Her Body is Gone - Her Spirit Lives On
The killer piano.
January 28, 1933
Dear Ones,
It might be better if I would wait until my brain settles before writing you, but I am sure you are anxious to hear from us.
This Sunday, I am kin to so many more people than I was a week ago, to all those who have lost and miss their mothers.
Back to 10 days ago, we were having a revival in town at our church and Father and Mother started going on Thursday. The minister announced he would talk on a “Lost Art in Religion” and test his audience to see if it were so in New Franklin? It was a matter of testimony and Mother and Father made beautiful witnesses to the glory of God. It was no lost art as far as they were concerned. They went in the afternoon, and in the evening that day, and in the afternoon the next day.
That evening, Mother was too tuckered out to go, but Father went with me. Mother said she had “such a funny feeling in the region of her chest.” Dad choked up with a severe cold. That ended his church going, and on Sunday, Mother and I put him to bed and kept him there as best as we could. By Tuesday, he was better, and she showed symptoms of her old-fashioned asthma. The case developed rapidly and we burned asthma powder and did everything we could think of, but she had very little relief.
I came back from church Wednesday night and found her up on her knees and elbows, which so often is the only position in which she can be comfortable, saying how much she wished she had something that would enable her to get to sleep, as she was so tired.
I went back to town to see the doctor. He prescribed medicine which was supposed to give her the necessary rest, but she spent a miserable night.
Lillian was with her most of the day. The medicine made her delirious and most of the time, when she talked, she rambled. I sat up until midnight, Thursday night when she seemed to be quieted. She started to cough frequently, and wouldn’t keep the cover on and once or twice she was out of bed walking about the room.
You will remember the ways of asthma, how you keep hoping and thinking each paroxysm of coughing will be the last and everything will be all right tomorrow. We were not alarmed. She seemed to be in the same old fagged condition we had seen her in nearly every winter.
Lillian came out with me at noon and Mother seemed so bad Lillian decided to call the doctor. He got here about 4:30 and told us later he was alarmed at her general condition. He asked her if she would mind him hypoderming her. She told him she could stand anything, but added, “But there isn’t a thing that hurts me, doctor.” He also gave her a heart stimulant in the vein and said he wanted her to have another one the second day following.
Just a few minutes after he left, Lillian said to her, “Mother, you must feel like you’re in Heaven, now, so comfortable,” and she replied that she did and “she felt so good, it was so nice,” and dropped off to sleep.
I came home about six and Lillian called me to her bedside and I noted her breathing was quite labored and Lillian and I were alarmed. Still we attributed it to the medicine she had been given, and while we watched, the breathing became normal. Her hands and face were warm. So far as I could tell, her pulse was strong.
Lillian went to the phone and told Carl she wouldn’t come in that night. She cried as she was telling him that we had become alarmed at Mother’s effort in breathing. We went in often to watch her. She seemed to be sleeping soundly, and we were thankful she was getting needed sleep and rest.
We read to Father and visited in the dining room until the phone rang and the doctor was inquiring about Mother. Carl had walked home with him from church and had told him what Lillian had reported. So the doctor called me at once. He said I should give her some medicine he had left. It was a stimulant. I asked him if I should forcibly arouse her and he advised I should.
Julia, Lillian and I tried to awaken her to give her a capsule, but we couldn’t do it. I called the doctor to come and give it. None of us had any experience with very sick people. He came and told me afterward he thought at first she was doing very well. She was asleep on her left side and he asked me to help turn her over so he could proceed with the examination. With difficulty we got her turned, and while he worked, her breathing became labored again. He finally injected more medicine in her vein and said he was returning to town for more medicine and would return as quickly as possible.
I was terribly worried, asked him for a frank opinion and he said he was fearful of the outcome and I had better tell the children to come at once. I called Rosie first at Richmond, as she was the furthest away. She told me not 10 minutes before I called she had experienced the strangest feeling, thinking, “What if I never see my Mother again? She is ill and I am going down Sunday to be with her.” She and Will started within a half hour. I was able to get in touch with the others quickly.
From the time we turned Mother over, her life began to ebb, and by the time the doctor got back and looked at her, he told me it was too late for medicine to do any good. Father saw us running around and me at the phone and wanted to know what was the matter, and he like the rest of us was just bewildered. Julia, Jere, Lillian, Carl, Taylor, Bob, Margaret, Jean and I were there when she just ceased to breathe about 10 o’clock. She was never conscious after falling into the sleep she said was “so nice.”
Mother had so often said she hoped she would never be a care to anyone, and hoped she would just go to sleep like her mother did.
It took me a little bit to realize after the doctor said, “It’s all over, she’s gone,” that there are times when everything is futile.
When we next saw Mother, she looked so carefree, so peaceful. None of us gave a thought to having her taken from the home and we waited here until Mr. Duncan had finished his work. He brought with him a dress of the palest pink, for temporary use while she reclined on a couch of lace. Never had we seen Mother in pink, and we decided the color must be orchid or grey, in the event we did not dress her in some of the clothes she was accustomed to wearing.
While we were debating in the morning about what it should be, we came to the conclusion the dress Mr. Duncan had used was so becoming, we would just use it. As aforesaid, it was of palest pink, with a little lace at the neck and a little jacket effect in the material of just a slight tone deeper.
Rosie, Margaret and I chose a casket in gray, perfectly plain and tufted closely inside with a sort of twilled satin in white. Then we went to the florist and had a huge spray made, dark red roses, with bits of heather woven among them on a foundation of ferns, and tied artistically with lavender ribbon. This was made so when the casket was open, it was draped across the casket; and when it was closed, it was placed lengthwise and covered the entire top. The roses were lovely against the gray of the casket. Margaret ordered a little bouquet of sweet peas in pink and lavender, which was placed on the front of Mother’s dress and it was just the little touch which completed the costume. In recent months, Mother had waved her hair so beautifully. Every morning she would get out her little pan of water, her brush and comb and her “wavers,” and after combing a while, she would invariably say, “Look here, Lilburn, at the hair that came out this morning. If it keeps coming out, I wont’ have a hair left.”
I would tell her since this had been happening for months, I felt some of it must be growing back, or she would have been as bald as old Mrs. Tuggle. And I would recommend having a wig made, an idea which got “no house” from her. Then I would see her with the combs stuck in and a string around her head to hold them in place and presto, she looked as if she were leaving the hair dressers. Well, we wanted to have her hair waved like she had been wearing it, and the girls tried, but with little success. They just couldn’t get it right, so her hair was combed back from her forehead, and it was so silvery and fluffy. She looked just as if she were asleep and so natural, as is generally said, but I have never looked on the face of the dead yet, to feel deep in my heart they looked natural. But what was left of Mother was so lovely in its way I felt comforted, and I almost wore the carpet out, looking again and again. The body which had housed her spirit, wore its 82 plus years lightly. All those to whom I have become kin, know the things we have felt, the things which have come to our mind to puzzle us, and the reproaches we heap on ourselves for omitting to do so many little things and big things which the one who is gone would have appreciated.
The Eastern Star offered to use their ceremony for burial, but I wanted none of that. I shall never forget the time of Aunt Fannie’s funeral. The Stars had it and all of the women were so overcome they couldn’t do their parts, and the service was prolonged almost indefinitely (it seemed to me). So we had no Eastern Star ceremony.
At two o’clock today, a mixed quartet from my Boonville choir sang a song. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was beautifully done. Then Bro. Kimbrell, a pastor of ours some 30 years ago, read impressively the 23rd Psalm and the 90th Psalm. I knew Mother loved the former and Father frequently recites the latter from memory. Then Bro. Pogue, our pastor 20 odd years ago, made a beautiful prayer, which began with something about “How beautiful are thy mountains” - you probably know which psalm it is from, if any. Then the quartet sang “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” which Mother loved. That concluded the service here at the house. I told the ministers they wouldn’t have to eulogize Mother; everybody knew about her already. Brother Kimball remarked to me since he has been here at this meeting that he had preached my Mother’s Christianity all over the State.
The casket was closed before the service began. There were just stacks of beautiful flowers, red colors predominating. Quite a lot of rose and lavender sprays. They were lovely. You have heard me say that I think it is a shame to spend so much money for flowers, when their purpose is so short-lived, and in these hard times the money spent for them could be used to better advantage. I “contentioned,” as our washer woman says, along that line, but others of the family said we should let people do as they please, and we did. Tonight Father said to us, “I have felt it extravagant to have so many flowers at funerals. In this case, I believe every blossom that came was sent as a token of love for Mother.” It was a gorgeous expression, and we cried and said, “Mother would have loved them all,” and would have wanted a “slip” off of every blooming thing in the lot, to start in sand.
The grandsons were the pallbearers. At first we thought we four sons and two sons-in-law would serve in that capacity, but at the time of decision, I didn’t think I would be able to make it. But I could have for when the time came, it didn’t seem like Mother on which the casket lid snapped shut, who was being carried out to the family lot. I felt quite reconciled. Nothing has happened to us which we had no reason to expect, and our blessings have been so many, I haven’t a breath with which I could complain. I don’t know just how I am going to get along without Mother, but people are accustomed to doing that which is necessary, and so shall I somehow.
I won’t be able to scold her and fuss at her because she loved me and told me so, and because she would do things which her son disapproved of sometimes. You know that seems insignificant compared with the lot I might have done. Why, I didn’t bring her near enough sardines and potato chips and dozens of other things. And now I have heavy lumps in my throat.
Father is wonderful, a brave man. He is terribly shaken by grief, but tells everyone he knows it was for the best, that Mother just slipped into a place better than this and it won’t be long until he will be going on to join her. His cold hangs on, and I am doing my best to keep him doctored. But we are recently seeing changes in his vitality. With his broken heart and lonesome days, he won’t have much incentive to keep on keeping up. As always he is a wonderful example and like him, we cry bucketsful, straighten up our faces and go on accepting the situation. Crying is no sign you are not submitting to God’s will, is it?
Tonight Father was talking and recalled a verse of a song which was sung at his Mother’s funeral. It is so flowery I must pass it on to you. Father said it had such a pretty tune:
“Sister, thou was mild and lovely. Gentle as the summer breeze. Pleasant as the air of evening, as it floats among the trees.”
My Dear Cousin Lillian,
Two weeks ago tonight Mother went away. I say “went away,” which was what happened to her living presence, her physical being, but I have been so hovered over by her beautiful loving spirit that I do not mourn. It is with me all the time and I feel her admonition and advice more strongly than when she gave it to me in words. I was so used to it I sometimes fussed at her for advising me, as it seemed, so needlessly, but the mystery which happened two weeks ago has changed all that and I find myself listening for the guidance of that blessed spirit.
I still have that which animated her body and which made her life so full and beautiful, the spirit of her, and I’ll not raise a finger in protest at my lot in losing her. And if I yield to the guidance of her spirit which is so all-present with me, I may be able to become a good old man. In her things left at home were clippings from papers of exalted thoughts which no doubt at the time were clipped because they echoed the deepest emotions of her being. They are lovely thoughts and just little markers to indicate the beautiful thoughts which occupied her time.
The saddest incident pertaining to Mother’s death and burial (and to me the most pitiful) was dear Dad’s trying to see Mother’s features. He did want to see her clearly and several times tried so hard. I got the strongest light I could find and finally told him to “see with his hands” if his eyes couldn’t, but that was little satisfaction and he just bent over, kissed her forehead, and said, “Well, she just slipped away into a better land than this,” and turned away.
THE KILLER PIANO
October 29, 1933
Dear Cousin Lillian,
Tragedy Stalks Today.
This afternoon Horace left home about 3 p.m. leaving Minnie. She had promised she would go back to bed and to sleep. She had been terribly weak for the last two weeks. At five-thirty the maid came and was unable to arouse Minnie to let her in the house, and finally went to a neighbor’s to borrow a key which would fit the back door. Inside the house, she followed the usual instructions not to disturb Minnie until dinner was ready, so went about preparing the meal. Horace came home about a quarter of six, washed up and then went to see if Minnie was all right. She wasn’t in the bedroom, nor his bedroom. He went on through the house, not finding her until he stepped inside the door of the front room. There she was on her knees with her head caught under the top of the grand piano. Stunned by the shock, he removed her from this position to the floor, then called the maid, who summoned the doctor and neighbors. Minnie had been dead an hour or two.
The doctor thought it best to call the coroner, and decided it was necessary to comply with the formalities by having an inquest. Horace called Minnie’s mother, Mrs. Williams, who lives in Mississippi. She was unable to make any plans and will phone tomorrow on whether she is able to come at this time. Funeral arrangements are dependent upon her plans.
Dear Aunt Rose,
There are no more particulars about Minnie’s death. We are wondering just how it happened, but of course, there is no solution to the problem. Mrs. Williams came on Saturday. Carl Jr. met her in St. Louis and drove her here in time for the funeral at three o’clock at the house. Three rooms and the hall were full of people and many were standing outside. A mixed quartet sang, “My Jesus As Thou Wilt,” and “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere.” One minister read a passage of scripture; another read a prayer, after which the body was buried in Walnut Grove Cemetery in Boonville.
It was a long-standing request no one should see her after she was dead - that she should not be removed to an undertaking establishment - that she should be buried in a shell pink dress or robe and she should have three pink rose buds in her hand, with the thorns all removed from the stems. Besides Horace, whom I presume viewed the remains which were taken to the undertakers, no one saw the body until the casket was brought to the house on Saturday around noon. The casket was opened for the benefit of Xena, Mrs. Williams, the Bragg children, a neighbor who had seen the body crumpled on the floor and wanted to see it prepared for burial, then the Negro cook, another Negro woman helper and two men who were raking leaves off the lawn.
I was there at the time and Horace, starting in with Mrs. Williams, told me to just make myself at home. Julia happened to pass through the parlor at the wrong time and before she realized it, her eyes were riveted on the form in the casket, and she said she would have given anything if she hadn’t passed by at that moment. One of the Negroes, telling me about it afterward, said, “Of course, you could tell who it was, but she looked so worn and ‘haggleedy’ with her hair unmarcelled, and without the little touches of loved ones which often seem to soften the sight of the departed. The pink dress was nothing like Minnie had ever worn, low V neck with cheap looking lace filled in and the rosebuds were red instead of pink. As she requested, she was buried in a metallic coffin, a handsome thing, which was encased in an underground vault of concrete. When one considers how wasted the body was, what’s the use of preserving some skin and bones, but I suppose Minnie always through of herself as the body she admired and loved pretty much all the time we have known her.
Minnie, I understand, left a will or something, giving a good part of her jewelry to Xena, a number of the handsome pieces to Delice Bragg, and practically nothing to her second girl, Betty Grant. It reminds me of the way the Darneal family of Richmond take on over Alice Katherine because they think she looks like the Darneal side of the house, and barely give Mary Sue a crumb because she “takes after the Kingsburys.” One of the Darneals took Alice to the fair in Chicago this summer and is giving her piano and violin lessons. It looks like the Darneals will put it all over the Kingsburys! I shall never forget the day I brought Mary Sue home from the hospital in K.C. and Mrs. D didn’t even look at the baby.
Of course, no one is grieved, for Minnie was so miserable, and must have kept Horace in suspense constantly. She said she had nothing to live for and was always threatening to jump into a cistern that was just outside the house. We are glad she did not make the cistern. We are shocked stiff, even though we expected something to happen. But when one considers the manner of her going, it sounds like a fantastic tale. I have never read of anything more unusual in fiction and I wonder if there is a parallel case? It looks like fate stepped in and prevented something which might have been voluntary.
|
|
