"Ernie"
Ernestine Bailey Goodwyn was my boy Chuck's mom. Chuck has been a reader and appreciater of my 'funeral blogs' before I even had a blog site. We go way back, 'bout 25 years now. We joke about how when we first met at a club outside of Hartford; he was with a friend of his and how if he'd only asked me to dance first neither of our lives would have been the same. I'm glad we never dated - ours is a solid friendship built on shared interests, different life lessons and zillions of laughs. I fancy myself the (big) sister he never had. He's one of those brothers that can do a little bit of everything - and if he can't - he'll tell you who can. Resourceful. Charming. Quick witted. Dependable. That's Chucky. It doesn't hurt that he's got dimples to die for and eyelashes that would make RuPaul envious! So yeah, easy on the eyes too.
Our paths crossed again in our late 20's when we both began working for the same State of Con(n) agency. We'd laugh until we'd choke and cry, wrestle one another to the floor when our trash talking would reach it's apex - then go back to our desks and finish working, and more recently commiserate about our respective mother's declining health as they were both in nursing homes. The circle of life. I can remember being out and celebrating his 40th birthday, my 40th birthday, Christmas, thank-God-it's-Friday - and sooner or later either Chuck would get a phone call or cut out early because he had to go check in on Miss Ernestine. He never complained. It wasn't like an obligation for him - more like an honor. I've got to admit, I didn't really understand his sense of devotion then - he's an only child - but after more than my fair share of butt wipings for my own mother I, too, know that kind of love.
I'd met Miss Ernestine on only a couple of occasions. I knew she had a fondness for peanut butter treats and when I baked I'd give Chuck extra to slip to her on his visits. A true southern lady, gentle like but very direct in her observations. Powdered, lipsticked, bejeweled and beaded up - I sensed she was the type of woman who got her way without imposing her will. They don't breed 'em like that much anymore...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
New Haven, CT
10:55a.m.: It's a beautiful and warm early fall morning. Big puffy clouds. A skipping work kind of day... The funeral processional turns right in front of me as I make my way down Dwight St. "Geez, am I ALWAYS running on CP time???", I chide myself. It's a short line of cars and they ease down Chapel St. and stop in front of Miss Ernestine's home church, Immanuel Baptist - the longstanding bastion for New Haven's muck d' muck as my mother would say. That's Toot-speak for the bourgeois negros. There's plenty of 'em 'round these parts. I zip down a side street, grab a park and try to hustle inside the sanctuary before the family does. I mean, as a professional funeral-goer I know my funeral protocol - trust, it is tres tacky to be trying to come in alongside/behind/ahead of the family. I succeed, in part I'd like to think, because I'm rolling by myself. After speaking to a couple of co-workers I pop into the church's vestibule. I speak to a couple of the pallbearers I know and go try to sign the guest book, except the pen isn't working. I pull out my own. That one's not working either. Oh well - nobody can make out my signature anyway. It keeps the forgers at bay. I enter the sanctuary which has folks scattered throughout on both sides. Immanuel's a good size church, I'm not real good with square footage estimations but I'd suppose it seats 500 comfortably. I had mad choices. I almost go make one when I realize I've still got a couple of minutes of "viewing" time left. Yippee!! I ain't as colored as I thought! Miss Ernestine has on a beautiful purple dress and is powdered, lipsticked and bejeweled to perfection - just like I remember her. She's 81 according to the obituary but looks a good 15 years younger. Good living. And kudos to Howard K. Hill, the local superstar mortician. I say a prayer for her soul and choose my seat behind some of my fellow Faith Christian Center church members. One of the life changes I made for myself in this 50th year of my roaming the earth was to leave the "family" church circle I'd been in for the last 20+ years and joined a ministry where I'm not only fed spiritually but my spirit is free. I'm just "Willette" - not anyone's sister or daughter or cousin or niece. There are no other expectations of me beyond that. It just so happens that Chuck and his sweet wife are members too.
11:00: The Reverend Samuel T. Ross-Lee, Pastor of Immanuel Missionary Baptist Church leads the funeral processional down the center aisle. Miss Ernestine is survived by 1 sister and her 1 son. Her husband died a few years back. As noted in a previous blog, when you live to be 80 and 90+ your funeral is either well attended or you've outlived just about everybody. The processional is nowhere near as long as one of my families. We don't die, we multiply. For real. Because of the type of congregation Immanuel has historically had, the age of Miss Ernestine and the fact that underneath all of his spearchucking shenanigans, Chuck's really a classy guy, I didn't expect anything less than a tasteful, honorable homegoing service. I am not disappointed.
In between Old and New Testament readings the obviously Senior Choir (who else can afford to leave their gig in the middle of the morning for who knows how long??) sings "It is Well with My Soul". And it is. The "ex" slips into the pew behind me in uniform. He says he's working an extra-duty job nowhere near Immanuel but wanted to come by - his and Chuck's parents are friends from before they were born. He wants a program, but I never got one. I ask another FCC member who'd sat down next to me if we could look at hers. As he gets ready to leave he threatens to steal the program. I snatch it from him and return it with an apology. Thievin' cops...More scriptures, prayers and a lovely soprano operatic rendition of "I Trust in God" complete with rolling r's ("the billows rrrrroll") follow. Words of comfort are offered along with some of Miss Ernestine's life accomplishments. She'd been an elementary school teacher in her home state of North Carolina and here in New Haven, a lifetime member of Immanuel and part of their Flower Club. A member of the New Haven Club of the National Association of "Negro Bidness" and Professional Women's Clubs, Inc. "Hmmm," I think in full jerk-mode, "does that club have something to do with Bid Whist playing?" - Oh never mind...She lived a good, full life.
11:30: One of the Deacons reads a few cards/acknowledgements and speaks of how she'd take communion up to Ernie at the nursing home. In their visits she said they'd sometimes sing - that makes me smile. Clearly in spite of her physical circumstances, she still saw beauty in her life.
It's time for the family tributes and I'm not sure who or what to expect since again, there aren't many of them. A young man who isn't sitting with the family gets up and says what most of us were likely thinking: "Who is this light-skinned brother?" Actually, to my way of thinking he was more of a light brown-skinned brother. Oh how us colored folk love to play the "complexion" game. Still. In 2009. Sigh. Anyway, after nervously introducing himself as one of the employees at the nursing home "Mrs. Goodwyn" was in, he soon had practically the whole church in tears describing the touching and real relationship he'd established with her. He'd claimed her as his "grandmother" and witnessed first hand Chuck's devotion to her along with his innate charm by his mere presence when visiting his mom :"Everybody would light up when Chuck came up - and the ladies loved Chuck!" Indeed. I am moved by the fact that this young man works in a facility populated mainly by "old people" as he put it, and didn't allow it to create a barrier to his getting to know Miss Ernestine. Generation gap? What? He grew to love her - and she, him I'm sure. He and Chuck share a long embrace at his conclusion. I am convinced that love is the most powerful high there is. It's no wonder God equates Himself with it. Crack? Heroin? Crystal Meth? Crown Royal on Ice?!? You better go get you some real love baby!!
A couple of other men - self-described family friends who's lives had also been positively impacted by Miss Ernestine spoke eloquently of her love of faith, family and friends. How she was a Miami Dolphins fan and expected the best from those she cared for and taught. How she created a warm and welcoming environment in her home and again, how she loved her "Chuckie". One of them sang a snappy rendition of "Great is Thy Faithfulness". I chuckled as Ronnie Pollard, a tenor with the gospel group I sing with, tried in vain to slow the tempo down with his piano accompaniment but ol' boy whipped through all 3 or 4 verses of that hymn in record time. C'mon, you know and I know that anytime anybody sings that song, they're gonna milk it for all it's worth. Not today. Not him.
12:00: Ahhh, the eulogy. I've never heard Rev. Ross-Lee preach - if I did, I don't remember. Not a good sign. He's on the young-ish end, certainly younger than I. A transplant from some place way south of here and - non-traditional -shall we say? There's been some murmuring and complainin' from the parishoners about his "electric sliding" at some local watering hole and chillin' with his frat brothers at their annual picnic amongst other things. To quote Neffie (you know who I'm talkin' about): "SO WHAT!!!" I'm willing to give the pastor the benefit of the doubt. C'mon. Bring it. He opens with the 23 Psalm. And then focuses on the 4th verse: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me;" - okey dokey, not exactly funereal, but I'm willing to ride with him a little longer to see where we end up. He's a little low key and it's apparent he really doesn't know Miss Ernestine. In all fairness, she was under the pastoring of the inimitable Rev. Curtis Cofield, who'd pastored Immanuel for years -left and came back and pastored some more before dying himself last year. Dude has had some Shaq-foo sized shoes to fill at this church. Aaaaand I'm starting to hear a bit of a persecution complex drifting into this eulogy as he builds to a modest crescendo. And then, boop - he's done. 13 minutes FLAT.
Howard K. Hill and staff stealthily take their positions and present a beautiful tapestry of Miss Ernestine to Chuck - it's a picture of her as a young woman. Her obituary states that she loved to "create and was familiar with tapestries and their intricate designs." What a lovely keepsake and not that the usual "family bible" isn't a good look, this isn't something that would be collecting dust in a corner. The pallbearers get on their posts and we head back out into the autumn sunshine. Chuck has gotten out of the limousine or never got in and is greeting friends - laughing and smiling. I've seen Chuck pull pranks on people that would win him an emmy, I've seen him angry as all get out and ready to put foot to tail. I can't say that I've ever seen him sad however. Perhaps I have and I just didn't know it. My prayer for him is that he is the man his mother would want him to be. I see my Pastor's wife, hug her and sidemouth to her: "I wish Pastor had preached - he was kinda dry." She laughs and says I'm "spoiled". True that. Hold on - what's this? I think I see a candidate for "Mr. Fine 2009" - and he's with what appears to be his mom or perhaps an auntie. Oh now here comes the "ex" again from his "nowhere near here" job. Oh, oh and the friend of Chuck's from 25 years ago who asked me to dance first. Nope - I'm not getting caught up in this negro-fied matrix - I'm takin' my black butt back to work. Right after I get some lunch. Hey, I've gotta keep my weight up.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
"Uncle James" ("Uncle Pete")
I know, I know, it's been a minute. And it's not because folk haven't been dying, it's just that along with my grind I've got a hustle and family issues. I ain't had time to go to no funerals! That's all the explanation I'm going to offer.
Gwen, my girly-girl is also the supervisor for my hustle. She's 10 years my junior but from the time I met her (some 15 years ago?) she's always impressed me with her sharp mind and even sharper sense of humor. She gets it. On Thursday, December 4, 2008 I had to call her to dot some i's & cross some t's regarding time cards and she was instructing me on the fly. Her mom's brother, "Uncle" James Abraham had been living with her and her 10 year old son Blake for the past 3 years or so. A polite gent whom you seldom saw, but certainly smelled - the man smoked like a chimney which resulted in Gwen's home smelling like "The Dirty Bird" at 1am on a Friday night. We jokingly called him "Uncle Pete" from the movie, 'Soul Food' - tucked away in his own room, coming out for meals or to use the facilities and presumably, to get a fresh pack. Just cool.
Uncle James would often hold down the fort for her when she was out on one of her many missions: adjunct professor at the local community college, choir director at her church, co-director for a community choir (which I also sing in), her grind for the city of New Haven, sorority meetings, DJ'ng a local gospel radio show, helping to take care of her sick father and the list goes on. Thinking about what Gwen does makes me tired. Knowing he was in the house with her son gave her a sense of security when her missions kept her out later or longer than expected. It is hard work being a responsible single parent. It really does take a village.
As we wrapped up our business on the phone, she called out: "Uncle James? Uncle James? - Willie, I've been calling him all day and he ain't answerin' his phone." I hear her making her way through her house to his room. "Damn Willette, he's dead".
Monday, December 8, 2008
9:55am: The funeral is being held right at Howard K. Hill Funeral Services on Chapel St., a converted Georgian manse that used to be home to a white funeral home back in the day. This section of Chapel St. has undergone several re-inventions starting in the 60's after the riots. The stretch has been home to church's, bars (the Swingin Doors!), beauty salons, a furrier, chinese take out, community outreach centers and homes. Howard Hill is a young man who by all accounts and my own observations does an absolutely stellar job in body prep not to mention his level of professionalism and courtesy to the bereaved. As a bonafide funeral-goer, he gets top grades from me. He's recently begun renovations on his facility and was at the door personally greeting as I stepped into the foyer on this bracingly cold New England December day. Someone tapped me from behind as I extended my gloved hand to Howard and from every angle my eyes could take in, the place was near capacity. I turned to see who'd tapped me, thinking I was in someone's way already. It was AJ, Gwen's BFF, who like me, had dipped out of work to come support G and her family. He blew me a kiss as he huddled near the door and whispered he couldn't stay because he had to get back to work/court. I signed the guest book and started picking my way through the maze of doorways until I saw a free seat. Sticking my head into the main parlor/viewing room I caught Gwen's sister Debbie's eye and asked if it was too late to view the body. She said I still had time and although I don't really need to look at dead people, I really did need to take a look at Howard's handywork. Uncle James in a natty light grey suit and tie, eyeglasses and a crisp edge up looks like he's taking a nap after (or during) Sunday morning service. Another Howard Homerun!
I lean over to Gwen's mom, Ms. Janie to offer condolences. Ever the lady, completely composed and rocking a ranch mink wide brimmed cowboy hat, she thanks me and pecks me on the cheek. She is class. I want to be like Ms. Janie when I grow up. I skidaddle to my seat because Howard's on the scene closing the casket and the Busch women's pastor, Daylan Greer of the "Great Beth El AME", is about to get started.
10:05am: There's no processional, Pastor Greer is following the very succinct program per Ms. Janie's instructions, offering a pretty loudmouthed prayer of comfort then introducing "Minister Jenkins" who proffers Old (Ps. 23) and New (John 14:1-6) Testament readings.
10:10am: Gwen's singing! She's a trooper and like her mother, totally composed. She's a better woman than me on two fronts: she's been able to sleep in her house (with company) and she's got her heart far enough out of her throat to sing. And sing she does - the "new" funeral classic, "I Won't Complain". It's the new millenium version of "His Eye is On the Sparrow". She begins a capella and whoever's on the keyboard plucks around until they find her key - which is - different. As any singer worth their salt does, she "personalizes" the lyrics (i.e.: changes the words) for Uncle James. I listen contentedly while taking in the new Howard K. Hill Funeral Services decor. Off- peach stucco walls with white trim and either dusky mauve or brick-colored drapes. Hmmmm. Not sure I would've put that color combo together. A candle burns a scent on one of the fireplace mantles that's making my stomach do a slow flip.
10:15am: Greer picks up the John 14 thread and uses it as the basis for his eulogy. I'm perusing the tastefully printed 2-sided card-stock program. Again, very concise and without any embellishments: no photo and no biography (other than a brief paragraph detailing his age, address and those left to "cherish his memories"). I look over the "family" section and realize that the only ones on the "family row" are Ms. Janie, Gwen, Debbie, their kids and a young woman I don't know. Hey, wait a minute - where are the sons? Where's the brother? (He's in a nursing facility). Grandkids?? Awwww SHOOT! Ms. Janie done sliced up the guest list!
10:20am: Greer is passing the baton back to Howard Hill to wrap this one up. HH quietly gives the directives for the processional to Evergreen Cemetery. Everybody up, coats on, c'mon let's move it, move it.
10:25am: I'm on my way back to the Maxima which has scarcely had time to get cold. That's right folks - a new black people's funeral record has been set - 25 hot minutes from beginning to end! This made a Catholic funeral look like a wait in line at People's Bank on payday! I'm not even mad at 'em though. If I'd played my cards right, I could've just parlayed this one into my morning 15 minute break. But it's all goody. Uncle James deserved the time - and Gwen absolutely does. I put an imaginary cigarette to my lips and blow a plume of cold "smoke" into the chill air. This puff's for you Uncle Pete.
.....As an addendum, in honor of this funeral and it's perfunctory nature, I've been informed that Howard K. Hill is going to offer this type of service and call it: "The Janie Busch Package." Sign me up.
Gwen, my girly-girl is also the supervisor for my hustle. She's 10 years my junior but from the time I met her (some 15 years ago?) she's always impressed me with her sharp mind and even sharper sense of humor. She gets it. On Thursday, December 4, 2008 I had to call her to dot some i's & cross some t's regarding time cards and she was instructing me on the fly. Her mom's brother, "Uncle" James Abraham had been living with her and her 10 year old son Blake for the past 3 years or so. A polite gent whom you seldom saw, but certainly smelled - the man smoked like a chimney which resulted in Gwen's home smelling like "The Dirty Bird" at 1am on a Friday night. We jokingly called him "Uncle Pete" from the movie, 'Soul Food' - tucked away in his own room, coming out for meals or to use the facilities and presumably, to get a fresh pack. Just cool.
Uncle James would often hold down the fort for her when she was out on one of her many missions: adjunct professor at the local community college, choir director at her church, co-director for a community choir (which I also sing in), her grind for the city of New Haven, sorority meetings, DJ'ng a local gospel radio show, helping to take care of her sick father and the list goes on. Thinking about what Gwen does makes me tired. Knowing he was in the house with her son gave her a sense of security when her missions kept her out later or longer than expected. It is hard work being a responsible single parent. It really does take a village.
As we wrapped up our business on the phone, she called out: "Uncle James? Uncle James? - Willie, I've been calling him all day and he ain't answerin' his phone." I hear her making her way through her house to his room. "Damn Willette, he's dead".
Monday, December 8, 2008
9:55am: The funeral is being held right at Howard K. Hill Funeral Services on Chapel St., a converted Georgian manse that used to be home to a white funeral home back in the day. This section of Chapel St. has undergone several re-inventions starting in the 60's after the riots. The stretch has been home to church's, bars (the Swingin Doors!), beauty salons, a furrier, chinese take out, community outreach centers and homes. Howard Hill is a young man who by all accounts and my own observations does an absolutely stellar job in body prep not to mention his level of professionalism and courtesy to the bereaved. As a bonafide funeral-goer, he gets top grades from me. He's recently begun renovations on his facility and was at the door personally greeting as I stepped into the foyer on this bracingly cold New England December day. Someone tapped me from behind as I extended my gloved hand to Howard and from every angle my eyes could take in, the place was near capacity. I turned to see who'd tapped me, thinking I was in someone's way already. It was AJ, Gwen's BFF, who like me, had dipped out of work to come support G and her family. He blew me a kiss as he huddled near the door and whispered he couldn't stay because he had to get back to work/court. I signed the guest book and started picking my way through the maze of doorways until I saw a free seat. Sticking my head into the main parlor/viewing room I caught Gwen's sister Debbie's eye and asked if it was too late to view the body. She said I still had time and although I don't really need to look at dead people, I really did need to take a look at Howard's handywork. Uncle James in a natty light grey suit and tie, eyeglasses and a crisp edge up looks like he's taking a nap after (or during) Sunday morning service. Another Howard Homerun!
I lean over to Gwen's mom, Ms. Janie to offer condolences. Ever the lady, completely composed and rocking a ranch mink wide brimmed cowboy hat, she thanks me and pecks me on the cheek. She is class. I want to be like Ms. Janie when I grow up. I skidaddle to my seat because Howard's on the scene closing the casket and the Busch women's pastor, Daylan Greer of the "Great Beth El AME", is about to get started.
10:05am: There's no processional, Pastor Greer is following the very succinct program per Ms. Janie's instructions, offering a pretty loudmouthed prayer of comfort then introducing "Minister Jenkins" who proffers Old (Ps. 23) and New (John 14:1-6) Testament readings.
10:10am: Gwen's singing! She's a trooper and like her mother, totally composed. She's a better woman than me on two fronts: she's been able to sleep in her house (with company) and she's got her heart far enough out of her throat to sing. And sing she does - the "new" funeral classic, "I Won't Complain". It's the new millenium version of "His Eye is On the Sparrow". She begins a capella and whoever's on the keyboard plucks around until they find her key - which is - different. As any singer worth their salt does, she "personalizes" the lyrics (i.e.: changes the words) for Uncle James. I listen contentedly while taking in the new Howard K. Hill Funeral Services decor. Off- peach stucco walls with white trim and either dusky mauve or brick-colored drapes. Hmmmm. Not sure I would've put that color combo together. A candle burns a scent on one of the fireplace mantles that's making my stomach do a slow flip.
10:15am: Greer picks up the John 14 thread and uses it as the basis for his eulogy. I'm perusing the tastefully printed 2-sided card-stock program. Again, very concise and without any embellishments: no photo and no biography (other than a brief paragraph detailing his age, address and those left to "cherish his memories"). I look over the "family" section and realize that the only ones on the "family row" are Ms. Janie, Gwen, Debbie, their kids and a young woman I don't know. Hey, wait a minute - where are the sons? Where's the brother? (He's in a nursing facility). Grandkids?? Awwww SHOOT! Ms. Janie done sliced up the guest list!
10:20am: Greer is passing the baton back to Howard Hill to wrap this one up. HH quietly gives the directives for the processional to Evergreen Cemetery. Everybody up, coats on, c'mon let's move it, move it.
10:25am: I'm on my way back to the Maxima which has scarcely had time to get cold. That's right folks - a new black people's funeral record has been set - 25 hot minutes from beginning to end! This made a Catholic funeral look like a wait in line at People's Bank on payday! I'm not even mad at 'em though. If I'd played my cards right, I could've just parlayed this one into my morning 15 minute break. But it's all goody. Uncle James deserved the time - and Gwen absolutely does. I put an imaginary cigarette to my lips and blow a plume of cold "smoke" into the chill air. This puff's for you Uncle Pete.
.....As an addendum, in honor of this funeral and it's perfunctory nature, I've been informed that Howard K. Hill is going to offer this type of service and call it: "The Janie Busch Package." Sign me up.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
"Cool Carl"
Carl William Bascum Pullen
Sunrise August 15, 1916 - Sunset, January 27, 2009
Uncle Carl Pullen or "Old Carl" to distinguish him from his son or "Cool Carl" as I'd christened him was one of a kind for real. He married my great-Aunt Ruby Turner in 1935 when they were both mere teens, the year after my mother was born. Aunt Ruby was my grandpop's sister and by the time my mom was grown and moved to Connecticut, Carl and Ruby were already established, working and having kids of their own. Now there's a bunch of Pullen's up this way and although I am not a Pullen by blood, God knows I've got enough blood relatives who are. THAT was evidenced by the packed out funeral for "Cool Carl" last night at his home church, Rehoboth COGIC, pastored by his second son, Augustus "Butch" Pullen. What? You don't know Butch? Well then you're the only person in the Western Hemisphere who doesn't! But I digress.
Old Carl told me some years ago why there are "2 sets" of Pullens here in the New Haven, CT area. Something about a couple of Pullen cousins in Virginia who were in love but the family squashed the romance so they ran off to No. Carolina to "explore their love" (my words!) and that's how the North Carolina Pullen's came about. True story. Cool Carl was full of 'em.
Never one to back down from an argument - I'd witnessed him and my Aunt go a few rounds before he'd wave her off or start his high pitched giggle or roll his eyes like: "this nut". He and my grandpop would go head up too over at the old house on 26 Salem St. They both liked "the grape" - my grandpop was a "Thunderbird" man - you couldn't get more rot gut than that! He'd hide his in the cool water of the toilet tank when he came over. I'd peeped Cool Carl's stash a couple of times out on the front porch when he and Aunt Ruby lived in the first floor apartment of my mother's house years later. Just chillin'...
Monday, 2/3/09:
6:50pm: I've got to preface this blog entry by stating that I am almost ashamed at what I did at this funeral . I got here for the last few minutes of the viewing and almost had to park on Stratford Avenue. Rehoboth COGIC in Bridgeport, CT had been Cool Carl's home church pretty much since Butch had been pastoring - along with a whole lot of our family. Living to the ripe old age of 92 guarantees you one of two things: either you're going to have a whole lot of folks at your funeral since you've met/made a whole lot of folks or ain't nobody gonna be there since you've outlived them all. I'd say Rehobie holds 150, maaaaaaybe 200 comfortably. It was firecode violation packed.
I view the body. He looked dapper and asleep. Just chillin. Cousin-in-law Renae Kennedy was one of the many ushers and immediately approached me with a program and a plan to find me a seat. "Family or somewhere else? Upstairs or downstairs?" Downstairs??? Why would I want to be downstairs? Does this girl know what I do?!? Does she not realize that a professional funeral-goer must be as close to the action as possible?? Lord Jesus...She squeezed me on the end of a pew after making one of Tina Pullen's kids or grandkids (who can keep up?) get up and go sit with her and Dina Pullen. I have no idea who the child was that was sitting next to me. She never said anything to me nor I to her. But I bet she was a Pullen!
7:00pm: Roger Wilkins is officiating. He's from the Trinity Temple/Bishop Brewer ministerial farm-system and Butch's contemporary. He'd just funeralized his older brother the week before. God love him...He steps to the pulpit and announces that there are going to be reflections given by Cool Carl's oldest grandchild, Khris Everson Crenshaw, one of his "grandson's", Pastor Joel James and nephew Keith "Big Butch" Pullen. In that order. I think. Apparently the family color-code for the funeral was all black and Khris had on a black/white knit with lots of Chanel-style chains/pearls/necklaces. She looked as though she'd been crying for days and with her only makeup appearing to be a slash of red lipstick on her Cool Carl-thin lips. She was actually quite composed and gave some touching and humorous anecdotes about her "grandpa". Joel James - "Greetings from Cincinatti", Shayla Pullen's (Butch's oldest child) husband followed with a very brief reflection of how awed he was at Cool Carl's huge family/legacy after spending his first Thanksgiving with us a few years ago. Mmmm hmmm. I think he's still just a wee bit overwhelmed by us.
7:20pm: The ministerial processional includes, Butch, all 5 of Cool Carl's grandson ministers/elders, nephews Rick and my brother Rob, Pastor Dewitt Stephens and Cleve Johnson?!? WTH?!? I'm gonna assume he was an add on since he was out of "uniform" (they all had on their formal habits - except for Dewitt, maybe he was an add on too!) Now, I could stop right here and blog for about a GOOD hour on this subject but since this was EASILY the longest funeral I'd ever attended I won't - but I will say this: the last time I saw THAT negro I had to stop him from running Butch down to me. And I repeat, WTF - I mean, H?!? At this point I fully expected friggin' Wilbert to jump out from under a pew and say "HAAAAAAAAAA - I'm baaaaaack!!!"
7:30pm: Pastor Rick Kennedy gave the Old Testament reading, Rob, the new. Duper gave the prayer of comfort. Heather's beau Deon Kipping ("Praise Him in Advance") sang a little, original made up just for the occassion sounding ditty that segued into a congregational hymn. Listen, trust me when I tell you that all the normal funeral pomp and circumstance that's supposed to take place, took place. And then some. There were remarks from the prelate bishop of the CT COGIC 1st jurisdiction (Brewer), the bishop from Vermont jurisdiction (Ivory Holden), the prelate bishop from the 2nd CT jurisdiction of the COGIC (Hester Bordeaux). Old Deacon Bordeaux who Cool Carl served with back at Trinity came and set it off with some old school "How I Got Over". Condolences by the church secretary, more remarks/reflections from grandsons Joel Pullen ("Grandpa, I salute you!") and Page Reynolds. Son-in-law Dennis Daniels representing the Deacons of Rehobie. Obituary read by niece Tracy Pullen Overton. And singing. And more singing. And more singing. Ok. Anybody that knew Cool Carl knew he loved music/singing. They even convened a "Pullen Family Choir" featuring Monte Reynolds and a cousin/nephew(??) James Pullen on lead singing: "God Is". So either have a concert, a memorial or a funeral. But please, not all three. Not on a Monday night. And not when I've got to be up at 5:30am...
9:00pm: I'm not quite sure who set this agenda/program but they need a firm talking to. Somebody came up with the bright idea to have little (old) Aubrey "Babe Bro" Pullen, Jr. and Roger "Blowhard" Everson, Sr. back to back!!! When I tell you I wanted to rip my eyeballs out of my head!! Dear God in heaven!! I took a nap with my head in my hands during Roger's meandering diatribe until Dina shook me awake. I awoke saying, "If this nigga doesn't SHUT UP!" before realizing how loud I was. Whatever. At a couple of points during Babe Bro's babblings (and that's just what his "remarks" had devolved into) the church started applauding (Roger Wilkins had stood to give him the old pulling of the coattail) - but he kept talking! In-credible! Talkin' about not being able to take a hint.
9:30pm: Yes, I said 9:30 - 2 1/2 hours later and still no eulogy. Why oh why did I think that I was going to make it home in time to watch the UConn-Louisville game? Note to self: Get a DVR.
His youngest daughter Jackie Pullen Daniels rocking the ultra-wide black rhinestone trimmed beret offers a moving version of "Safe In His Arms" but even with help from the "back up" singers can't pull it together to finish it. She'd taken care of him in her home for the last few years of his life. Believe me when I tell you, a totally new bond forms when you have to wipe/wash a parent's hind parts. Her grief will be different and probably last longest.
9:45pm: And now dear readers, I shall reveal my "shame". Naw, it wasn't falling asleep or wearing brown when everybody else was wearing black (I DID have on a leopard print newsboy!) or even calling Roger the "n" word when I woke up. I left. Right after Jackie (didn't) finish her song and before Butch got up to do the eulogy. I COULDN'T TAKE IT A MINUTE LONGER. I know, I know - that's like a movie critic getting up and leaving in the middle of a film. Please forgive me - I'll try to be more patient and professional in the future. And take a little pillow to sit on and a Red Bull.
When I was 14ish and had just moved to New Haven from New Jersey to live with my mother/sister/brother I too was awe inspired by the family connection here. As a kid I always knew I had a huge family with a bunch of aunties and uncles and cousins throughout VA, CT, NJ, Kansas and although I didn't see them often but when we got together - Oh Happy Day! And that's how it should be with family. As I've got older I see where that feeling has slowly leaked away it sometimes makes me melancholy for what used to be. I can remember starting to feel myself spiral out of control as teens sometimes do. I pulled MYSELF up and asked Aunt Ruby if I could come stay with her and go to school from her house on Salem St. To me her house represented stability. Something I didn't have a lot of growing up. There was always someone there and I figured not being left to my own devices I'd be more accountable. She said sure - she was used to folks coming and going in her house - what was one more set of feet under the table, right? And God knows my mother had taken in her fair share of wayward relatives over the years as well. It's what family does. My mom nixed the idea for whatever reason and that was that. But I always wanted that 26 Salem St. expereience. Something was always going on there - laughter, music, gossip, arguments, life. And Cool Carl, just chillin'.
Sunrise August 15, 1916 - Sunset, January 27, 2009
Uncle Carl Pullen or "Old Carl" to distinguish him from his son or "Cool Carl" as I'd christened him was one of a kind for real. He married my great-Aunt Ruby Turner in 1935 when they were both mere teens, the year after my mother was born. Aunt Ruby was my grandpop's sister and by the time my mom was grown and moved to Connecticut, Carl and Ruby were already established, working and having kids of their own. Now there's a bunch of Pullen's up this way and although I am not a Pullen by blood, God knows I've got enough blood relatives who are. THAT was evidenced by the packed out funeral for "Cool Carl" last night at his home church, Rehoboth COGIC, pastored by his second son, Augustus "Butch" Pullen. What? You don't know Butch? Well then you're the only person in the Western Hemisphere who doesn't! But I digress.
Old Carl told me some years ago why there are "2 sets" of Pullens here in the New Haven, CT area. Something about a couple of Pullen cousins in Virginia who were in love but the family squashed the romance so they ran off to No. Carolina to "explore their love" (my words!) and that's how the North Carolina Pullen's came about. True story. Cool Carl was full of 'em.
Never one to back down from an argument - I'd witnessed him and my Aunt go a few rounds before he'd wave her off or start his high pitched giggle or roll his eyes like: "this nut". He and my grandpop would go head up too over at the old house on 26 Salem St. They both liked "the grape" - my grandpop was a "Thunderbird" man - you couldn't get more rot gut than that! He'd hide his in the cool water of the toilet tank when he came over. I'd peeped Cool Carl's stash a couple of times out on the front porch when he and Aunt Ruby lived in the first floor apartment of my mother's house years later. Just chillin'...
Monday, 2/3/09:
6:50pm: I've got to preface this blog entry by stating that I am almost ashamed at what I did at this funeral . I got here for the last few minutes of the viewing and almost had to park on Stratford Avenue. Rehoboth COGIC in Bridgeport, CT had been Cool Carl's home church pretty much since Butch had been pastoring - along with a whole lot of our family. Living to the ripe old age of 92 guarantees you one of two things: either you're going to have a whole lot of folks at your funeral since you've met/made a whole lot of folks or ain't nobody gonna be there since you've outlived them all. I'd say Rehobie holds 150, maaaaaaybe 200 comfortably. It was firecode violation packed.
I view the body. He looked dapper and asleep. Just chillin. Cousin-in-law Renae Kennedy was one of the many ushers and immediately approached me with a program and a plan to find me a seat. "Family or somewhere else? Upstairs or downstairs?" Downstairs??? Why would I want to be downstairs? Does this girl know what I do?!? Does she not realize that a professional funeral-goer must be as close to the action as possible?? Lord Jesus...She squeezed me on the end of a pew after making one of Tina Pullen's kids or grandkids (who can keep up?) get up and go sit with her and Dina Pullen. I have no idea who the child was that was sitting next to me. She never said anything to me nor I to her. But I bet she was a Pullen!
7:00pm: Roger Wilkins is officiating. He's from the Trinity Temple/Bishop Brewer ministerial farm-system and Butch's contemporary. He'd just funeralized his older brother the week before. God love him...He steps to the pulpit and announces that there are going to be reflections given by Cool Carl's oldest grandchild, Khris Everson Crenshaw, one of his "grandson's", Pastor Joel James and nephew Keith "Big Butch" Pullen. In that order. I think. Apparently the family color-code for the funeral was all black and Khris had on a black/white knit with lots of Chanel-style chains/pearls/necklaces. She looked as though she'd been crying for days and with her only makeup appearing to be a slash of red lipstick on her Cool Carl-thin lips. She was actually quite composed and gave some touching and humorous anecdotes about her "grandpa". Joel James - "Greetings from Cincinatti", Shayla Pullen's (Butch's oldest child) husband followed with a very brief reflection of how awed he was at Cool Carl's huge family/legacy after spending his first Thanksgiving with us a few years ago. Mmmm hmmm. I think he's still just a wee bit overwhelmed by us.
7:20pm: The ministerial processional includes, Butch, all 5 of Cool Carl's grandson ministers/elders, nephews Rick and my brother Rob, Pastor Dewitt Stephens and Cleve Johnson?!? WTH?!? I'm gonna assume he was an add on since he was out of "uniform" (they all had on their formal habits - except for Dewitt, maybe he was an add on too!) Now, I could stop right here and blog for about a GOOD hour on this subject but since this was EASILY the longest funeral I'd ever attended I won't - but I will say this: the last time I saw THAT negro I had to stop him from running Butch down to me. And I repeat, WTF - I mean, H?!? At this point I fully expected friggin' Wilbert to jump out from under a pew and say "HAAAAAAAAAA - I'm baaaaaack!!!"
7:30pm: Pastor Rick Kennedy gave the Old Testament reading, Rob, the new. Duper gave the prayer of comfort. Heather's beau Deon Kipping ("Praise Him in Advance") sang a little, original made up just for the occassion sounding ditty that segued into a congregational hymn. Listen, trust me when I tell you that all the normal funeral pomp and circumstance that's supposed to take place, took place. And then some. There were remarks from the prelate bishop of the CT COGIC 1st jurisdiction (Brewer), the bishop from Vermont jurisdiction (Ivory Holden), the prelate bishop from the 2nd CT jurisdiction of the COGIC (Hester Bordeaux). Old Deacon Bordeaux who Cool Carl served with back at Trinity came and set it off with some old school "How I Got Over". Condolences by the church secretary, more remarks/reflections from grandsons Joel Pullen ("Grandpa, I salute you!") and Page Reynolds. Son-in-law Dennis Daniels representing the Deacons of Rehobie. Obituary read by niece Tracy Pullen Overton. And singing. And more singing. And more singing. Ok. Anybody that knew Cool Carl knew he loved music/singing. They even convened a "Pullen Family Choir" featuring Monte Reynolds and a cousin/nephew(??) James Pullen on lead singing: "God Is". So either have a concert, a memorial or a funeral. But please, not all three. Not on a Monday night. And not when I've got to be up at 5:30am...
9:00pm: I'm not quite sure who set this agenda/program but they need a firm talking to. Somebody came up with the bright idea to have little (old) Aubrey "Babe Bro" Pullen, Jr. and Roger "Blowhard" Everson, Sr. back to back!!! When I tell you I wanted to rip my eyeballs out of my head!! Dear God in heaven!! I took a nap with my head in my hands during Roger's meandering diatribe until Dina shook me awake. I awoke saying, "If this nigga doesn't SHUT UP!" before realizing how loud I was. Whatever. At a couple of points during Babe Bro's babblings (and that's just what his "remarks" had devolved into) the church started applauding (Roger Wilkins had stood to give him the old pulling of the coattail) - but he kept talking! In-credible! Talkin' about not being able to take a hint.
9:30pm: Yes, I said 9:30 - 2 1/2 hours later and still no eulogy. Why oh why did I think that I was going to make it home in time to watch the UConn-Louisville game? Note to self: Get a DVR.
His youngest daughter Jackie Pullen Daniels rocking the ultra-wide black rhinestone trimmed beret offers a moving version of "Safe In His Arms" but even with help from the "back up" singers can't pull it together to finish it. She'd taken care of him in her home for the last few years of his life. Believe me when I tell you, a totally new bond forms when you have to wipe/wash a parent's hind parts. Her grief will be different and probably last longest.
9:45pm: And now dear readers, I shall reveal my "shame". Naw, it wasn't falling asleep or wearing brown when everybody else was wearing black (I DID have on a leopard print newsboy!) or even calling Roger the "n" word when I woke up. I left. Right after Jackie (didn't) finish her song and before Butch got up to do the eulogy. I COULDN'T TAKE IT A MINUTE LONGER. I know, I know - that's like a movie critic getting up and leaving in the middle of a film. Please forgive me - I'll try to be more patient and professional in the future. And take a little pillow to sit on and a Red Bull.
When I was 14ish and had just moved to New Haven from New Jersey to live with my mother/sister/brother I too was awe inspired by the family connection here. As a kid I always knew I had a huge family with a bunch of aunties and uncles and cousins throughout VA, CT, NJ, Kansas and although I didn't see them often but when we got together - Oh Happy Day! And that's how it should be with family. As I've got older I see where that feeling has slowly leaked away it sometimes makes me melancholy for what used to be. I can remember starting to feel myself spiral out of control as teens sometimes do. I pulled MYSELF up and asked Aunt Ruby if I could come stay with her and go to school from her house on Salem St. To me her house represented stability. Something I didn't have a lot of growing up. There was always someone there and I figured not being left to my own devices I'd be more accountable. She said sure - she was used to folks coming and going in her house - what was one more set of feet under the table, right? And God knows my mother had taken in her fair share of wayward relatives over the years as well. It's what family does. My mom nixed the idea for whatever reason and that was that. But I always wanted that 26 Salem St. expereience. Something was always going on there - laughter, music, gossip, arguments, life. And Cool Carl, just chillin'.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
"Big Ab" (Uncle Abner)
Abner Earl Turner was my last legitimate uncle. Actually he was my great uncle, being my grandfather Clint's baby brother. The youngest son of my great grandparents, Augustus and Roberta Turner, he died July 21, 2008 in Roanoke, Va., the same place he was born. He was 77 years old. The father of 9: Carla, Vicky, Keith, Greg, Brock, Race, Dawn, Hunt and Tara; the first 3 preceding him in death. Coming in at somewhere between welter and bantamweight, what he lacked in size he more than made up for in trash talking and character. He swore he could sing. He played the ukelele. Simply not able to remember his many nieces' and nephews' names, all of us girls were "Boop" and the boys were "Buddy, Buddy" - even once we were grown. I'm not sure about anyone else, but when he called me "Boop", I felt special. Perhaps that was the intent.
My summer work schedule didn't allow me to travel to Uncle Abner's funeral in Roanoke on July 25, 2008. Many of us had recently gathered in Kansas City over the 4th of July weekend to attend the Turner family reunion. Neither Big Ab or any of the "twigs" from his branch of the Turner family tree were there. My cousin Nathaniel Thuston, who hosted this year's family reunion did, however, travel to Virginia to help represent his mother Roberta (Big Ab's sister) and agreed to be my guest blogger for this installment of the Funeral Diaries. The following are his observations:
"It was a very nice service--about an hour (Chanute style!). There were several points when I had to restrain Nona from making a scene, especially when the not-ready-for-anytime-Male Chorus was bellowing out some notes!
The only sad part was the previewal. You could hear his eldest granddaughter Dominique (Keith's girl) and I believe, Dawn, sobbing, but other than the usual tears, there was no drama or body snatching. At the wake, the same. There was a drawer open in the casket (a first for me). It was open as we passed by (not at the wake though). Right before they closed the casket, Dawn gave the undertaker a photo and something else (a letter perhaps) which they put in the drawer, closed it and then closed the casket. I hope they gave the key to Uncle Abner--yes, it had a key.
I was sitting by two people I didn't know so I made Michelle (Judy's daughter) move. I sat between Crazy Nona and Michelle on the third row. We spent half the service trying to figure out who some of our people were! Nona was sitting by Esther's daughter Tonya and didn't know it until Michelle told us. Tonya had on shorts and needed to shave her legs (they kinda looked like Timothy's beard) but maybe that's the fashion in VA! Nona promised she was going to stand up and pass out after she counted to 5, but she must have forgotten what comes after 3 'cause she never passed out! I guess the ushers were too close for her caper to have full effect!
The opening hymn, "Bye and Bye", was sung with the gusto of a thousand voice choir--well the chorus anyway. When they started singing verse one, I thought the mics weren't working because we couldn't hear or understand anything they sung. I quickly relaized it wasn't the mics, but the fact that they didn't know the verses NOR could they see well enough to read the hymnal. This was proven by the same ritual during each subsequent verse followed by a resounding chorus! They sang the verses like the teacher speaks on all of the Charlie Brown specials!
Whoever did the program either was mad at Butch or didn't know the difference between he and Duper. They listed Butch (OT) as "Reverend" and Duper (NT ) as "Pastor." They both, of course, read from the "child's" pulpit, to the right of the big boy pulpit. It must've been reserved for the pastor [of the church] because Bishop ThuRston spoke from the little pulpit too! Cousin Judy gave an interesting invocation, she too from the lesser pulpit, but considering her vertical challenges, it was a good thing. Brock said the only thing he could see of her was her head.
Judy's brother Mark sang "He looked beyond my faults..." It was a key or so too high but like any other great singer, he made it work. Full of spirit and energy he sang about 7 minutes. Again, Brock mentioned the rangy baritone soloist turned into a mezzo soprano after the solo (screaming, "Halleluja! Hallelujah!" as he tok his seat!)
The clerk followed by the reading of one condolence and acknowledging 13. The clerk then remarked, "At the request of the family I will read the obituary." Which of course was exactly the same as the printed version. My favorite line, "Big Ab entered into several marriages of matrimony..." This one did include Aunt Ruby as a death preceder.
Race's wife read a nice poem about seizing the day and saying you love somebody because you never know when it's the last time. Bishop L. ThuRston then gave a tribute. It was predetermined (by the pastor) that it was to be a 5 minute tribute, but it was close to 20. It had to be at least 6 pages single-spaced. It was a good tribute and canvassed most of Uncle Abner's life. It included challenges and successess. the theme was how unique he was and ab-normal. The jellybeans in the yard, painted rocks and unique landscape let you know he was abnormal. He mentioned his sarcasm, stylish dressing, ukeleling and singing. Lemuel said Uncle Abner believed he was one of the 10 best singers in Roanoke, even though he wasn't! He didn't really sugarcoat anything but didn't go into gritty details either. It was very apropriately done and his kids were happy. Tey told me that their dad would've been pleased because, unlike his pastor, his nephew (Lemuel) knew him. Rev. ThuRston did have to pause a few times (he didn't break down but he could feel it coming.)
After the tribute, back to the excellent Male chorus! "I've Been Redeemed!" It sounded like the soundtrack from a horror flick! The pastor then came to give a "message of comfort". He began by saying, "to the sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, sisters and brothers (even though Lemuel had just mentioned that there were no more brothers!) after that eulogy by Bishop ThuRston, there's not much left to say." He then let us know he didn't "know Brother Turner long, but in the brief time I knew him I knew him as a singer!" He then went on with his 3 minute message. "We are blessed and our hope is Brother Abner is blessed with great benefits!"
It was then off to the graveyard. They had a cooler outside the tent! No, it wasn't Mogan David, but they had water bottles for everyone. It must be the latest craze in funeralizing! Full military rites were held (taps included) a few last tears and then back to the church for a dinner. Oh, they gave the flag to Greg (the eldest son).
The kitchen committee must have been homeless because they were holding food back. They had baked chicken on display but had fried in the back--available by request only. That was a first!
I got to see Aunt Liz (one of the remaining sisters) and she asked about the funeral and mentioned that she wanted to attend but "they" told her it would be too much. She asked about Roberta and my kids so she was pretty normal--except when she mentioned she'd talked to Ruby (a deceased sister), of course she may have, I just hope Ruby didn't talk back. She did mistakenly say Ruby instead of her daughter Ruth at one point (like Timothy calling Ryan, [his son] Linus [his younger brother]). Paula told me what menopause was even though I told her I already knew! That's a story for another time.
Even though it wasn't a trip for enjoyment, I did have a good time...we went to Race's Saturday afternoon ('til 1:00am) and also got to meet his mother, (Uncle Abner's second wife) Chris - I'd never seen her before. She lives next door to Race and showed us at least 10,000 photos. She told me she knew I was a Thuston because I look just like my father (something I don't hear everyday!) She did mention that she was sorry that her kids didn't get to know their family like they should have but she held no ill will towards Abner's family and we could stay with her when we came to town. She said that even though her divorce wasn't friendly, they had managed to become cordial toward each other over the years and the last time they were together they had a good time and enjoyed each other's company. Supposedly she hasn't been with another man since Uncle Abner and continued to love him.
My summer work schedule didn't allow me to travel to Uncle Abner's funeral in Roanoke on July 25, 2008. Many of us had recently gathered in Kansas City over the 4th of July weekend to attend the Turner family reunion. Neither Big Ab or any of the "twigs" from his branch of the Turner family tree were there. My cousin Nathaniel Thuston, who hosted this year's family reunion did, however, travel to Virginia to help represent his mother Roberta (Big Ab's sister) and agreed to be my guest blogger for this installment of the Funeral Diaries. The following are his observations:
"It was a very nice service--about an hour (Chanute style!). There were several points when I had to restrain Nona from making a scene, especially when the not-ready-for-anytime-Male Chorus was bellowing out some notes!
The only sad part was the previewal. You could hear his eldest granddaughter Dominique (Keith's girl) and I believe, Dawn, sobbing, but other than the usual tears, there was no drama or body snatching. At the wake, the same. There was a drawer open in the casket (a first for me). It was open as we passed by (not at the wake though). Right before they closed the casket, Dawn gave the undertaker a photo and something else (a letter perhaps) which they put in the drawer, closed it and then closed the casket. I hope they gave the key to Uncle Abner--yes, it had a key.
I was sitting by two people I didn't know so I made Michelle (Judy's daughter) move. I sat between Crazy Nona and Michelle on the third row. We spent half the service trying to figure out who some of our people were! Nona was sitting by Esther's daughter Tonya and didn't know it until Michelle told us. Tonya had on shorts and needed to shave her legs (they kinda looked like Timothy's beard) but maybe that's the fashion in VA! Nona promised she was going to stand up and pass out after she counted to 5, but she must have forgotten what comes after 3 'cause she never passed out! I guess the ushers were too close for her caper to have full effect!
The opening hymn, "Bye and Bye", was sung with the gusto of a thousand voice choir--well the chorus anyway. When they started singing verse one, I thought the mics weren't working because we couldn't hear or understand anything they sung. I quickly relaized it wasn't the mics, but the fact that they didn't know the verses NOR could they see well enough to read the hymnal. This was proven by the same ritual during each subsequent verse followed by a resounding chorus! They sang the verses like the teacher speaks on all of the Charlie Brown specials!
Whoever did the program either was mad at Butch or didn't know the difference between he and Duper. They listed Butch (OT) as "Reverend" and Duper (NT ) as "Pastor." They both, of course, read from the "child's" pulpit, to the right of the big boy pulpit. It must've been reserved for the pastor [of the church] because Bishop ThuRston spoke from the little pulpit too! Cousin Judy gave an interesting invocation, she too from the lesser pulpit, but considering her vertical challenges, it was a good thing. Brock said the only thing he could see of her was her head.
Judy's brother Mark sang "He looked beyond my faults..." It was a key or so too high but like any other great singer, he made it work. Full of spirit and energy he sang about 7 minutes. Again, Brock mentioned the rangy baritone soloist turned into a mezzo soprano after the solo (screaming, "Halleluja! Hallelujah!" as he tok his seat!)
The clerk followed by the reading of one condolence and acknowledging 13. The clerk then remarked, "At the request of the family I will read the obituary." Which of course was exactly the same as the printed version. My favorite line, "Big Ab entered into several marriages of matrimony..." This one did include Aunt Ruby as a death preceder.
Race's wife read a nice poem about seizing the day and saying you love somebody because you never know when it's the last time. Bishop L. ThuRston then gave a tribute. It was predetermined (by the pastor) that it was to be a 5 minute tribute, but it was close to 20. It had to be at least 6 pages single-spaced. It was a good tribute and canvassed most of Uncle Abner's life. It included challenges and successess. the theme was how unique he was and ab-normal. The jellybeans in the yard, painted rocks and unique landscape let you know he was abnormal. He mentioned his sarcasm, stylish dressing, ukeleling and singing. Lemuel said Uncle Abner believed he was one of the 10 best singers in Roanoke, even though he wasn't! He didn't really sugarcoat anything but didn't go into gritty details either. It was very apropriately done and his kids were happy. Tey told me that their dad would've been pleased because, unlike his pastor, his nephew (Lemuel) knew him. Rev. ThuRston did have to pause a few times (he didn't break down but he could feel it coming.)
After the tribute, back to the excellent Male chorus! "I've Been Redeemed!" It sounded like the soundtrack from a horror flick! The pastor then came to give a "message of comfort". He began by saying, "to the sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, sisters and brothers (even though Lemuel had just mentioned that there were no more brothers!) after that eulogy by Bishop ThuRston, there's not much left to say." He then let us know he didn't "know Brother Turner long, but in the brief time I knew him I knew him as a singer!" He then went on with his 3 minute message. "We are blessed and our hope is Brother Abner is blessed with great benefits!"
It was then off to the graveyard. They had a cooler outside the tent! No, it wasn't Mogan David, but they had water bottles for everyone. It must be the latest craze in funeralizing! Full military rites were held (taps included) a few last tears and then back to the church for a dinner. Oh, they gave the flag to Greg (the eldest son).
The kitchen committee must have been homeless because they were holding food back. They had baked chicken on display but had fried in the back--available by request only. That was a first!
I got to see Aunt Liz (one of the remaining sisters) and she asked about the funeral and mentioned that she wanted to attend but "they" told her it would be too much. She asked about Roberta and my kids so she was pretty normal--except when she mentioned she'd talked to Ruby (a deceased sister), of course she may have, I just hope Ruby didn't talk back. She did mistakenly say Ruby instead of her daughter Ruth at one point (like Timothy calling Ryan, [his son] Linus [his younger brother]). Paula told me what menopause was even though I told her I already knew! That's a story for another time.
Even though it wasn't a trip for enjoyment, I did have a good time...we went to Race's Saturday afternoon ('til 1:00am) and also got to meet his mother, (Uncle Abner's second wife) Chris - I'd never seen her before. She lives next door to Race and showed us at least 10,000 photos. She told me she knew I was a Thuston because I look just like my father (something I don't hear everyday!) She did mention that she was sorry that her kids didn't get to know their family like they should have but she held no ill will towards Abner's family and we could stay with her when we came to town. She said that even though her divorce wasn't friendly, they had managed to become cordial toward each other over the years and the last time they were together they had a good time and enjoyed each other's company. Supposedly she hasn't been with another man since Uncle Abner and continued to love him.
Friday, June 13, 2008
"Lillian Shaw"
Lillian Barbara Ishman was my co-worker for the over 20 years I've worked for the State of Con(n). When I was still a brand-nubian I got hoodwinked by another co-worker to go and ask Barbara to perform some task or another. Apparently this second c0-worker knew Ishman didn't like her and would never agree to perform this task (Ishman supervised one of the clerical units) so I unknowingly became the sacrificial lamb. After finding her lair and having a couple of people point her out to me, it took her approximately 15-20 seconds to hear me out, assess my level of stupidity for even thinking of stepping to her with such a bold yet innane request and proceeded to curse me out for whatever I was worth in her estimation. I stayed away from her for the next 2 years, "Mean lady", I'd mutter whenever I was out of her hearing range.
Ishman had battled breast cancer for a number of years and REFUSED to stay home. She came to work bumping into walls, having James, the office "everything man" carrying her pocketbook & totebag upstairs for her, driving her car into the fence in the parking lot too many times to mention. She was beyond frail - she no longer looked like anyone I'd ever met. The only thing that remained the same was her voice and her fight...
Saturday, May 31, 2008
9:30am: A warm, sunny morning gave way to humidity and overcast skies with a forecast of an all day rain. Ishman had lost the fight the Sunday before, May 25, and her memorial service was being held at her longtime church, Macedonia Baptist in the one-horse Connecticut valley town of Ansonia. My co-worker and sister from another mother and father Linda Comen scooped me up and quicker than you could shake a lamb's tail, we were at the church. The first thing I noticed was the compact-ness of everything. The street corner, the parking lot, the church (not that I can talk - since there aren't too many church's smaller than my own!) But this was different - it was a typical church structure: white clapboard, steeple, stairs leading up to the entryway just - compact. Like from another era when people weren't as big as we are now. Whatever. We create a parking space and enter the edifice. The first floor is mainly the vestibule and what appears to be a fellowship hall. We're directed up a narrow staircase and are greeted by ushers who offer us programs and memoriam cards both imprinted with excellent likeness' of Ishman - in her way healthier days. We sign the guest book and enter the sanctuary only to find it pretty much filled up. The absolute back pew is available so I figured we'd better sit our happy cracks down while we could. There are current and former co-workers sprinkled throughout the congregation and more coming in. We got here just in time...
10:15: Silence. More people come in and get in where they can fit in.
10:30: Silence. People are now being directed to the compact choir loft to be seated.
10:35: Silence. Finally a man's voice from what sounded like the front of the sanctuary yelled out: "It's too quiet in here!"
Dead silence.
"It's too quiet in here!" The same voice repeats. I squeeze Linda's arm and think to myself, "Welllll, if y'all had spent a buck and hired an organist/pianist we could have some nice funeral interlude music. Otherwise get somebody to lead a congregational hymn."
10:38: The pastor enters the pulpit. I realize he's the same fella who was "traffic directing" in the miniscule parking lot. He greets the assembly, gives the invocational prayer and has the motley crew of a choir lead a congregational "Blessed Assurance". After old and new Testament scripture readings and a valiant but off-key solo by one of the aforementioned choir members, the reading of the obituary and a few acknowledgements, the "Reverend Dr. David Penn, Pastor" begins his eulogy by referring to the deceased as "Lillian Shaw". I grab Linda's arm again. Now, I've been to funerals where the pastor didn't know the deceased personally, heck I've been to a wedding where the bride was called by some other name throughout the entire ceremony. But dang - this is your last public hurrah - shouldn't somebody make the effort to get it right??? I've got to admit, I didn't really want to listen to much more of what he had to say. He did preach from II Corinthians 5, but his Word, like the rest of this service was pretty darned dry. He kept it moving though and reached for common ground with a little self deprecating humor.
10:50: I noticed a co-worker, Ed Donroe who'd been amongst those sitting in the choir loft get up and leave the stand. His wife was still sitting with the others and then I realized - they were getting ready to sing again. Ed's wife, the only white person up there, stood along with the rest of the choir members too - until one of them gave her the high sign and she scurried back to her seat. Linda and I crack up.
11:00: The benediction is given and this one's a wrap. There's no viewing, I figure she must have been in pretty bad shape physically when she died since she had been withering right before our eyes daily at work for months. She was being cremated and as the congregation came around to pay their respects to the family it was clear that there were at least as many people in the outer sanctuary/vestibule as there was inside. My friend and Ishman's work buddy/confidant Jackie, had left the sanctuary earlier in tears - the only person to do so. I wanted to get outside to check on her. She's fought the breast cancer fight too.
Petite and frail Barbara Ishman was probably one of the physically strongest and determined women I've known. She'd worked at that job for 30 years. 61 years old, married with a grown son and an almost grown granddaughter. She didn't have to work these last few years - she chose to. She didn't want to be home waiting. She wanted to live. She wanted to redeem her time.
She collected clowns. I'd made my peace with her years before when I discovered her passion by turning her on to my old neighbor who made ceramic figurines. Ishman loved her work and had a couple of clowns made. It's always curious to me what people collect - what the signficance is. I never asked Ishman why clowns, I didn't want to risk getting cussed out again. I was just glad I'd made it to her good side.
Ishman had battled breast cancer for a number of years and REFUSED to stay home. She came to work bumping into walls, having James, the office "everything man" carrying her pocketbook & totebag upstairs for her, driving her car into the fence in the parking lot too many times to mention. She was beyond frail - she no longer looked like anyone I'd ever met. The only thing that remained the same was her voice and her fight...
Saturday, May 31, 2008
9:30am: A warm, sunny morning gave way to humidity and overcast skies with a forecast of an all day rain. Ishman had lost the fight the Sunday before, May 25, and her memorial service was being held at her longtime church, Macedonia Baptist in the one-horse Connecticut valley town of Ansonia. My co-worker and sister from another mother and father Linda Comen scooped me up and quicker than you could shake a lamb's tail, we were at the church. The first thing I noticed was the compact-ness of everything. The street corner, the parking lot, the church (not that I can talk - since there aren't too many church's smaller than my own!) But this was different - it was a typical church structure: white clapboard, steeple, stairs leading up to the entryway just - compact. Like from another era when people weren't as big as we are now. Whatever. We create a parking space and enter the edifice. The first floor is mainly the vestibule and what appears to be a fellowship hall. We're directed up a narrow staircase and are greeted by ushers who offer us programs and memoriam cards both imprinted with excellent likeness' of Ishman - in her way healthier days. We sign the guest book and enter the sanctuary only to find it pretty much filled up. The absolute back pew is available so I figured we'd better sit our happy cracks down while we could. There are current and former co-workers sprinkled throughout the congregation and more coming in. We got here just in time...
10:15: Silence. More people come in and get in where they can fit in.
10:30: Silence. People are now being directed to the compact choir loft to be seated.
10:35: Silence. Finally a man's voice from what sounded like the front of the sanctuary yelled out: "It's too quiet in here!"
Dead silence.
"It's too quiet in here!" The same voice repeats. I squeeze Linda's arm and think to myself, "Welllll, if y'all had spent a buck and hired an organist/pianist we could have some nice funeral interlude music. Otherwise get somebody to lead a congregational hymn."
10:38: The pastor enters the pulpit. I realize he's the same fella who was "traffic directing" in the miniscule parking lot. He greets the assembly, gives the invocational prayer and has the motley crew of a choir lead a congregational "Blessed Assurance". After old and new Testament scripture readings and a valiant but off-key solo by one of the aforementioned choir members, the reading of the obituary and a few acknowledgements, the "Reverend Dr. David Penn, Pastor" begins his eulogy by referring to the deceased as "Lillian Shaw". I grab Linda's arm again. Now, I've been to funerals where the pastor didn't know the deceased personally, heck I've been to a wedding where the bride was called by some other name throughout the entire ceremony. But dang - this is your last public hurrah - shouldn't somebody make the effort to get it right??? I've got to admit, I didn't really want to listen to much more of what he had to say. He did preach from II Corinthians 5, but his Word, like the rest of this service was pretty darned dry. He kept it moving though and reached for common ground with a little self deprecating humor.
10:50: I noticed a co-worker, Ed Donroe who'd been amongst those sitting in the choir loft get up and leave the stand. His wife was still sitting with the others and then I realized - they were getting ready to sing again. Ed's wife, the only white person up there, stood along with the rest of the choir members too - until one of them gave her the high sign and she scurried back to her seat. Linda and I crack up.
11:00: The benediction is given and this one's a wrap. There's no viewing, I figure she must have been in pretty bad shape physically when she died since she had been withering right before our eyes daily at work for months. She was being cremated and as the congregation came around to pay their respects to the family it was clear that there were at least as many people in the outer sanctuary/vestibule as there was inside. My friend and Ishman's work buddy/confidant Jackie, had left the sanctuary earlier in tears - the only person to do so. I wanted to get outside to check on her. She's fought the breast cancer fight too.
Petite and frail Barbara Ishman was probably one of the physically strongest and determined women I've known. She'd worked at that job for 30 years. 61 years old, married with a grown son and an almost grown granddaughter. She didn't have to work these last few years - she chose to. She didn't want to be home waiting. She wanted to live. She wanted to redeem her time.
She collected clowns. I'd made my peace with her years before when I discovered her passion by turning her on to my old neighbor who made ceramic figurines. Ishman loved her work and had a couple of clowns made. It's always curious to me what people collect - what the signficance is. I never asked Ishman why clowns, I didn't want to risk getting cussed out again. I was just glad I'd made it to her good side.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
"Melonie's Dad"
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Meriden, CT
My middle niece, Mimi's best girlfriend Melonie's dad has passed away. The girls have been friends since high school. Mimi's about to start graduate school, Mel's a single, working mom with 2 adorable toddlers. As classmates, my sister's house was the only friend's place Mel's parents would allow her to spend the night. They were the girls in school everybody loved to hate: pretty, smart, personable, talented. Melonie was taking college courses in her senior year. Always polite and respectful, a tiny little wisp of a thing with hair to the middle of her back. Since graduating, the girls' took divergent paths but they've remained friends, supporting each other in the highs and lows of their young lives...
2:00pm: Mimi and I rendezvous after morning worship service in New Haven to make our way to Meriden, about 20 minutes up I-91, before the 1-3pm viewing for Mel's dad is over. It's unseasonably and almost unbearably hot on this late spring afternoon. In anticipation of a long, steamy day (I had another church service to attend at 5:30pm) I wore a black, ankle length linen sundress - black so I wouldn't have to wear a slip - there's a method to my madness. I'd found a curly afro "toupee" to drawstring onto the back of my head - channeling 'Jazmin', the cute little mixed girl that lives next door on "The Boondocks" - except there's nothing remotely mixed about me and I'm as brown as a new penny after spending a week in Maui and a slow roasting at a bbq the day before.
2:35ish: We stop at McD's so I can grab some fries before finding the funeral home further down the same street. We enter the coolness of the parlor nodding hello to a gentleman (director?) sitting in an office to our left as we pass through the hall to the room where all the activity is pouring out of. It looks like a reception or party is happening and we're just in time - we sign the guest book and wade on in. There was a squad of mostly hispanic folk wearing bright green t-shirts with a picture of Mel's dad silk screened on the back. I heard someone say they were his softball teammates. "That's all right," I thought recalling a friend's succinct theory on life - God's way of seeing how well we play with each other. I'm all for going straight to viewing the body and then greeting family/hobnobbing and since this is Mimi's friend I really don't know much of the family anyway, I was preparing for 'observer mode'. The room is long and set up with chairs around the perimeter and towards the back. Up front, presumably for the comfort of the family, are several overstuffed loveseats, a couch and some knockoff Queen Anne chairs. I stop to hug and extend my sympathies to Mel before viewing the body and kneeling to offer a prayer for his soul. He was only 57 and had died of diabetes related complications. His wish was to be cremated and have his ashes scattered at Gillette Castle in East Haddam. Mel and her older sister Ebony planned to honor his request. Both women seem quite composed though Ebony seemed a bit distant; I guess that's what happens when you're not really close to relatives and then find yourself thrust into their midst.
3:00pm: I choose a seat approximately 2 rows behind the immediate family as opposed to moving further back to where the softball team was holding court. I needed to hear and see what was going on or about to. The room was beyond buzzing - it was practically lively. I nudged Mimi and whispered as much - she nodded in agreement. She'd introduced me to Mel's Mom , children and sisters before we sat down so I contented myself with the various interactions until the service began. People came and went paying their respects to the family. A big but pretty hispanic woman walked past with a triple wedgie - her t-shirt, her shorts and ( I hope) her drawers all neatly tucked into the crack of her behind. C'mon. She had to feel that! Mimi and I exchange glances and I simply say: "Funeral blog". I saw one of the 42 women I attended the retreat in Maui with, Rose, who tried to explain the six degress of separation that related her to Mel's dad. Something to do with her husband who she pointed out and introduced me to. A tiny, clean-shaven white man stepped up to the podium and immediately commanded the rooms' attention by his mere presence. A woman admonished Rose (and me too I guess) to quietness. The buzzing stopped as abruptly as the music would during a police raid at Mr. Ray's afterhours joint. He introduced himself as one of the assistant pastor's at Melonie and her mom's church, Living Word, in West Haven. He spoke quietly and sincerely about a man I doubt he'd ever met since when Tyrone Rease was married to Mel's mom they attended a different church. After prayer, words of comfort and acknowledgement of the family the minister offered the podium to...Rose from Maui's husband, James. O.k. this should shed some more light on Tyrone's life especially from a family member's persepective. Or so I thought. When I tell you I took a GOOD nap on that brother's on and on-ness I am NOT exaggerating! All I heard was something about them growing up in the projects and what a good ball player and sports enthusiast Tyrone was. I didn't even care that I was practically sitting in the front row, in his face sleeping - I just know his longwinded 'tribute' was about as interesting as watching hair grow. OH LAWD HAVE MERCY! When I woke up he was talking about how he'd been inspired in his thumbing through the bible , "since I probably don't read it as much as I should" to look for an appropriate "script" for his tribute to use the 23rd Psalm. Coincidentally it was the "same, exact script the minister had his bible opened to!" Begging your pardon James, but isn't that like, the first bible scripture any HEATHEN learns???
3:30: Praise the Lord the dimininutive minister is back! He made more references to Tyrone, his love of fishing, family, etc. and gave the directions to the home where the repast would be held. Since it was such a blazing hot day the family planned to barbeque in the yard, except as soon as we stepped outside from the funeral home it was a totally different day from when we went in. The sky was turning from a dusky grey to a threatening charcoal as we walked to the car. By the time we'd reach the cook-out house it was raining. I tried, I swear I did, but even with synthetic hair on my head I was not trying to stand in the rain in a long, wet linen dress to eat a cheeseburger. We dropped off the beverages Mimi brought and pressed our way back down I91 just as the skies cut loose. RIP, T.
Meriden, CT
My middle niece, Mimi's best girlfriend Melonie's dad has passed away. The girls have been friends since high school. Mimi's about to start graduate school, Mel's a single, working mom with 2 adorable toddlers. As classmates, my sister's house was the only friend's place Mel's parents would allow her to spend the night. They were the girls in school everybody loved to hate: pretty, smart, personable, talented. Melonie was taking college courses in her senior year. Always polite and respectful, a tiny little wisp of a thing with hair to the middle of her back. Since graduating, the girls' took divergent paths but they've remained friends, supporting each other in the highs and lows of their young lives...
2:00pm: Mimi and I rendezvous after morning worship service in New Haven to make our way to Meriden, about 20 minutes up I-91, before the 1-3pm viewing for Mel's dad is over. It's unseasonably and almost unbearably hot on this late spring afternoon. In anticipation of a long, steamy day (I had another church service to attend at 5:30pm) I wore a black, ankle length linen sundress - black so I wouldn't have to wear a slip - there's a method to my madness. I'd found a curly afro "toupee" to drawstring onto the back of my head - channeling 'Jazmin', the cute little mixed girl that lives next door on "The Boondocks" - except there's nothing remotely mixed about me and I'm as brown as a new penny after spending a week in Maui and a slow roasting at a bbq the day before.
2:35ish: We stop at McD's so I can grab some fries before finding the funeral home further down the same street. We enter the coolness of the parlor nodding hello to a gentleman (director?) sitting in an office to our left as we pass through the hall to the room where all the activity is pouring out of. It looks like a reception or party is happening and we're just in time - we sign the guest book and wade on in. There was a squad of mostly hispanic folk wearing bright green t-shirts with a picture of Mel's dad silk screened on the back. I heard someone say they were his softball teammates. "That's all right," I thought recalling a friend's succinct theory on life - God's way of seeing how well we play with each other. I'm all for going straight to viewing the body and then greeting family/hobnobbing and since this is Mimi's friend I really don't know much of the family anyway, I was preparing for 'observer mode'. The room is long and set up with chairs around the perimeter and towards the back. Up front, presumably for the comfort of the family, are several overstuffed loveseats, a couch and some knockoff Queen Anne chairs. I stop to hug and extend my sympathies to Mel before viewing the body and kneeling to offer a prayer for his soul. He was only 57 and had died of diabetes related complications. His wish was to be cremated and have his ashes scattered at Gillette Castle in East Haddam. Mel and her older sister Ebony planned to honor his request. Both women seem quite composed though Ebony seemed a bit distant; I guess that's what happens when you're not really close to relatives and then find yourself thrust into their midst.
3:00pm: I choose a seat approximately 2 rows behind the immediate family as opposed to moving further back to where the softball team was holding court. I needed to hear and see what was going on or about to. The room was beyond buzzing - it was practically lively. I nudged Mimi and whispered as much - she nodded in agreement. She'd introduced me to Mel's Mom , children and sisters before we sat down so I contented myself with the various interactions until the service began. People came and went paying their respects to the family. A big but pretty hispanic woman walked past with a triple wedgie - her t-shirt, her shorts and ( I hope) her drawers all neatly tucked into the crack of her behind. C'mon. She had to feel that! Mimi and I exchange glances and I simply say: "Funeral blog". I saw one of the 42 women I attended the retreat in Maui with, Rose, who tried to explain the six degress of separation that related her to Mel's dad. Something to do with her husband who she pointed out and introduced me to. A tiny, clean-shaven white man stepped up to the podium and immediately commanded the rooms' attention by his mere presence. A woman admonished Rose (and me too I guess) to quietness. The buzzing stopped as abruptly as the music would during a police raid at Mr. Ray's afterhours joint. He introduced himself as one of the assistant pastor's at Melonie and her mom's church, Living Word, in West Haven. He spoke quietly and sincerely about a man I doubt he'd ever met since when Tyrone Rease was married to Mel's mom they attended a different church. After prayer, words of comfort and acknowledgement of the family the minister offered the podium to...Rose from Maui's husband, James. O.k. this should shed some more light on Tyrone's life especially from a family member's persepective. Or so I thought. When I tell you I took a GOOD nap on that brother's on and on-ness I am NOT exaggerating! All I heard was something about them growing up in the projects and what a good ball player and sports enthusiast Tyrone was. I didn't even care that I was practically sitting in the front row, in his face sleeping - I just know his longwinded 'tribute' was about as interesting as watching hair grow. OH LAWD HAVE MERCY! When I woke up he was talking about how he'd been inspired in his thumbing through the bible , "since I probably don't read it as much as I should" to look for an appropriate "script" for his tribute to use the 23rd Psalm. Coincidentally it was the "same, exact script the minister had his bible opened to!" Begging your pardon James, but isn't that like, the first bible scripture any HEATHEN learns???
3:30: Praise the Lord the dimininutive minister is back! He made more references to Tyrone, his love of fishing, family, etc. and gave the directions to the home where the repast would be held. Since it was such a blazing hot day the family planned to barbeque in the yard, except as soon as we stepped outside from the funeral home it was a totally different day from when we went in. The sky was turning from a dusky grey to a threatening charcoal as we walked to the car. By the time we'd reach the cook-out house it was raining. I tried, I swear I did, but even with synthetic hair on my head I was not trying to stand in the rain in a long, wet linen dress to eat a cheeseburger. We dropped off the beverages Mimi brought and pressed our way back down I91 just as the skies cut loose. RIP, T.
Friday, June 6, 2008
"Mother Kierce"
The date: Tuesday, Jan. 24, 2006 The location: New Haven, CT
On what could have certainly been a more atypical January day in Connecticut, another saint was laid to rest...Mother Annie Dawson Kierce, a stalwart of Church St. South - mom, friend, confidant to many who crossed her path. Due to this dear woman's immense popularity and the way she clearly touched the lives of so many over the years her homegoing service was in funeral parlance "packed out". It is here dear readers that I begin my saga:
The site: Trinity Temple COGIC. I volunteered to usher, "my reasonable service" I thought as I began to plan how much time I'd have to take off from work, when I would have time to cook/bake for the repast and if there would be sufficient heat at the "Temple"....
10:15: Leave work to go home and change into ushering get up, frost the cake I baked the night before after coming in from rehearsal and grab the roasting pan of Stovetop Turkey stuffing I'd made. Tissues (for me), check; hard candy (again, for me), check; eyeglasses so I'll be able to see across the room, check; cash to hit Bishop off, check ...
10:48: Arrive @ the "Temple", find a not-too-faraway parking space on Henry St. - except it's going in the wrong direction- towards Dixwell - for when I get ready to leave. I'm anticipating the need for a clean, quick getaway when this is over...my senses prove to be prophetic...I approach the side door w/the bag of food so I can drop it off in the kitchen before manning my post. The door handle falls off in my hand. I stare at it momentarily - "another omen?" - perhaps, Willie, perhaps..
11:00: The ministerial staff is assembled in the vestibule, I popped a piece of watermelon Duble Bubble, slipped on my gloves & handed the envelope with Bishop's chedda to Pastor Middleton - all systems arrrrrrre GO! "I am the resurrection and the life..."
11:15: I get posted on the far aisle alongside the pews with the family. There's a lot of them - most grieving heavily. Thank God there are 2 seasoned mother's from the Nurses' unit up there as well - except one is on a cane & the other one's got a bad wheel. Oh boy.
11:30: Sheliah McCray-Dawson & Rose Kierce bust through the main entrance - Sheilah first, draped in full-length autumn haze mink, seafoam green, 2-piece knit shot through w/iridescent gold threading, a matching rhinestone encrusted brim-less hat w/matching hatpin and candyapple red peep-toed slingbacks??? Rose bringing up the rear in an all black, simply adorned 2 piece black knit; auburn, chin-length, flipped baby-doll weave, oversized Chanel knock-off sunglasses, bluish-green snakeskin pumps. I go to escort Rose to the family section - Sheilah follows and since they are late they sit approximately 5-6 rows behind family...
11:45: Sheilah begins the "seen and be seen" routine after asking me to get "corrected programs" to the pulpit. I do as I'm instructed, yet she follows me to the rear of the church - am I a half-wit? Can i not carry out this simple task? I maintain the straight, emotion-less expression I've worked on for years - I do not know if I am successful...
11:47: A young woman? man? approaches me as I'm speaking to the head usher, Sis. Stancil, about the "corrected programs" wanting a program. I ask him/her to wait until I finish, he/she walks away...
11:49: I get Sis. Stancil to agree to open the box of corrected programs in Bishop's office - she didn't want to open them in the church because "then everyone would swarm me wanting them" - Sheilah, spangly & sparkly yet without a STITCH of make-up, is still waiting by the main doors - "Do you need me to do anything else for you?" Rose needs the corrected programs too. It's going to be a long funeral...
11:50: The little guy/girl asks me if he/she can go into the pulpit to have remarks - "By all means. And here's your program." It's a she - w/a sweet, clear complexion and voice to match she sings a hymn that makes the family grieve even harder - especially the now obviously OVERWHELMING amount of other little dykes I realize are in attendance - fully 1/3 of the congregation in my humble estimation.
12:00: Rose has remarks - she is extremely composed - sunglasses removed, she brings a bit of levity to the situation by reminding us that her mother would feed a flea-ridden dog, was a true fashion diva and would pass out 50 cent flea market hats in the winter to the bare-headed kids from the projects on their way to school..a good woman indeed.
12:10: Jackie Daniels wobbles up into the pulpit in her trademark black mink beret w/tails and rhinestone pin. She immediately starts talking about herself - per usual - before launching into a shaky, off-key rendition of "Stand"; the little Briarsen Burke fellow tried in vain to follow her on the Hammond B3...Sheilah yelled out "sing Aunt Jackie!". "Please don't" I thought to myself...
Next: THE SERMON
...
On what could have certainly been a more atypical January day in Connecticut, another saint was laid to rest...Mother Annie Dawson Kierce, a stalwart of Church St. South - mom, friend, confidant to many who crossed her path. Due to this dear woman's immense popularity and the way she clearly touched the lives of so many over the years her homegoing service was in funeral parlance "packed out". It is here dear readers that I begin my saga:
The site: Trinity Temple COGIC. I volunteered to usher, "my reasonable service" I thought as I began to plan how much time I'd have to take off from work, when I would have time to cook/bake for the repast and if there would be sufficient heat at the "Temple"....
10:15: Leave work to go home and change into ushering get up, frost the cake I baked the night before after coming in from rehearsal and grab the roasting pan of Stovetop Turkey stuffing I'd made. Tissues (for me), check; hard candy (again, for me), check; eyeglasses so I'll be able to see across the room, check; cash to hit Bishop off, check ...
10:48: Arrive @ the "Temple", find a not-too-faraway parking space on Henry St. - except it's going in the wrong direction- towards Dixwell - for when I get ready to leave. I'm anticipating the need for a clean, quick getaway when this is over...my senses prove to be prophetic...I approach the side door w/the bag of food so I can drop it off in the kitchen before manning my post. The door handle falls off in my hand. I stare at it momentarily - "another omen?" - perhaps, Willie, perhaps..
11:00: The ministerial staff is assembled in the vestibule, I popped a piece of watermelon Duble Bubble, slipped on my gloves & handed the envelope with Bishop's chedda to Pastor Middleton - all systems arrrrrrre GO! "I am the resurrection and the life..."
11:15: I get posted on the far aisle alongside the pews with the family. There's a lot of them - most grieving heavily. Thank God there are 2 seasoned mother's from the Nurses' unit up there as well - except one is on a cane & the other one's got a bad wheel. Oh boy.
11:30: Sheliah McCray-Dawson & Rose Kierce bust through the main entrance - Sheilah first, draped in full-length autumn haze mink, seafoam green, 2-piece knit shot through w/iridescent gold threading, a matching rhinestone encrusted brim-less hat w/matching hatpin and candyapple red peep-toed slingbacks??? Rose bringing up the rear in an all black, simply adorned 2 piece black knit; auburn, chin-length, flipped baby-doll weave, oversized Chanel knock-off sunglasses, bluish-green snakeskin pumps. I go to escort Rose to the family section - Sheilah follows and since they are late they sit approximately 5-6 rows behind family...
11:45: Sheilah begins the "seen and be seen" routine after asking me to get "corrected programs" to the pulpit. I do as I'm instructed, yet she follows me to the rear of the church - am I a half-wit? Can i not carry out this simple task? I maintain the straight, emotion-less expression I've worked on for years - I do not know if I am successful...
11:47: A young woman? man? approaches me as I'm speaking to the head usher, Sis. Stancil, about the "corrected programs" wanting a program. I ask him/her to wait until I finish, he/she walks away...
11:49: I get Sis. Stancil to agree to open the box of corrected programs in Bishop's office - she didn't want to open them in the church because "then everyone would swarm me wanting them" - Sheilah, spangly & sparkly yet without a STITCH of make-up, is still waiting by the main doors - "Do you need me to do anything else for you?" Rose needs the corrected programs too. It's going to be a long funeral...
11:50: The little guy/girl asks me if he/she can go into the pulpit to have remarks - "By all means. And here's your program." It's a she - w/a sweet, clear complexion and voice to match she sings a hymn that makes the family grieve even harder - especially the now obviously OVERWHELMING amount of other little dykes I realize are in attendance - fully 1/3 of the congregation in my humble estimation.
12:00: Rose has remarks - she is extremely composed - sunglasses removed, she brings a bit of levity to the situation by reminding us that her mother would feed a flea-ridden dog, was a true fashion diva and would pass out 50 cent flea market hats in the winter to the bare-headed kids from the projects on their way to school..a good woman indeed.
12:10: Jackie Daniels wobbles up into the pulpit in her trademark black mink beret w/tails and rhinestone pin. She immediately starts talking about herself - per usual - before launching into a shaky, off-key rendition of "Stand"; the little Briarsen Burke fellow tried in vain to follow her on the Hammond B3...Sheilah yelled out "sing Aunt Jackie!". "Please don't" I thought to myself...
Next: THE SERMON
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