A Memorial for Grandma

About a month ago, in my post "A Mother's Day Tribute," I wrote about how the floods in southern Illinois prevented me from attending my grandmother's funeral. Last weekend, my family and I made the journey to Cairo, Illinois, a town of Mark Twain fame, where the Ohio and the Mississippi meet, a town hit hard by poverty and now by devastating floods. My mother and grandmother both grew up in Cairo (pronounced Care-o - as in I "care" about you - as opposed to Cairo, Egypt or - as many non-Cairo residents say - Karo Syrup). Several generations on my mother's side also hailed from that Missouri/Kentucky/Southern Illinois region. Because Cairo is so close to Kentucky and Tennessee and sits on the Mason-Dixon line, it feels more Confederate than Yankee sometimes.

“Here’s what we’ll do," Aunt Alice, my grandmother's 93-year-old sister, said over a phone conversation before we left Idaho. "I’ll have Charles [her son, my second cousin] barbecue the pork shoulder on Friday night. Then y'all get here at noon on Saturday, and we’ll have the pork shoulder and then chicken spaghetti that night.”

I hung up the phone, a little bewildered, pretty certain we were going to have two huge, home-cooked meals on Saturday alone.

"I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm a vegetarian," I told Dan. "I don't think they have vegetarians in Cairo. I guess I'll just have to take one for the team."

Of course, there's nothing better than barbecue in that region of the country, even for a (semi) vegetarian like me.

We did, in fact, eat two huge meals with Aunt Alice on Saturday, complete with two desserts - Rainbow Angel Food Cake in the afternoon and . . . well . . .

"It's Lidy's recipe," Aunt Alice explained. "She calls it her Better-Than-Tom-Selleck Cake," then she added, "Better-Than-Sex Cake."

As we were leaving Alice's house that night, she stared at my husband for a minute. Then she said, "You sure don't talk much."

And with that, we headed back to our hotel in Sikeston, Missouri to prepare for the memorial service.

I sang a solo at my grandmother's church the next morning. Cairo Baptist (renamed Mighty Rivers Worship Center) was also the church in which my mother grew up. The minister there married my parents. Every time we have visited Cairo, I have been asked to provide special music. And every time I sing in that sanctuary, I get the feeling that I kind of grew up there too, maybe vicariously through my mother, maybe because I'm sure my grandmother talked me up to her fellow church members. To Grandma, I was the Ninth Wonder of the World (she and her siblings and their Vaudeville act being the Eighth Wonder of the World).

This time, before I sang, the pastor said, "Helen [my grandmother's name], I hope you're listening."

At the memorial that afternoon, we arranged pictures of Grandma around a bouquet of flowers My brother, Steve, told a story about playing Old Maid with Grandma. She would stack the deck so that she would always end up with the dreaded "Old Maid" card, and Steve would win. My father talked about my grandmother always wanting dessert first and connected this metaphor to the enjoyment she gleaned from life.

"I hope she's up in heaven, surrounded by dessert," he ended.

My father also invited the congregation to tell Grandma stories.

One of her fellow choir members, a gentleman about my age, said, "I am the tallest choir member [he's well over six-foot], and Helen was always the shortest [she was around 4'9"]. Sometimes I couldn't find my robe, and I'd say, 'Helen, are you wearing my robe again?' And she'd laugh and laugh."

Then, I sang "I'll Fly Away."

Aunt Alice, my strong, tough 93-year-old great aunt who had not shed a tear, started to cry.

"She always wanted that song sung at her funeral," Alice said. "And we just couldn't do it because of the flood."

"Well," I embraced her through tears, "we did it."

WHERE I’M FROM
(the tribute poem I wrote and read at Grandma's memorial service on
Sunday, June 12, 2011 the day before her 99th birthday)

I am from Grandma, the self-proclaimed “T.V. Dinner Queen,”
from pecan pies and Shemwell's barbecue on toasted bread.
I am from Aunt Alice and Uncle Bud,
from distant stories of Great Aunt Lucille – she quacked like a duck – and Great Grandma’s Halloween costumes and neighborhood haunted house.

I am from panty hose and high heels, even at age 80-something,
from phone calls on Sunday nights and “Good Night” spoken as an interjection,
I am from the Dunn Children Vaudeville act, the 8th Wonder of the World,
and me, the 9th Wonder of the World,
from being the center of attention and loving every minute of it.

I am from the Big Wheel pedaling down Pine Street,
from chasing lightning bugs on humid, Midwestern nights.
I am from snapping many, many photos of family living far, far away.

I am from Murder She Wrote and paperback mysteries,
from Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I am from sending my brother into Grandma’s attic, just to see if there’s anything cool up there.

I am from black-eyed peas on New Year’s,
Brussels sprouts on Thanksgiving,
marshmallow date logs on Christmas.
I am from Christmases spent in Cairo and fancy dinners at Alice’s and answering the phone, “Christmas Eve Gift!” on December 24.

I am from a mother who is no longer able to say goodbye to her mother, but I am here, and I am from beautiful memories of a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter.