On the road, part two.

“When life hands you leeemons, make leeemonade.”

The last 48 hours have been a blur of Spanish moss, the smell of flowers, hugs and kisses and wrinkled skin soft like old crumpled paper, and oppressive, blinding heat.

At the heart of it all: the love of a family for their Matriarch.

We arrived at Valdosta, Georgia, walking down the ramp of the tiny plane right onto the tarmac. I felt like I was the president, perhaps I should wave, but there was no one to wave to. It was great just to stand after spending 40 minutes hunched over from our flight from Atlanta. My back ached and the fierce humid heat cast a fine sheen of moisture on my brow. My mom met us inside. We were grateful to see her face and to feel a cool rush of air conditioning.

Yesterday was a blur: I napped. We went out to lunch at Denny’s with one of my aunts and my cousins. The above quote is inspired by our waitress, who asked Larry if he wanted a “leeemon” in his water. He blinked in confusion and I watched the realization dawn on his face. A lemon in his water. Our first taste of the very deep Georgian South.

I napped some more. We were off to Homerville for the viewing. More of a blur: my mom, driving her massive Tahoe rental, tall skinny pines and stretches of rural emptiness, trailer homes flanked by large new homes, paralleling the railroad track, pecan trees, mimosa trees with their fuzzy pink blossoms, a blueberry farm, a paper mill, an apiary, and more vast swatches of pine and overgrown landscape.

She looked beautiful, wearing a sweater my mom gave her last Christmas to cover the IV scars. So many beautiful flower arrangements, a spray of yellow roses over the casket. My mom placed a bag of momentos representing each of the family in the casket. All of her children were there, except for one son who couldn’t be bothered, we assumed. No family is perfect, but we all loved Granny.

And always glancing at her chest as she lay there, so still she looked as though just asleep, waiting to see a sigh escape from her slightly smiling lips.

Lots of introductions. Overwhelmed with names and faces and familial connections. If I was overwhelmed, I can’t imagine how Larry must have felt. Tears and tissues and murmured voices and the occasional flitter of laughter. Victorian drollness of decor, Southern kindness and warmth. All in love for a marvelous woman, a Queen in her own right.

Long blurry ride back to Valdosta, the light waning from the sky and the air still heavy with humidity. A ridiculously long wait for dinner at the Outback next to our hotel. A reminder of home with a fresh cold mug of Sam Adams Summer Ale. And then one more.

Then: sleep, sleep, sleep.

A wakeup call. A cellphone alarm. A blurry-eyed breakfast in the hotel: tiny dry biscuits and thick sausage gravy with watered-down coffee.

A few minutes of solitude in the shower.

Rush rush rush to the Tahoe, pinching at the corners of our dresses and patting down flyaways, astonished at just how damn hot it was for ten o’clock in the morning.

The long drive 30 miles down one road with only one turn to the funeral home. Walking in to greet the absent son of last night, the room rearranged from the viewing, and more baskets of flowers: roses, carnations, mums, lilies, and more.

And Granny: still at peace, a sweet slight smile still on her lips, a cross necklace draped over her clasped hands.

More tears and tissues and a heavier sense of formality this morning. Poem and prayer by my mother, prayers and remarks from my aunts, and scripture by my uncle, a bit overzealous in his interpretation of my Granny’s testimony. According to my uncle, we all needed to be saved and as the only Jews within a dozen or more miles, the heat of his hellfire and brimstone was clearly aimed at us without ever mentioning us by name. My husband’s anger, my mom and several of my aunts’ and cousins’ anger was palpable. There is a time and a place for this, and this was surely not the time nor the place. Grandiose words and show as if somehow this could make up for a lifetime of neglect. Yes, he loved his mother, but we all know the true worth of that love is paid in deeds of lovingkindness. And one day, he too will be judged, and not by the number of strangers he saved but of family he turned his back upon in the name of salvation.

No family is perfect. And how different things are in other parts of the country.

Feeling like a giant Star of David was painted on our backs, tuning out his ignorance and remembering Granny’s laugh and how she was always dressed in pastels and the kindness and love in her eyes.

I offered one last gift for Granny: a song. She always loved to hear me sing, so I sang her one last song: Amazing Grace.

…and feeling true Grace in that moment.

Closing words and more talk of Jesus, to be expected at a traditional Southern funeral. My Granny was indeed a good Christian woman, who taught all her daughters to be strong, faithful women. And she loved me and Larry, my sister and her husband no matter what our faiths.

Paying my last respects. Finally losing it when I watched my mom at the casket. “I’m so sorry your heart is breaking mom, but you have been a wonderful daughter to make Granny proud.”

The funeral procession: the red hearse creeping down the road, a line of over twenty cars slowly snaking behind it, police cars at *every* intersection. And the strangers, in their passing cars- stopping. Stopping for a great woman they’d never met in their Southern kindness thinking nothing of this custom and perhaps wondering about the life passing by them in this slow procession.

Who was this person, so loved with this long line of cars behind them, they wonder. Even the massive logging trucks carrying literally tons of cut timber crawl to a stop out of respect.

The cemetery: old and hushed, the twittering of birds and the buzz of dragonflies, a legacy of families and history dug deep in the earth. Massive old trees dripping with moss, their shade a comfort in this oppressive near suffocating heat.

A few words of prayer, and one final hymn: “I’ll Fly Away.” My cousin finally overcome by her restrained sadness, the finality of the moment, the end of her relationship with her grandmother finally welling over in her heart. The pallbearers greeting the bereaved, my cousin’s brother in full Army dress, his face red and soaked with tears. He has grown to become such a good man, and Granny was always so proud of him. And how he loved and fought for and protected her so.

More blur as we passed old headstones, my mother ticking off more of our family’s history. And with them, Granny lay at peace, finally reunited with her brothers and sisters.

Biding time until our flight out of Valdosta to Atlanta, Atlanta to Philadelphia. And tomorrow, Philadelphia to Boston.

Valdosta: the smallest airport I’ve ever been to. Again with this heat, even inside. The tiny jet, the same Delta stewardess spiel, a journey of just 48 hours ago playing back in reverse.

Wheels up. We climb into the humid canopy of palest blue, a haze cast over the horizon. Looking out my window at the miniature world beneath us, lush greens and parched patches of dust, roads carved like strange arithmetic doodles on a grid of farms and fields. The haze creeps in around us, the landscape fading into a grey-blue memory.

And soon the world vanishes entirely beneath us, leaving us with nothing but our memories.

With love:
Mary Emma Jordan Carter,
March 1, 1919 – June 5, 2010

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