A Really Bad Day

Our doggie was having trouble breathing. She sounded as if she was drowning because of all the fluid in her lungs. When we called out the vet at 2:00 a.m., I knew what he was going to say. The time had come.

She had been fighting congestive heart failure for several months. Pills three times a day, weight loss, dull coat, coughing, lethargy. It was obvious she didn't feel good, but she tried to be cheerful.

We went to the vet every two weeks whether she needed to or not. I wanted them to see how she was progressing. She was at the maximum dosage on her meds. Last Thursday the vet said there was nothing more that could be done. Keep her happy, keep her quiet, and bring her in if she was having trouble breathing.

I thought we might be able to squeak by another couple of months, but one week later we were making the call. She was in obvious distress and had to have intervention. The vet said it was her time. We signed the papers, said our goodbyes, and held her while she went to sleep for the final time.

We buried her the next day under the Bridal Wreath bush in the backyard.

We loved you very much baby girl. You were a good doggie.

I Hear The Noise of Wings

My friend's momma passed away this week and we attended the funeral. It was held at a little country church in the backwoods of Hot Spring County; Harmony Primitive Baptist in Donaldson, Arkansas.

The service started with congregational singing. The song leader stood and announced the hymn number (but not the title) and lauched into the first verse before I could find the correct page. I recognized the hymn as Blessed Be The Tie That Binds and could get through the first verse by memory. However, by the second line I realized the congregation was singing a cappella in four-part harmony. This was Sacred Harp singing; or shape-note singing, a rarity in today's America of mega-churches and praise bands.

It was beautiful. Simply magnificent, even with the screeching soprano in the back, the tenor who was a little sharp, and the lady behind us who was in a monotone drone. Their deviation made it all the more beautiful.

I wept openly at the stunning simplicity. It touched me somewhere deep inside; deep in my Southern Arkansas roots. My great-great-great grandmother sang it this way, as did all my ancestors before me, just a few miles down the road in another little country church in Clark County. I was transported back in time 200 years and my DNA helixes were vibrating in harmony with the sound.

During Amazing Grace and O Come, Angel Band I fell completely apart. Tears were streaming down my cheeks it was so moving. It was a good thing I was at a funeral and not a wedding or Sunday church service where my tears would not be so appropriate. I had never heard these hymns sung like this live-and-in-person, only in recordings or on video.

Angel Band is one of the best funeral songs ever and is on the soundtrack of the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?.

1.) My latest sun is sinking fast, my race is nearly run,
My strongest trials now are past, my triumph is begun!

CHORUS:
O come Angel Band, come and around me stand,
O bear me away on your snowy wings to my immortal home,
O bear me away on your snowy wings to my immortal home.

2.) I know I'm nearing holy ranks of friends and kindred dear,
I brush the dew of Jordan's banks, the crossing must be near,

3.) I've almost gained my heav'nly home, my spirit loudly sings;
The holy ones, behold they come! I hear the noise of wings,

4.) O bear my longing heart to Him who bled and died for me;
Whose blood now cleanses from all sin, and gives me victory.

Harmony Primitive Baptist isn't so primitive after all. They have a web site and a podcast of the entire funeral. Blessed Be and Amazing Grace are at the beginning. Angel Band is about 75% of the way down the slide. Of course the recordings don't do the songs any justice. They were much more beautiful live.

More recordings of congregational singing are on the HPB Sermon Podcasts page at the bottom of the right-hand sidebar.

I love my Methodist pipe organ, but when it comes to singing, the Primitive Baptists have got it goin' on.

I Need to Know About These Things

At the family reunion this weekend, I somehow ended up being responsible for driving my nine-year-old niece from our campsite out in the woods to dinner in town. A few delays along the way made the trip about 20 minutes or so.

I was panicking about being alone with her for that long. She's a sweet little kid, but I'm terrified of children, which translates to anyone under the age of 25. I just don't know what to do, what to say, or how to act. I only have experience interacting with adults.

I'm mostly terrified of saying something terribly inappropriate or not protecting them from danger. Kids are a big responsibility and I don't think I'm old enough for that yet. With gray hair and bifocals, I *look* like I'm a responsible adult, but the truth is I'm not.

As we left the campsite, we passed a rather large country cemetery. Jen commented that it was amazing that so many people had died in one spot. Wouldn't they run out of room to bury them all?

Woo Hoo! Cemeteries, my favorite subject! I launched into a detailed explanation about cemeteries: public, private, and environmentally friendly ones; and the cost of funerals, caskets, and burial plots vs. cremation. That led to a discussion about how someone is cremated, embalming, ashes, urns, mausoleums, columbariums (a word I couldn't come up with at the time), and how a body gets nasty pretty quickly after death and has to be dealt with.

When she asked about cremation, my definition was, "They put you in a big oven and cook you up into about three pounds of ash, kinda like a pile of charcoal briquettes." Aw, Crap! I knew I had screwed up the minute it came out of my mouth. That's a terrible image to give to a kid her age. Comments like that are the reason I shouldn't be left alone with small children.

I said to her, "Ya know, since I don't have kids, I don't know if I should be telling you this stuff. Is it creeping you out to hear about dead people?"

She pondered for a second, then replied, "No, death is a part of life and I need to know about these things."

Whoa! I was blown away by such a mature response. I'm not sure this kid is just nine years old.

Then she asked, "What happens to your money when you die?"

Yep, she's a 45-year-old lawyer disguised as a short kid.

Well, she asked for it so I gave it to her; an overview of wills, estates, trusts, executors, probate, the whole nine yards. I explained most people leave their money to their children. If they don't have kids, they can leave it to the church, a charitable organization, or a sibling. She nodded occasionally and seemed to be absorbing it all.

When I finished her only comment was, "It's unusual that someone else does all the talking."

I think that was a very polite way of saying, "You're an old windbag."

Sigh.

Great Obits (#4) - Potluck Funeral

Danny Lee, age 46, of Mena, passed away Friday.

He was an avid sportsman, and loved to hunt and fish. It was his wish that his ashes be put back to the outdoors he enjoyed so much. He was a loving father, son, grandfather, brother, uncle and friend, and will be greatly missed by all who knew him.

Danny Lee was sent for cremation. His family will be holding a pot-luck dinner to honor his memory and character. A date and time will be announced.

----------------------------------

The folks in Mena, AR know how to throw good funeral doings. It has never occurred to me to have a potluck funeral. What a concept.

"Danny died, y'all come eat! Bring a dish."

I suppose they will scatter his ashes in the river after dinner, build a bonfire, and hoist a few cold ones in his memory. It's a bubba thing to do.

Funeral Headquarters

In the obituaries in my hometown newspaper, the last line often reads, "The family will be headquartered at the home of...." This lets folks know where to pay their respects and drop off the casserole without having to drive all over town. While this is a charming Southern tradition when someone dies, I would be appalled to know that at the hour of my death, half the town would descend upon my house only to discover it has been a while since I scrubbed the toilet.

At Funeral Headquarters, the family decides which dress to bury Momma in, picks out music for the funeral and deals with an onslaught of food. How much ham is really necessary to bury someone in Lower Arkansas? When my friend Cindy Lou's momma died, I ended up with a fully cooked ham complete with pineapple rings, Maraschino cherries, and a wonderful glaze. It was still warm from the oven when she foisted it on me at the visitation. She said there were already two whole hams at the house in addition to several sliced ham trays. We ate ham for months afterward...ham steaks, ham sandwiches, diced ham in salads. I didn't know ham would keep in the freezer, but it does, and fairly well too.

Back at Funeral Headquarters, the family also has to deal with the cut-throat actions of the widder women who come to pitch their woo to the newly minted widower. A widowed man with a home, acreage and a military pension is quite a catch around here. The Widder Women walk around Funeral Headquarters redecorating the rooms in their head. You can see it in their eyes, "Oh how tacky, that would *have* to go," and "My sofa would look so great over there by the fireplace." Cindy Lou had to run off two women who had overstayed their welcome battling over her daddy. The third day after the funeral she told 'em they needed to go back home and stay there.

It got me to thinking about the word "headquartered." To me that evokes the idea of a military command post; a place to plan a battle strategy. Is this what we do in Lower Arkansas? Plan a battle strategy against Death? Or is it against the mourners?

Funeral Fashion Police

Hubby and I attended a funeral today in a little country church way back in the woods. About 25 members of the "Bikers Fer Jesus" gang showed up on their Hogs dressed in full leather regalia with chains. Mixed in were some salt-of-the-earth farmer folks from down in the country and a few Dallas Dolls with $300 haircuts and designer dresses. This eclectic mix of folks was packed in the church like sardines. Standing room only.

Every social group has slightly different standards for what is considered appropriate attire for funerals. I was raised with the archaic notion that beach wear and hoochie-momma outfits are not appropriate for church funerals. The ladies should wear dresses, the gentlemen suits. I might wear nice slacks to a funeral parlor funeral, but in a church I'm showin' some leg properly encased in pantyhose, stickyhot Arkansas summer day or not.

I had no problem whatsoever with the Bikers Fer Jesus in their leathers. The deceased was a member of that organization so I found their attire to be entirely appropriate, church funeral or not. Nor did I find fault with the little barefooted country children. I wanted to be barefooted too. But there were three folks who were in danger of being arrested by the Fashion Police.

1) The Hoochie Momma in the Mini Skirt

Yew might be a redneck if....
...your grandma wears a mini-skirt to a funeral.

She caught my eye striding along the back edge of the crowd. She was a head taller than everyone else and moving at a clip that told me she had legs about five feet long. She was a Bottle Blonde with a leather face and probably in her mid to late 50s.

When she cleared the edge of the crowd, I was stunned. I never saw her blouse because I was riveted by the sight of the camel-colored denim micro-mini skirt she was wearing...with black hose! Eeek! The skirt was barely long enough to cover her cootchie. If she had been 14 years old, the skirt would have looked really cute on her, but her momma still would have made her go back to her room and change. On a 55-year-old it was a fashion disaster.

2) Larry the Cable Guy

Yew might be a redneck if...
...you go to a funeral dressed like Larry the Cable Guy.

I did a double-take on this cat. He was the spittin' image of Larry the Cable Guy. He had on a red plaid shirt with the sleeves cut out, jeans, work boots, and a sweat stained gimme cap complete with a big ol' fish hook bent around the edge of the brim. I can understand a hard working guy taking an hour from his labors to attend a funeral, but really! Couldn't he have tossed a clean T-shirt and cap in the truck when he left for work this morning??? Sweaty, hairy pits are just gross.

3) The Nephew's Girlfriend

Yew might be a redneck if...
...your girlfriend wears flip-flops and a Larry the Cable Guy shirt to a funeral.

The nephew's girlfriend was about 16. She had some notion that she was supposed to wear black to a funeral, but she missed the mark. She did have on a black camisole, but it was most definitely of the underwear variety, not one that was meant to be worn as outwear. Over that was thrown an unbuttoned hot pink plaid shirt with the sleeves cut out. Below that was a faded pair of hip hugger jeans and a pair of cheap plastic beach flip-flops. Where is this girl's momma???

Ya know, people probably think Jeff Foxworthy makes this stuff up. If you are one of those people, you have never visited Lower Arkansas.

Funeral Singin'

The funeral program said, "How Great Thou Art" - solo. When she stood and went to the podium, I thought to myself, "Uh oh, this is gonna be BAD."

I was attending my uncle's funeral, packed into the funeral parlor chapel with 14 cousins, their spouses and offspring, and 200 other fine citizens of my hometown. There was standing room only even with the folding chairs down the aisles. It was shaping up to be the funeral of the year.

Miz Ima Jean Witherspoon rose to sing her solo. Miz Ima Jean looks to be about 109 1/2. Everybody knows a Miz Ima Jean, there's one in every church in Arkansas. She is the Queen Mother of the first soprano section of the church choir, never misses church or a Wednesday night choir practice. She should have been demoted to alto decades ago since she hasn't been able to hit a high C since 1967, but she is oblivious to the fact and no one has the courage to tell her. Her lipstick is applied just beyond the edges of the lips God gave her and she smells like flowerdy old lady perfume with overtones of mothballs. Yes, you know who I'm talkin' about.

Miz Ima Jean was decked out in her best Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' dress and a "bad lid", a matching royal blue hat bought especially for the occasion. She teetered to the podium and the pianist started. The audience drew its collective breath because they, like me, knew, "This is gonna be bad."

She started in on the first verse and we were not disappointed. I was trying not to giggle but it was a struggle. As she crackled along I studied my fingernails, the toe of my shoe, the fibers of the carpet. I dared not make eye contact with any of my cousins because that would be the end of us.

Miz Ima Jean sang with all her heart, pouring forth her praise to God as His humble servant and in memory of my recently departed uncle. Even though her voice was not quite up to the task, her heart and soul were giving it all she had. After a minute or two I decided it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated, but then realized she had sung the first and second verses back to back without the chorus. As she finished the second verse and started in on the chorus the audience rustled uneasily. Here it comes....



"How Great Thou Arrrrrrt (crack!)... How Greaaat (crack!) Thou Arrrrrt."

Cousin Tommy was poking Cousin Brandi. Brandi's shoulders were quivering as she intently studied the hem of her jacket. She didn't dare look up at him. Over in the pallbearer section Cousin Tommy Darrell was making big google eyes at no one in particular. Beside me my sister was doing a little mouth breathing trying to maintain some composure. I was squinching up my toes, clenching my teeth and giving my fingernails a microscopic examination. We were all on the edge of mutiny. One look cut across the room, one instant of eye contact, one snicker and the whole place would have exploded.

By the second chorus little beads of sweat were forming on my brow. Cousin Ashley, sitting in front of me on the front row, was beginning to squirm. She was the only adult in the front row and was riding herd on a gaggle of nieces and nephews. I could see the kids giving Ashley puzzled looks. I can only imagine the look on Ashley's face as she tried to be a good role model right there under Miz Ima Jean's nose. I was busy in silent prayer, "Please God, do not let there be another verse; Please God, do NOT let there be another verse."

God must have been listening because the piano player was banging out the big finale, "How Great Thou Art (crack!)...How Greaaaat (crack!) Thou Arrrrrrt (crack!)" The amens from the amen pew were especially fervent, not only because of Miz Ima Jean's anthem, but because it was finally over. The audience breathed a sigh of relief.

Two hundred people gathered in attendance had managed to maintain their composure with nary a snicker and Miz Ima Jean's grace and dignity were preserved. For that, let us all give Thanks.

Note to self: No soloist at my funeral doings.

Great Obits (#1) - If You Feel Compelled

This is the obit of a fellow I wish I had known (bold emphasis mine):

ARKADELPHIA - Vernon, formerly of Fordyce, died Saturday. Vernon was a veteran of World War II, and was severely wounded in the Battle of the Bulge in Germany. He overcame the doctors predictions who told him he would never walk again. He would laughingly comment, "They gave me a rifle and told me to shoot at someone and I wasn't mad at anybody."

He was a successful businessman, operating the Lion Oil jobbership for Dallas County. He became interested in timberland and bought and managed his timber investments until the last day of his life. He believed in conservation and in leaving the land better off than when he bought it. The family has requested no flowers, but if you feel compelled any gift would be appreciated to Alzheimer's Research.

Burial will be at a little cemetery on the farm were Vernon was born near his beloved Goathead Deer Camp, casual dress required.

Vernon seems like the kind of guy I would have felt privileged to call a friend. A salt of the earth kinda guy, kinda laid back, trying to make his little corner of the world better off than when he started. He probably didn't want a lot of fru-fru fuss made over him at his funeral. He probably held the opinion that paying good money for funeral flowers was wasteful. God grows beautiful flowers for free, why cut a bunch that will only wither and die in a few days time?

Hoping to avoid having to deal with a bunch of potted dieffenbachia, the family gave mourners an out..."if you feel compelled." Well of course folks would be compelled. Proper southerners don't show up at funeral doings empty-handed. They send flowers, a casserole, or a pie.

I would have split the difference. I would have shown up at the funeral in my bib overalls with a few spring bulbs and a spade in my back pocket and planted jonquils around Vernon's headstone. I think he would have liked that.