Thank you, Mr. Monroney

 I recently attended the funeral service for a “greatest generation” gentleman who also happened to be the father of one of my “bestest” friends growing up in our small West Texas town.  Not that we hung out all the time when we weren’t at school—neither she nor I was much into that as we were busy with piano lessons (she) or athletic practice (me) or studying (both).  She was brilliant, and I was a wannabe brilliant; she was chic while I was the tomboy.  She was a reader and a writer, and I had yet to develop a desire to pursue either of those titles.  It would be our sense of humor which would connect us to the day we graduated.  After that, we both went off to private school universities and just stayed in touch minimally.  Sadly, that’s what often happens; however, the texture of such deeply-rooted friendships remains, in ways that don’t have to be seen or heard or touched.  The Spirit does that for us. 

            Her father had moved from our small hometown after Anne’s mother passed away years ago—which was the last time I had seen the family.  I remember Mr. Monroney as the vibrant Dad, the funny Dad, the stern Dad, and the fiercely devoted Dad to Anne and her sister.  It could not have been easy for this middle-aged war veteran to raise two teenage daughters in the late 60s to mid-Seventies, in the midst of a country divided by yet another cultural revolution.  But he, and the girls' mom,  did just that.  As with many men and women of his generation, Anne’s dad epitomized his generation’s best qualities: they were hard workers, survivors, team players, frugal economists, and faithful partners.  I sat in the chapel pew and was overwhelmed with my shortcomings in a life that only spans two-thirds of his longevity.  Not that I felt a complete failure, but I was keenly aware that this man did simply what we are all supposed to do in living a full life:  he took care of the basics, the fundamentals. Too often, my generation has neglected them, and as a result, our foundations have cracked.

            The Naval Honor Guard, in attendance to send this military servant home with the traditional bugling of Taps, folded our country’s flag and passed it on to Anne and her sister at the conclusion of the service.  Wrapped in that flag were not just the stars of these United States but a galaxy of shining moments, passed on from a father to his daughters and his four grandchildren.

            Two important messages stayed with me as I exited the chapel:  (1) some very special people walk the face of this earth and grace it beyond words and (2) those of us who remain are quite capable of healing the cracks if we just draw on their examples. 

             

A Perennial Favorite

It rained all the way home.  Almost.

As I veered off the interstate to get on the northwest-bound lanes that led to my hometown, the sun opened its eyes for the first time all day.  The next few miles were a mixture of those sprinkles that fall even though the sky is clearing--intermittent windshield wiper time.

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A few years ago, I wrote about Janie in another blog entitled "Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days." On the first anniversary of her husband Mark's passing, the words flowed easily telling how this young widow had faced her grief head on during those initial agonizing twelve months without him. Tonight, the words are bottlenecked.  

I am grieving Day One of Janie's passing.

Like the flowers that Janie loved so well (and could name on sight), friendships have their varieties. Mine and Janie's were perennials.  We might talk often or we might go weeks without a conversation. We'd text late at night or early in the morning if either of us saw or heard or listened to something that reminded us of Mark--for me, that was usually some sports-related item.  For Janie, it was nature's beauty.  She had so many wonderful hour to hour and day to day friends, but what we shared worked for us--two women bonded by broken hearts.  After my divorce, it was Janie who advised me to grieve because the end of a marriage really was a death. I would be that voice for her 15 years later when she accompanied Mark through his cancer.

Janie's mother will now bury her second child--Janie lost a brother in recent years.  Janie and Mark's children will now face adulthood without their parental bedrocks.  

Last summer in Ruidoso, Janie and I went in to a children's boutique to buy a baby gift for some friends.   It was, of course, the perfect setting for us to hope that one day soon we would be grandmothers together--and as it turned out, that is exactly what is scheduled to happen this summer. My Lillie Jane is due just three weeks before her Sophia Jane.  

It was supposed to be.  I am a bit angry and a whole lot sad that it won't.

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My anger washed away this evening when the sun chose to shine just as I got closer to home. The sadness, like those intermittent showers, will come and go.  

In what turned out to be Janie's final spring season on earth, how fitting it was that the rains were plentiful and the flowers were growing and more beautiful than they have been in five years. The drought is over, though a new one is forming in our hearts. 

The one who tended so many gardens is gone.