It was the day of my father’s funeral. Oh, don’t be sad. This isn’t a sad story. He was 93. He had been missing my mother for fifteen years. He was ready to go. My mother came for him and he died with a smile on his face.
People came from near and far to say goodbye to him. We sat in his church. The choir was huge. They came to sing their goodbyes to a man that had given many hours of his life to taking care of this church.
Sometimes you live to be so old…….that those around you have already forgotten who you were. Not so with my father.
The Marines shot off their twenty one gun salute at the cemetery to say goodbye to a stalwart WWII veteran. A riderless white horse stood sentry at my father’s grave site.
My brothers and I chipped in to buy everyone drinks and lunch at a local dining establishment.
My father’s sister sat across from me at this luncheon. Her sons sat around her. They drove her all this way. They were there to support her if she cried. They would drive her home.
My auntie is a young 90. She credits her longevity to the shot of whiskey she takes every night. The bottle of chardonnay she shares with a friend every Saturday evening.
I laughed at her explanation of longevity and I said to her “You’re not old, Auntie. You’re pickled.”
“You were always my favorite.” she said from across the table with a smile upon her face.
“You’re kind like your mother. You look just like her. And, then you turn and look just like my mother. You sing like an angel but your sense of humor……..oh, that’s all me, honey. That’s all me.” Auntie said with a smile that claimed me as her own.
“Your mother and father’s house is gone now.” she said. “What happened to the oil paintings that my sister Vi did for you. I hope they didn’t end up in a yard sale.”
“Oh, no. The portrait she did of me as a little girl has been in my house for many years. (That portrait ended up as the cover on my very first book) The others…….my brother has them hanging in his house.” I assured her.
“Oh, good. I’m glad to hear it. My sister Vi. She was such an artist. We grew up in a one room school house. There was a chalk board all around the room. At Christmas……..the teacher would hand Vi a box of colored chalks. And, she’d say “Decorate the room for us Vi. Draw Christmas for us.”
“And, we’d all sit and watch and we’d give her suggestions. Christmas tree there! Holly and Ivy! A sleigh and a horse! And, she’d draw it all in chalk as we watched. And, all the while your father would be reading to us from a book about Christmas customs from all around the world.” my auntie remembered at my father’s funeral luncheon.
“Minnie Munson.” I said to her from across the table.
My auntie’s mouth hung open.
“However do you know her name?” she asked.
“Oh, we all know Minnie Munson’s name in my family. The young woman that taught eight grades in a one room school house in northern Maine. The young woman that studied all night to keep ahead of her students when they got into trigonometry. The girl barely out of her teens that sent students off to war and off to universities. The young woman that went home to milk cows and help her mother run a dairy farm after teaching all day. My father made sure that we’d never forget the name of Minnie Munson.” I said to my auntie over the table.
“Imagine that.” she declared to her sons. “Darlene knows all about Minnie Munson! If only we had a story teller in our family. If only one of us was a writer.”
growinguponcolumbusstreet 