What stays behind is....

      Sometimes the best eulogy for a funeral is based on simplicity. With a moving anecdote or example you can illustrate someone's life as you bring a smile to grieving faces. Emotions are usually already highly attuned--highly suggestible and ready to respond. But no matter whether sentimental, inspirational, or humorous, the ending problem always seems to me to be the same:

       A living, vital human being who was an integral part of life is no longer here--what to make of that? Where there was once a vibrant person, an indispensable part of our lives, is gone, and there is a void punctuated by a casket or an urn. What to make of that? What are we, after all, to leave after our time closes?

    As I have moved through life, I have faced this more often. Most recently, just this weekend with my stepdad, David. He touched all of our lives, none more so than Mom's. Her story will go on, but his has ended. For maybe the first time in her life, she is alone--in a house by herself. No kids left in the house with her for whom she has to put on a brave face. What can you even make of that predicament?

    But that surprisingly heavy box of ashes that was all that was left of David is not really his end. Even regardless of your personal stance on resurrection and religion, there is a transcendence about us that beggars death. During the many stories-some poignant and some funny--shared during the funeral, in the obituary, at his brother's house afterwards as we all assembled, I realized that a critical difference that characterizes humanity is that we continue to be vital and central even after we are gone. 

    We live in the stories and the memories. As we share the same tales endlessly, we create a mythology surrounding each and every one of us. My kids never met my grandfather, James Raeford Harrington, he having died when I was 7, but they know his mythology. From the stories of his adventures and scrapes told to them when they were young. They know he was a technophile who HAD to have the latest and greatest goods, like the unbreakable Christmas ornaments he promptly shattered while demonstrating them to the family. They know he was serious about protecting his family, as shown by the story of his driving an hour home from the office to investigate the snake that was terrifying my grandmother from the backyard--a snake that turned out to be a tall tuft of grass caught in the wind. 

    We all know him from these stories and more, told every holiday to each other until they ring with a familiar cadence of memory. This is what stories do, this mythology that holds us together. I have similar stories of all those who we have lost over the years, these memories that keep friends and family present with us as long as we can remember. When our time is up, we will take our place in the stories in the same way. 

    One of the best David stories for me was so simple and profound that I can see it in my mind's eye. It was related by Stanley. Stanley told us that he married into the family. Specifically, that means that his sister married one of David's brothers. To some people, that might not be a significant relationship. but to the Alexander family in general, and David in particular, all connections are important. 

    At some general family gathering, Stanley told us, there was a discussion about a problem or controversy faced by one of the relatives. Just like most of us might say, Stanley did not give his opinion on the matter, telling David "Well, that sounds like a family matter to me."

    David, with that winking glint in his eye I know so well, told him "Stanley, you ARE family." That reply rang so true to David's big-hearted outlook on what it means to belong that I felt like I had been shot in the heart with an arrow of truth. Although I came into the Alexander clan as an adult rather than a child, I and Stacey and the kids were accepted just as if I had grown up in the family. That inclusivity is so characteristic of my experience that Stanley's story will stay with me always.

    So I am assured that although David may not be making new stories any longer, he is still present as we create his mythology. Through our memories and the memories of those that will hear them in the future, even those too young to remember him, he will have honor and humor and respect within those who knew and loved him and were loved by him.

    

    

Letter to a neighbor

 Dear Neighbor,

    As a teacher, I always look in the world and circumstances around me for the examples of prosocial behavior which will inspire my classroom community. Although my content focus is English, I realize that I also have a mission to model and illustrate society-building behavior for students.

    So-where is this leading? Well, I am the fellow seeking a missing cat who came by your house several days ago. Even though you had a houseful of friends and family, you kindly took me aside to answer questions. You softened your testimony of a cat struck by a car with reassurances that his body was unmarked. You diminished the shock of his removal by county employees with a description of the honor and respect they showed in their removal. You shared my grief and offered empathy and sympathy. In short, you accorded me and my family the highest level of dignity and sympathy at such a low point in our lives.

    As a person, I was very moved by your words--your kindness--your decency. As a teacher, I was inspired and grateful for your exemplary illustrations of community-strengthening altruism. I have shared your example with my class of 6th graders, and you are the nameless hero of my class now. You offered a kindness to me and my family from noble intent rather than gain, and for this we honor you.

    So thank you. Thank you for cushioning my grief. Thank you for crafting your narrative of the Harris County workers with respect. And thank you for serving as a bright example of how we should treat each other.

    My tale has a miraculously happy conclusion. To our delight, around bedtime that same night, as we had come to terms with the final loss of our beloved cat Bennie, a furious mewing arose at the back door. Despite all reports and expectation, Bennie survived his week on the run and returned to us just when we thought he was lost forever. Our joy at this reunion is tempered by the sorrow at another family's loss of their orange tabby which you observed, but we are grateful to have him back.

    My heartfelt gratitude to you for your compassion.

  Your neighbor,

Jeff Barber

Memories will linger

     Getting older is difficult--not because of my own aches and pains, but because all those around me are moving on the same path. We spend years learning how to earn a living, how to think, and how to get ahead in our lives. Do we spend enough time learning that we parents, siblings, classmates--all will die? If we knew--really really knew--would we live a little differently?

    I ask this because I have just lost my stepfather. If I had known that the last time I saw him would be the last time, would I have spent more time? Laughed more? Taken time for more stories of when the kids were young and spent most weekends with him and Mom? Sat down for a beer and to listen to him talk about the best way to fish for trout?

    Although I was already grown and out of the house when David and Mom married, I still got 35 years with him. Fond memories of them keeping the kids most weekends while Stacey and I worked, of long Christmas vacations at the house in Pelham, of family trips to spend on the Ocoee River. A cabinet builder by trade and an avid outdoorsman, he could give to his grandkids a rambunctious time outdoors that a lot of their peers missed. Little things-cooking steaks for them every weekend, taking interest in their hobbies--are usually more important than we realize at the time. Paying attention to those little things means that we matter to someone. 

    When we moved to Texas more than a decade ago, we lost that ability to visit often. Christmas and the occasional summer trip became the norm, rather than the frequent trips we enjoyed earlier. The pandemic further cut down on travel, made everyone isolate themselves for a couple of years. By then, it was obvious that his health had declined and those old days were gone. 

    Memories remain.

    Memories of him buying 5-year-old Andrew a professional-grade toolchest and tools, since a plastic set of play screwdrivers and hammers just would not cut it. Memories of him deftly handling a kayak or canoe on the breath-sucking-in-shock icy Ocoee River. Memories of him swaddled in mist as he fished for trout, hour after hour.

    David comes from a large and close-knit family, and I am glad that his sisters will hold my mother up in this critical time of shock and grief. Adam, Shawn, and I are spread over the country, and she needs support close by every day. I am glad that she can lean on them as she struggles with her own memories of David. He has been sick for a long time. I hope she can find the strength to reach back past the last couple of years of increasing poor health and remember the sunshine and the light.

      When you lose someone close, there is a gaping hole left. Sometimes times heals you, sometimes it just blunts the rawness-but at any rate, the change is different for every one. I do not know the answer to how to get over such sorrow, and to tell the truth, I don't know if it is better to suffer through grief artlessly, or to try and distract yourself. I think that a significant relationship is best honored by a honest admission that Yes, this hurts, and it should, because I have lost a lot.

    All I know is that tonight I am going to sit down and take out all my photo albums and refresh myself with 35 years of knowing David. Of honoring what he meant to my mother. To my children. To me. Farewell, David. It was a pleasure and an honor to know you, to be in your life. I have such a collection of moments and memories with you.