In Memoriam
She is from an ugly past, one full of poverty and abuse. She is from an unbreakable bond with a brother who was her constant. She is from a sister who opened her home to us on a spring break spent in San Angelo. NOT San Antonio. She is from dreams that I wish I knew, if only I had taken the time to ask about what they were.
She is from long nights tending bar at a bowling alley so that she could feed the five children she raised mostly on her own. One of whom she lost and whose name I share. She is from raising her grandbabies over that same bar so that they could eat all the candy she stocked behind it. My favorites were the wax bottles full of juice. And she is from giving us her tip money to play songs on the jukebox. After the counters were wiped and the chairs propped up on the tables, she and the other waitresses and bartenders would use the extra space to boogie on down.
She is a legacy in the small town where she made a living. She is Hottie Lottie, the coolest girl in town cruising in a white trans am and making dirty jokes that could make even the rowdiest men blush.
She is from one of my earliest memories – seeing the Snorkels on Ice and from feeding ducks at Silver Park. She is from Carnation Days and New Year’s Eve celebrations spent at the Comfort Inn. She is from annual garage sales where we truly embodied the Hoopie spirit, and she was our collector of funds from neighbors who bought our goods on credit. She is from packing ham salad sandwiches for the 8-hour adventure under the stars on our way to miles and miles of beautiful smiles up and down the boardwalk. She is from Carolina moons, catching crabs after dark, and sharing bags of sour worm candy before heading out the back door that led to the beach.
She is from Young and the Restless and Miss USA pageants and letting me do whatever I wanted when I was lucky enough to get to spend the night there. In my younger days this meant allowing me to stay up all night, eat junk food, and watch movies I was probably too young to be watching. Once I got older this meant allowing me to stay up all night, chain-smoke, and drink wine while lamenting my latest relationship woes. She is from a stack of Newport News magazines on her end table and a porch swing she was always willing to share.
She is from fried noodles with butter, and dumplings. She is from Burger Hut and Haggie’s and Shaffer’s, and a sloppy Joe recipe whose secret ingredient was sugar.
She is the sound of a tongue hitting the roof of a mouth, and a shaking head to show when something displeased her, but never more than this (other than maybe a "God dammit Carl) – not a petty comment, not participating in the idle gossip the rest of her family may have been found guilty of. She is skin scorched black from the sun as it reflected from the roof on which she lay.
She is from an old school pedestal tub in the back room upstairs and the fluorescent glare of tanning bed lights from across the hall. She is from Euchre around a table filled with all the people who love her, although they quit playing as soon as I learned.
She is a watcher, a wild-child, and the best wing woman a girl could ask for when trying to pick up guys in Vegas. She is from letting us kids dig through her jewelry boxes and raid her closet. I mean, honestly, who else looks to their grandparent for fashion advice. I still miss that long grey coat.
She is your fiercest protector– but in the gentlest of ways. She is from a grit and a strength that I can’t define other than to tell you that it is quiet, and kind, and not self-pitying. She is from a place of deep, deep listening, of empathy without shaming, and of always somehow managing to find the right words in the most trying of times. She is from a place of wisdom, but not judgment. She is a safe place to cry.
She is sanctuary.
Though her roots might be muddy, the tree that now stands is healthy and strong, with branches extending far and wide and bearing all kinds of beautiful blossoms.
*This poem is based (I think) on a poem written by poet and teacher George Ella Lyon. I first learned about it though from a class assignment posted by Linda Christensen who credits her inspiration to Jo Carson's "Where I'm From" poem.
*For those of you who came to the services yesterday and were wondering about the last song that was played....it was her oldest daughter Chrissy's favorite (Chris was killed in a tragic accident at age 13).
