memorial service; more weather

My friend Franco says that after you hear someone's life story, you can't help but love them. Perhaps that's why I like memorial services so much -- you hear the best, the most sparkly part, of a person's life. And you're amidst loving admirers and those who love them, in a heart-wide-open setting. Yes, memorial services are sad, and yes, there's often laughter mixed in (what was that long-forgotten movie where someone said "laughter and tears -- my favorite emotion"?).

Yesterday, I attended a service for a 90-year old woman -- one who had lived life with her throttle stuck on Yes. She was the mother of a former boss, a man who's full of life himself. She was a southerner, a democrat, and a Christian -- as her son pointed out, these days, those three words are not often used in the same sentence. She was an accomplished cook, well-read, well-traveled, and well-loved. She'd been to 57 countries and had once made a list of the 80-90 forms of transportation she had ridden on, including camel and hot-air balloon. The Ku Klux Klan had burned a cross on her lawn, she was at the protest in Florida when Ted Bundy was put to death, and when living in Pakistan, she was shown great honor by being offered a bowl of warm (meaning fresh) pig's blood to drink (which of course she drank). She was always well-dressed and stylish, including on the lovely afternoon that Robert and I spent with her several years ago.

For her last ten years, she lived next door to her oldest son, and eventually, another son moved in with her. She died after a long, slow decline, made ever so much more gracious by her devoted family, and she went in her sleep. It's a style of death we don't see much of anymore, what with high-tech medical care and far-flung families.

The service itself was held in a huge old New England church, very dignified, itself. We were in a small side chapel, fewer than 50 of us. We sang "Morning is Broken" (to the tune I'm familiar with, thanks to the-folk-singer-formerly-known-as-Cat-Stevens, not to the jarringly unfamiliar tune sung by the Episcopalians), listened to passages of the Bible, and said the Lord's Prayer (but again, not the Episcopalian version, and not the Catholic version either). And we heard from people who loved her -- her minister, her sons, her caretaker, two daughters-in-law, two grandsons, a friend. Cookies and punch followed downstairs, which facilitated good conversations, including with Mrs. P's son, Tom, his son, David, and my friend Karl.

****
And it's a good thing the service was held yesterday, under fairly pleasant skies. Today we're all stocked up and socked in, waiting for a major blizzard to move in. We considered going into town for an afternoon dance, but realized that even though the journey in would be easy, the journey home would be in the range of difficult-to-impossible. We ran out this morning for some fabric and encountered untold amounts of traffic (everyone's doing last-minute errands before the 20-30 inches fall), brought in four loads of wood, and settled in. Now the skies are heavy, and we're just waiting, Robert and the cat by the fire, and me upstairs in the glow of my comptuer monitor. We've figured out how to cope (eat, stay warm, keep the pipes from freezing) should we lose power, but we probably won't need to carry out our plans. And fortunately, we're on town water, so a loss of power means we can still brush and flush. It's still quite cold, with temps just barely in double digits. Snow should warm things a little more, though.