went to see the movie Annie Get Your Gun in Harrisburg, came back home, and moved into my mom's parents' house in Richfield; that's where the first two little girls were born, Barb and Marilyn. The third, Pat, was born in the house they built on Shade Mountain. The rest of us kids were born in the hospital.

Then the visitors' line began to swell, and Julie and I spent the remainder of the time greeting guests, saying who we were, listening to their stories. I have never been cried on by so many old men, mostly members of the camp my dad and brother belong to, on the mountain.

I was reminded again of what it was like coming from a big family: "Now which one of Lee and Norma's girls ARE you?" Some people thought I looked like Barb. Some people thought I was Marilyn. A few thought I was Julie, and asked if I was the youngest. LOL! And bless you to the people who said I look like my mother! (To keep track of all of the players, you may view this family photo here.)

I met some people who knew my mother when she was young. I laughed to hear this story, from someone who knew my parents way back when. She said that my parents were always giving each other big, passionate kisses. She has kissing photos of my parents from long ago, she said; perhaps, she should send us some. And then she looked at the photo board we'd put together, which features a significant number of just such kisses: "I guess that's something they kept doing!" she said, and we all laughed. Yes, they did.

Then we had the funeral, and there were two preachers, one who prayed over us and anointed myself, Julie, and her daughter. The other guy, a friend of my dad's, handled most of the speaking part of the service. He did pretty well, except for the part where he kept calling my mother Nora (it's Norma).

I have been doing pretty well at managing my grief, and my tears, but I have to admit that when we sang the very first song, Old Rugged Cross, I absolutely lost it. It was a song I had sung to my dad on one of the first visits where he did not really wake up to speak to me; when I realized he was indeed dying. So I stood there and bawled with abandon; my body shook. My husband reached out and held onto me. Eventually, I could sing again.

The service ran late, but suddenly, it was time for the part where they load the caskets into the hearses and take them out into the graveyard. There were two hearses, side by side. Into them went the coffins. Behind the hearses, my little sister and I walked hand-in-hand into the graveyard, her daughter holding onto her other hand.

It was a short distance, just a minute or two. We got there; the hearses parked, and out came the coffins, side-by-side in the graveyard (see photo in the extras). And under a semi-cloudy sky, we finished the service, and we laid my parents to rest next to my big sister Barb.

My best friend Terri from high school was there with her daughter, Anita, my god-daughter and namesake, and HER daughter. My mother was so thrilled I had a namesake that she sent my god-daughter cards all these years at her birthday. During the final part of the service, my friend stood behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders, or touching my hair to comfort me.

Some of my dearest and oldest friends, the ones I lunch with every month, had sent a gorgeous flower display, which they actually presented to me upon conclusion of the services. It features red, yellow, and white roses, with yellow sunflowers sprinkled in; the flowers are all around a cross, a tribute to my parents' faith.

The church ladies provided a meal that was quite lovely, with sandwiches, and crock pots of this and that, mac and cheese, baked beans, veggies and dip, pepper slaw, hot coffee, and assorted desserts. At the end of it, I turned to my baby sister, who had arranged my parents' services with the funeral director, and said, "You did good, Doll Baby" (a thing my dad would say). After that, my husband and I would shortly take our leave, and head back up the pike for home.

As I stood in the graveyard after the meal, my parents' coffins had already been interred and covered. A backhoe guy showed up a bit later to finish the job. Those Methodists don't waste any time! I thought, feeling a little startled by how quickly it was all done.

But I remembered with some glee the last time I rode with my father on the backroads around the church, that time this past spring that we took my cookies on a long drive and a big adventure, and my dad got to be a Transporter on the Chocolate Chip Cookie Pony Express (a tale that to this day amuses me to no end - and of course, I'm the one who wrote it!).

He was driving without his seatbelt on that day, with a Burger King bag full of whoopie pies beside him, a gift for my brother's wife, who was in the nursing home in Sunbury for several months before she passed. The dash was making a horrible noise (turns out it was the seatbelt warning), and I was shouting, "WHAT'S THAT NOISE, DAD!????" And he shouted back, "WHAT NOISE, DOLL BABY!????" ("Doll Baby" was a name my dad called all of us girls, but especially Julie and me, the two youngest.)

He chose to go the backroad, he said, because there were "no restrictions." What he MEANT was, there was no signage indicating the speed limit. He presumed since none was stated, THERE WASN'T ONE! So he was flooring it, going pretty much as fast as the car would go, with quite a bit of enthusiasm, as we careened around the corners, barely keeping it on the road.

So now you know why this GirlWithACamera ended her visit, standing in the middle of a graveyard at St. John's Church, on a backroad to nowhere, lifting her voice, and practically shouting it into the clouds, into the Heavens above: "NO RESTRICTIONS, DAD!!!" I hollered. "NO RESTRICTIONS!!!!!"

I am sure there are details that matter that I've left out, and I apologize for those, but they're unintended. Thank you to those who showed up, or sent flowers or cards or other kind wishes. And thank you to the church ladies who made and served the delicious meal. All of these kindnesses, big and small, are much appreciated.

And I wanted to take you - you who have shown so much love and concern for my family, you who have enjoyed all of my stories - along with me, riding in my pockets, to see their resting place. I would say their final resting place, but that is wrong; there is no ending to their love story. My parents are together still, unparted, holding hands, sitting on a love seat in a little house at the edge of the woods in Heaven. Their love story cannot be contained by this life, or ended by death.

It's my tradition to include a song with my blip pictures, and I've got three, so here we go.

First, here is Vince Gill, with Go Rest High on That Mountain.
Second, here is Limahl, with Neverending Story.
And finally, here is a song I picked to go with the posting earlier this summer of their kiss. It is also a song I claim for my own personal lifelong love story, which I am working on even as we speak. :-) Mark Knopfler and Willie DeVille, with Storybook Love, from the film The Princess Bride.

He said, "Don't you know I love you oh, so much,
And lay my heart at the foot of your dress?"
She said, "Don't you know that storybook loves
Always have a happy ending?"
Then he swooped her up, just like in the books,
And on his stallion they rode away.