My mom, born in rural Iowa during the depression, has certain rules that allow you to magically control the uncontrollable. I love it. For example, because the weather is fickle, always garden based on the moon. See, you can control nature just by paying attention to heavenly bodies. How wonderful. Or, if you’re sick, tying an old rag around your ointment-slathered neck will pretty much cure anything. Voila, I can control illness. Or, my favorite, deaths come in threes, which of course means there’s a beginning and an end to folks dying. So, if you are number four on the death list, too bad, you didn’t make the cut. Yup, even death can be controlled.
ONE
“May she rest in the house of the Lord,” the priest intones, following a liturgy that was written in cold stone by Church fathers long before my time. The mourners slowly flow from the church, sad, hugging, and laughing in reminiscence.
I look towards the attached hall wondering if the church ladies are ready for the mob.
And a mob it is. In this small-town Nebraska, there are few who the 94-year-old clown and puppeteer and storyteller and performer and matriarch did not touch in a significant way. Including her niece, my wife. For example, this woman, who saw most of the 20th century, claimed that her mother told her on her wedding day:
“Never plant a cherry tree and never learn to milk a cow.”
Sage words indeed for those hated chores of cherry pitting and milking. And my wife’s aunt never did plant a cherry tree or learn to milk a cow. Staunch feminism or just aversion to cherry pie with ice cream? Your call.
But this small-town farm wife was tirelessly curious. Curious about the world and curious about you.
“What do you believe if you don’t believe in God?” she would ask. And then she patiently listened, gave her thoughts, and . . . invited everyone to a game of Scrabble. She was all about inclusion. And her gazillion grandchildren knew this as they’d tromp in and out of her house to talk to her about school and sports and whatever was on their mind. They’d leave with a snack and the unspoken assurance that they always had a place. And if any of her many guests had a story or wanted to play a game? Even better.
Ursula, the large puppet, turned and looked at me and then back to the puppeteer.
“Joe has no hair,” Ursula says in her high-pitched voice.
“No, he doesn’t, but I think he is very handsome,” says the puppeteer, frowning at Ursula’s rudeness.
“Well, it’s a matter of opinion,” says Ursula with a twist of her puppet lips.
The puppeteer and her puppets — she will be missed.
TWO
One month after that funeral, it’s raining in California. Roads washed out. Trees hanging on the thread of their shallow roots. And not a blue sky in sight.
A good time for another aunt’s funeral.
Nearly 45 years ago, this aunt provided a home for my wife during part of her college years in Santa Cruz. I knew they were close, but did not expect the aunt to call me before the marriage. Although looking back, I should have known there would be a few raised eyebrows when we agreed to get married after just two weeks of dating.
The aunt called.
“Do you know what you’re getting into?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“My niece is hard to live with.”
“What?”
“Your future wife is great and I love her but you should know that she is opinionated and strong-willed and moody . . . she is not an easy person.”
“What?”
I was oblivious. My wife’s aunt just wanted to make sure I was up for the challenge. I wasn’t, of course. But this aunt was all about staring truth in the face and waiting to see who blinked. She never did. She spent a life telling the truth to family, friends, and her community ranging from how to properly treat vertigo to the craziness of real estate development on earthquake fault lines. Yup, nothing was off limits.
Of course this gadfly suffered the fate of all truth-tellers — she was not very popular with those who didn’t want to hear the truth. Too bad. She was a gift to her family and to her community. She was a bright flower under a cloudy California sky.
THREE
But my sister also loved romance. She married more than her share and had multiple boyfriends that I personally met, usually to my regret. But it was a rich life even as she became more and more bedridden. It didn’t matter to her. Romance was romance.
But by late spring, a month after the last aunt’s death, my sister was dying. I was with her in the hospital with just days left, and I asked her if the doctor had been in. She said he had and that he was quite handsome. She added with a twinkle:
“I don’t think it’s going anywhere because I think he’s married.”
So there you have it. My sister loved love. Through all the messiness of life, she saw the clear waters of romance and dove in above her head every time. Right up to the very end.
FOUR?
Now all three women are gone and buried. The dance is over. The last blessing given. And the sweet smell of incense has drifted out the door with another generation.
As for us? We are off scot-free. Yahoo. Death comes only in threes. Number four, whoever you are, it is your lucky day. Whew.
Now, did you plant those tomatoes between the first quarter and the full moon?
Joe
Lots of loss lately, Joe. Sending you may heartfelt condolences. I know I would have loved these three quirky, outspoken, vibrant women! May their memories be a blessing to you and your family.
Hi Joe,
My deepest sympathies to you and your family. Such beautiful tributes to the women in your life I enjoy everything you write … but this was really touching and just what I needed.
Take care my friend,
Lisa
“And the sweet smell of incense has drifted out the door for another generation.”
Exquisite line. If this were on paper, I’d highlight it.
There are so many things I love about this essay that I can’t get my thoughts focused to be articulate. First and foremost, it is a tribute to women – to finding the gifts each had to offer despite their sometimes being challenging. I love that you did that. Secondly, the frame of “death comes in threes” – brilliant – and I hope you’re done with death for a while.
Sorry for your losses. Aged or not, expected or not, losing those close to you is always hard.
Joe, I am so sorry for your losses. Three in one year is a lot, and these occurred in a much shorter time. It appears all three left their mark on your life.
Joe, I’m sorry to learn of members of your family passing away. I know that many fond memories emerge as we miss our family members.
I practically grew up at with Theodora, my Greek grandmother. She was perpetually dressed in black as if ready for the next family catastrophe! If we heard an owl call at night she tell us children there would be a death in the family! Don’t even get me started on her take on lightening. ;0
Lesson learned. Enjoy your family and friends while you can. Never let a moment slip away.
Joe joe lovely talented Joe !!! You nailed the threes is it mystical or is it reality ? Well reality is they are gone from us but look how you just brought them to LIFE with a stroke of your pen and the power of treasured memories!! Such a touching glimpse of all of the 3 women each with their own beauty about living on this planet I am reading a book about after death communications called adc and there is hope and loving signs that love never ends it just reaches a much higher vibration and much more love than one can obtain Here on earth . Can you imagine the signs these women could hurtle at you ?? Watch out they are everywhere!! Be alert and stay on your toes and be 4th in line always !! Clearly I should not drink coffee until noon! Lol Love to you and yours and thanks for making my day special with your writings!!!
What a great story about all the special women in your life you were able to spend time with . So many great moments to be treasured and remember. I too was lucky to be the sister who also shared my whole life with them , and this article will be saved and reread many times. Thanks for the sentimental journey. Love,love