The minister began his memorial service.
His words, "dear, sweet lady," caused my mind to occupy its own dimension . . . the cozy upstairs bedroom in my grandparent's home became as clear then as when I had snuggled beneath my grandmother's quilts which had been lovingly and patiently stitched by her skillful hands.
As she gently stroked back my hair, just her touch provided a sense of security, warmth and contentment. With her beside me on that old four-poster bed, I would always ask, "Please tell me another story?"
Her Scottish ancestry made her a natural storyteller. "When I was a little girl," was how her stories began. Her vast reservoir of human experience was very much like that basket of quilt blocks she kept beside the old Singer sewing machine . . . carefully selecting each colorful piece of material, then meticulously assembling it into her new story.
Her soothing, melodious voice would flutter with excitement as she told of seeing her first airplane, the first automobile or the first silent picture show at the "emporium" one of her older brothers operated in the rural community where she had spent her childhood. I was spellbound. Often, when story time was over, my night was filled with marvelous dreams of being in those places she had so vividly described.
My mind was pulled back to the present as the minister began his prayer. It was simple. It expressed exactly what she would have wanted. Its theme was, "family."
In the dramatic conclusion of his play, Our Town, Thornton Wilder wrote:
- Now there are some things we all know, but we don't take'm out and look at'm very often. We all know that something is eternal. And it ain't houses and it ain't names, and it ain't earth, and it ain't even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you'd be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There's something way down deep that's eternal about every human being.
I think the something Wilder refers to is the love embodied within family values. Must family values be "old-fashioned?" Have we, as a society, forgotten the importance of love and family? Do we always take a moment to show how much we care? Are we too busy to look at each other and really see the uniqueness of each loving characteristic which can reveal itself if given an opportunity?
Family values were never questioned by my grandmother's generation. They were just always present. She took pride in her family, never hesitating to tell anyone how much she loved her family. And, she was always surrounded by love and a deeply-felt sense of the values by which all families should live.
The minister was concluding his service.
. . . she was approaching her 97th birthday and had outlived two of her three children when she peacefully passed from us as she slept . . .
I recall little else about that afternoon except thinking, "now, she is reunited with grandfather."
I could imagine her lilting voice, alive in lively conversation.
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