This was written by our middle daughter Alison. She read it at her grandfather's funeral. It is another rich Christmas memory maker. Peggy
Hi Daddy. Below is a little thing I wrote about Daddy O. I did it more to include in Aidan's memory book so that he would have something about Daddy O. I have struggled this week with some moments of grief I did not expect. It has been a lot more sad than I had anticipated ~ probably due in part to the fact that I have not seen Daddy O in so long so his spiral downward wasn't as present to me as Mommy Ann's...but also probably because they are now both gone. Feel free to share...but just thought you might wish to read it.
Love you
A
Once Upon a Time (I am told by my son that this is how every story begins...and so it is...) there was this very special man. He was a wonderful servant of God in so many ways and to so many people. Civil Rights struck a cord with him ~ and he lived out his beliefs of equality in every aspect of his life. He did so many wonderful things ~ but to me, he was "The Best Boy I Ever Knew." He was Daddy O ~ husband to Mommy Ann; father to my father and to my uncle; and grandfather to me, my siblings and my cousins. I never knew him as H.O. Hester or Dr. Hester or even as Herschel Odell ~ and certainly not to diminish any of his many accomplishments and roads he has paved because his impact here is tremendous ~ but in my life the impact is far different as he was "The Best Boy I Ever Knew."
When my father called to report Daddy O's passing there was relief because we all knew he had been suffering and longed to be with Mommy Ann. We knew that he was in a much better place now ~ a long awaited journey home. A little sidenote ~ I found it fitting that he was returning to my grandmother just before Christmas ~ a holiday that reminds me most of Mommy Ann as she always seemed to enjoy the celebration. I figure he just did not want to be late for the huge party she must throw in Heaven...one adorned with holiday decorations including tiny elves she likely puts in the heavenly potted plants.
While Daddy O's passing was very expected and a relief in ways ~ I found myself a little shocked at the thought that he had died. I kind of found myself thinking I was being a bit silly at being shocked ~ he was 96 years old. This probably came for a few reasons ~ one, because Daddy O has suffered many setbacks in the last year and half somehow always managing to find his way back to a steady beat and I guess in some way I had believed this would continue to happen. Afterall, he is one of the only men I have ever seen lift a railroad tie at the ripe ol' age of 85 after countless hernia surgeries ~ to say he is the strongest man I have ever known would be putting it mildly. But I also think that even though we have known he was failing ~ his actual passing signified a moment when I had officially lost all living connection to Daddy O and Mommy Ann as my grandparents...kind of a rite of passage into full fledged adulthood. I know you might think ~ adulthood should have come to me before the age of 34 (afterall I no longer live at home, am married and have a 3 1/2 year old son) but somehow your grandparents can always make you feel the comfort of childhood again in a way that no one else can. I cannot think of moments at Daddy O and Mommy Ann's that were not filled with the following items: popcorn, grape Check Soda, frozen bananas, chocolate chip cookies, and banana nutbread ~ all accompanied by some of my happiest family together times with my cousins.
So while I am relieved that Daddy O is together again with Mommy Ann ~ I cannot help but grieve. But in my grief, I have been blessed. Blessed with having had him as a grandfather to help guide me in my religious and cultural beliefs. I have been blessed with the treasured memories of days gone by spent sleeping in the little house (the grandkid quarters on Bankhead Street in Mongtomgery) with my cousins. And since we are at Christmas I will tell you a short little moment that I think sums up to me all that Daddy O is in my heart ~ growing up our family liked to help provide Christmas for a family that would have otherwise been without. One year (in Louisville, KY) we provided for a single mother that was pregnant with her third child. Luckily she had been involved with a program that provided safer housing for women in her situation ~ and so she was living in an apartment with an elderly woman. I can vividly remember a few aspects of our taking Christmas for her family ~ we took some of our old toys and children's clothing. We took food for Christmas dinner and probably took some wrapped gifts too. While the adults unloaded the "goods" ~ we played with the young children to distract them so that they could open presents on Christmas Day. I clearly remember Daddy O coming along with us to help ~ and as the mother was saying goodbye to us ~ Daddy O reached out, hugged her and gave her money to be used however it was needed. To me ~ in that moment ~ Daddy O taught me a kindness I carry with me each day trying hard to help others without question. I also often try to remember to hug ~ something Daddy O loved to do (often referring to himself as the Hugging Hester). So while his impact on society, community and religion is indeed great ~ his impact on each one of us is more tremendous. And while I will long to have my grandparents back ~ especially at Christmas ~ I am so blessed to have had such special people as my grandparents. And while this is "the end" to the best boy I ever knew ~ it will never be the end to the impact he has made here.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Christmas remembered... Christmas Cuties
My father did not remember much of his childhood. The abuse he suffered had mercifully wiped his memory slate clean. But one Christmas memory remained and I treasure this story he told me as his grown up daughter.
My grandfather had no money for Christmas for daddy and his brothers and sisters. He was prone to gamble and drink, a good time Charlie, so it had probably had been spent on wine, women and song. GrandMary asked my father to walk to his grandfather’s house to ask for some Christmas money. Daddy was a small boy and remembered the humiliation and shame he felt having to ask his grandfather for money. Every time he told the story I could see that small boy in his eyes, dragging his feet as he walked the dirt roads, shamed by his father’s behavior, sent by his mother to petition for charity. The five dollars Poppa sent home with him stuffed (sort of) their stockings. In the toe was one orange, a little dry and hard on the outside, but still sweet and juicy on the inside. It was the only orange they ever had during the year because oranges were dear, rare fruit for regular folks. Daddy said he saved the skin and chewed that after the fruit was gone just to remember the flavor of the orange.
Every Christmas, we would drive across the state line just a few miles from our home and buy big bags of Florida oranges, juice oranges and navel oranges. Daddy taught me how to cut a cone shaped hole in the stem end of a juice orange, how to suck it dry and then how to tear it apart to eat. Navel oranges were for peeling and eating, for ambrosia at Christmas dinner. We all loved oranges and in my childhood home, there were oranges in abundance. It was a Christmas gift for that small boy who lived in my daddy and a gift of abundance he gave my sister and me.
This tradition continued in our home. Michael loves Christmas oranges, too. Those of us who grew up close to Florida tracked the winter season by the appearance of the oranges and grapefruits. Our children grew up with their daddy peeling oranges at night as a winter bedtime ritual. Often we would eat ten oranges in one night. Big, sweet, juicy navel oranges were our favorite.
Now I have a new orange in my citrus vocabulary... the Cuties. Our church in Texas orders these by the ton, I think. Sharlande, the associate pastor, has written of the smell that floats down the church halls when the Cuties arrive. They are a small orange that peels like a tangerine with no seeds, perfect for little children (and big children,too).
Yesterday the minister’s group met at the Farmhouse for their regular monthly meeting. I carried down the coffee, cream and sugar, set out the tea bags and agave nectar. Then I found a lovely old wooden bowl, filled it with Cuties and set it on the living room table as a Christmas gift from my daddy and me, a remembrance of days gone by and loved ones now departed. It was a gift of love and memory, a gift to honor the little boy who was finally able to eat his fill of oranges.
This Christmas, as in Christmas past, we will take oranges and grapefruit to our local day shelter for the homeless as a Christmas happy. It is one of the ways we choose to share the more than enough in our lives as a living testament to those who gifted us. Our church has adopted a care giver and his charge, a developmentally challenged man. Along with the flannel shirt, fleece jacket and moccasins and food, Michael and I will take a big bag of navel oranges. I hope their Christmas is a merry one. It is our gift to honor the little boy who was born in Bethlehem so many long years ago.
Merry Christmas, daddy. When we gather around the fire with all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, orange juice dribbling down our chins, I will tell your Christmas story and the story of the baby boy Jesus. That little boy grew up and left us a legacy of hope, love, joy and peace. I wonder if he would be pleased with how we have turned out, with our memory of his Christmas story, and our sharing of the abundance he shared with us?
My grandfather had no money for Christmas for daddy and his brothers and sisters. He was prone to gamble and drink, a good time Charlie, so it had probably had been spent on wine, women and song. GrandMary asked my father to walk to his grandfather’s house to ask for some Christmas money. Daddy was a small boy and remembered the humiliation and shame he felt having to ask his grandfather for money. Every time he told the story I could see that small boy in his eyes, dragging his feet as he walked the dirt roads, shamed by his father’s behavior, sent by his mother to petition for charity. The five dollars Poppa sent home with him stuffed (sort of) their stockings. In the toe was one orange, a little dry and hard on the outside, but still sweet and juicy on the inside. It was the only orange they ever had during the year because oranges were dear, rare fruit for regular folks. Daddy said he saved the skin and chewed that after the fruit was gone just to remember the flavor of the orange.
Every Christmas, we would drive across the state line just a few miles from our home and buy big bags of Florida oranges, juice oranges and navel oranges. Daddy taught me how to cut a cone shaped hole in the stem end of a juice orange, how to suck it dry and then how to tear it apart to eat. Navel oranges were for peeling and eating, for ambrosia at Christmas dinner. We all loved oranges and in my childhood home, there were oranges in abundance. It was a Christmas gift for that small boy who lived in my daddy and a gift of abundance he gave my sister and me.
This tradition continued in our home. Michael loves Christmas oranges, too. Those of us who grew up close to Florida tracked the winter season by the appearance of the oranges and grapefruits. Our children grew up with their daddy peeling oranges at night as a winter bedtime ritual. Often we would eat ten oranges in one night. Big, sweet, juicy navel oranges were our favorite.
Now I have a new orange in my citrus vocabulary... the Cuties. Our church in Texas orders these by the ton, I think. Sharlande, the associate pastor, has written of the smell that floats down the church halls when the Cuties arrive. They are a small orange that peels like a tangerine with no seeds, perfect for little children (and big children,too).
Yesterday the minister’s group met at the Farmhouse for their regular monthly meeting. I carried down the coffee, cream and sugar, set out the tea bags and agave nectar. Then I found a lovely old wooden bowl, filled it with Cuties and set it on the living room table as a Christmas gift from my daddy and me, a remembrance of days gone by and loved ones now departed. It was a gift of love and memory, a gift to honor the little boy who was finally able to eat his fill of oranges.
This Christmas, as in Christmas past, we will take oranges and grapefruit to our local day shelter for the homeless as a Christmas happy. It is one of the ways we choose to share the more than enough in our lives as a living testament to those who gifted us. Our church has adopted a care giver and his charge, a developmentally challenged man. Along with the flannel shirt, fleece jacket and moccasins and food, Michael and I will take a big bag of navel oranges. I hope their Christmas is a merry one. It is our gift to honor the little boy who was born in Bethlehem so many long years ago.
Merry Christmas, daddy. When we gather around the fire with all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, orange juice dribbling down our chins, I will tell your Christmas story and the story of the baby boy Jesus. That little boy grew up and left us a legacy of hope, love, joy and peace. I wonder if he would be pleased with how we have turned out, with our memory of his Christmas story, and our sharing of the abundance he shared with us?
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
wild thing, you make my heart sing...
I was down at the stable, mucking out the stalls, putting out hay for the day when I saw the donkeys and Dixie run to the fence by the driveway, snorting and stamping. I looked up and saw a black bear walking past, ambling by, on his way somewhere through our back yard. The donkeys thought they could take him. Shirley was convinced she could thrash him and wanted a chance. He paid no attention to them or to me as I yelled for Michael to come look. Being that close to a really big wild thing was exciting and a little scary.
A woman in our community made the papers when her chicken flock was wiped out by a hungry bear. She was furious that the local authorities couldn’t do anything to protect her chickens and she was afraid the bear would harm her or her children. Of course she lives out in the country, perhaps in a subdivision, but still near mountains and woods. Wild things were there first and draw no distinctions concerning property lines or potential food sources.
Whether we live in the country or the city, we are surrounded by wild things. We live with the illusion we are in control of our environment until the power goes out. Then we are reduced to the basics... heat, light, food preparation are no longer easily managed. A gas shortage curtails our travel and we grumble about the inconvenience. Our bodies function as they should without our noticing until cancer or a heart attack get our attention. Our children are born and grow, living joy among us and then a diagnosis comes... autism, hearing impaired, ADHD, leukemia... and we are laid low in the certain knowledge that some things are beyond our control.
The scariest wild things are those that live within me. In the dark interior of my being lives a sometimes stingy soul who begrudges others their gifts. A sharp tongue gives vent to my anger and frustration without consideration. Forgiveness is not my strong suit. My rememberer is liable to get stuck on past hurts and grievances. Fear of failure that feeds my fear of worthlessness keeps me from venturing out into the wide world. My own personal little black cloud of depression that seems to provide a counterpoint to my Polly Anna personality can swamp me in times of stress. Fleeing to the wilderness seems to be my only option sometimes.
Wild things...wilderness where wild things live... can there be salvation in the wilderness? When David fled the wrath of King Saul, he found a stronghold in the wilderness, a place of refuge and safety in the midst of madness and murder. I am comforted by the possibility of a stronghold, a center of peace, in the middle of my own wilderness experiences. My stronghold would allow room for the wild things within me and without to rampage without doing too much harm. I am held in a safe space while the storms rage. And in that stronghold, without my usual props to keep the illusion of control in place, I can remember who holds the world in place, who holds my soul in safekeeping. Stripped of my strength, I fall to my knees calling for God to help me. My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth and wilderness... it does come.
This Advent darkness is a reminder that the darkness will give way to light. Darkness does not last forever. The Light of the World will come again to illuminate my inner darkness, to show me a new way of living with my inner wild things and to warm my heart towards my kin people, wild and tame. And if I wait and work, perhaps I can catch a glimpse of the peace of wild things...
The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
A woman in our community made the papers when her chicken flock was wiped out by a hungry bear. She was furious that the local authorities couldn’t do anything to protect her chickens and she was afraid the bear would harm her or her children. Of course she lives out in the country, perhaps in a subdivision, but still near mountains and woods. Wild things were there first and draw no distinctions concerning property lines or potential food sources.
Whether we live in the country or the city, we are surrounded by wild things. We live with the illusion we are in control of our environment until the power goes out. Then we are reduced to the basics... heat, light, food preparation are no longer easily managed. A gas shortage curtails our travel and we grumble about the inconvenience. Our bodies function as they should without our noticing until cancer or a heart attack get our attention. Our children are born and grow, living joy among us and then a diagnosis comes... autism, hearing impaired, ADHD, leukemia... and we are laid low in the certain knowledge that some things are beyond our control.
The scariest wild things are those that live within me. In the dark interior of my being lives a sometimes stingy soul who begrudges others their gifts. A sharp tongue gives vent to my anger and frustration without consideration. Forgiveness is not my strong suit. My rememberer is liable to get stuck on past hurts and grievances. Fear of failure that feeds my fear of worthlessness keeps me from venturing out into the wide world. My own personal little black cloud of depression that seems to provide a counterpoint to my Polly Anna personality can swamp me in times of stress. Fleeing to the wilderness seems to be my only option sometimes.
Wild things...wilderness where wild things live... can there be salvation in the wilderness? When David fled the wrath of King Saul, he found a stronghold in the wilderness, a place of refuge and safety in the midst of madness and murder. I am comforted by the possibility of a stronghold, a center of peace, in the middle of my own wilderness experiences. My stronghold would allow room for the wild things within me and without to rampage without doing too much harm. I am held in a safe space while the storms rage. And in that stronghold, without my usual props to keep the illusion of control in place, I can remember who holds the world in place, who holds my soul in safekeeping. Stripped of my strength, I fall to my knees calling for God to help me. My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth and wilderness... it does come.
This Advent darkness is a reminder that the darkness will give way to light. Darkness does not last forever. The Light of the World will come again to illuminate my inner darkness, to show me a new way of living with my inner wild things and to warm my heart towards my kin people, wild and tame. And if I wait and work, perhaps I can catch a glimpse of the peace of wild things...
The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Funeral suits...
I went to the closet to begin packing for the long trip to Alabama. I pulled out the old standard, my funeral suit, black three piece crepe old as the hills still looks good suit that I wear on these sad occasions. Every Southern lady of a certain age has her funeral suit or dress, one that may be worn at other times but is always worn to funerals. It is usually black, perhaps navy blue, but is dark and as elegant as you can afford. One doesn’t want to be flashy but exhibit restrained style. Just because you are grieving, or are attending the grieving, doesn’t mean you have to look like a frump.
It was going to be a long weekend. After the drive down on Friday, there would be two services, one in Montgomery and one in Birmingham. In Montgomery, friends and co-workers (those who were still alive) came along with friends and family. All the grandchildren came, a testimony to the impact their grandparents had on their lives. The beautiful old sanctuary of First Baptist Montgomery was filled with joy and sorrow, both dancing their way through our hearts as the service progressed. Ann and H.O. were members there for many years and his pastor remembered him with affection.
Women from one of the churches H.O. served as an interim brought lunch to the church so we could eat quickly and get on the road to Birmingham. The second service was scheduled to begin with a visitation at three with a grave side at four. The church H.O. pastored for twenty years was filled again with friends and family. Five of Michael’s high school friends were there along with other friends who had driven in from far away just to be with us that day. H.O. and Ann’s north Alabama family were well represented and many of them remembered Uncle Odell and Aunt Annie with love. People who were members at Eighty Fifth Street Baptist Church during H.O.’s time there came in spite of their age. Old they may have been, but the memories of what H.O. had meant to them as their pastor burned brightly in the stories they told. Once again great-grandchildren sat patiently (mostly) through their second worship service of the day.
And then it was time to go to the cemetery. Darkness had fallen early on that cold rainy day. We gathered around the grave, hugging each other, explaining to the children what was going to happen, hearing old words of comfort from the Bible, sending Daddy O on his way home to Mommy Ann. Carolyn, your image of a house with the furniture moved out helped Matthew get a picture of death that he could understand. He stood by the grave with me and wasn’t nearly as scared as he thought he might be. I was able to do for him what my grandmother did for me so many years ago, help him begin understanding the journey of life and death in the middle of love, laughter and tears.
We checked into our motel, changed clothes and drove to a restaurant for our evening meal. The six young boys were let out of their cages and enjoyed playing together. Fatigue, gratitude, and fun were on the menu for the evening. Alison screamed appropriately when she saw the rubber rat much to the boys delight. Family ties that bind held us close that night and it was a memory maker. The next morning, we scattered to the four winds... California, Texas, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina... filled up and overflowing. Hugs all around, plans for the next get together, walkie talkies handed out, a flurry of leave taking as we began the return to our lives back home and we were off, on the road again.
Driving up the hill to our home, I saw the lights on and gave thanks to be back. Walking in, we were greeted by a clean home and food in the refrigerator. Our church had come and cleaned and cooked for us. Greater love hath no woman than to let other women see and clean her dirty house for her. 1st Peggy 3:16 It felt so good... loving arms and hands held us up, Pat’s home made soup warmed our souls and the lasagna meant I didn’t have to think about what to cook for supper today. We are loved and that love has been made manifest this weekend. We are so grateful for all those who have been a part of this journey. The pathway was made plain and smooth by your notes and cards, your calls and visits, your presence in our lives as we walked through this valley of the shadow of death. It is well with our souls because of you and the God we love and serve. My funeral suit has been made new again by the love and joy of those saints who surround us here on earth. Thanks be to God for all of you, for Ann and H.O., and for the gift of life that is such a mystery. Death was swallowed up in victory this weekend, the victory of love and life.
It was going to be a long weekend. After the drive down on Friday, there would be two services, one in Montgomery and one in Birmingham. In Montgomery, friends and co-workers (those who were still alive) came along with friends and family. All the grandchildren came, a testimony to the impact their grandparents had on their lives. The beautiful old sanctuary of First Baptist Montgomery was filled with joy and sorrow, both dancing their way through our hearts as the service progressed. Ann and H.O. were members there for many years and his pastor remembered him with affection.
Women from one of the churches H.O. served as an interim brought lunch to the church so we could eat quickly and get on the road to Birmingham. The second service was scheduled to begin with a visitation at three with a grave side at four. The church H.O. pastored for twenty years was filled again with friends and family. Five of Michael’s high school friends were there along with other friends who had driven in from far away just to be with us that day. H.O. and Ann’s north Alabama family were well represented and many of them remembered Uncle Odell and Aunt Annie with love. People who were members at Eighty Fifth Street Baptist Church during H.O.’s time there came in spite of their age. Old they may have been, but the memories of what H.O. had meant to them as their pastor burned brightly in the stories they told. Once again great-grandchildren sat patiently (mostly) through their second worship service of the day.
And then it was time to go to the cemetery. Darkness had fallen early on that cold rainy day. We gathered around the grave, hugging each other, explaining to the children what was going to happen, hearing old words of comfort from the Bible, sending Daddy O on his way home to Mommy Ann. Carolyn, your image of a house with the furniture moved out helped Matthew get a picture of death that he could understand. He stood by the grave with me and wasn’t nearly as scared as he thought he might be. I was able to do for him what my grandmother did for me so many years ago, help him begin understanding the journey of life and death in the middle of love, laughter and tears.
We checked into our motel, changed clothes and drove to a restaurant for our evening meal. The six young boys were let out of their cages and enjoyed playing together. Fatigue, gratitude, and fun were on the menu for the evening. Alison screamed appropriately when she saw the rubber rat much to the boys delight. Family ties that bind held us close that night and it was a memory maker. The next morning, we scattered to the four winds... California, Texas, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina... filled up and overflowing. Hugs all around, plans for the next get together, walkie talkies handed out, a flurry of leave taking as we began the return to our lives back home and we were off, on the road again.
Driving up the hill to our home, I saw the lights on and gave thanks to be back. Walking in, we were greeted by a clean home and food in the refrigerator. Our church had come and cleaned and cooked for us. Greater love hath no woman than to let other women see and clean her dirty house for her. 1st Peggy 3:16 It felt so good... loving arms and hands held us up, Pat’s home made soup warmed our souls and the lasagna meant I didn’t have to think about what to cook for supper today. We are loved and that love has been made manifest this weekend. We are so grateful for all those who have been a part of this journey. The pathway was made plain and smooth by your notes and cards, your calls and visits, your presence in our lives as we walked through this valley of the shadow of death. It is well with our souls because of you and the God we love and serve. My funeral suit has been made new again by the love and joy of those saints who surround us here on earth. Thanks be to God for all of you, for Ann and H.O., and for the gift of life that is such a mystery. Death was swallowed up in victory this weekend, the victory of love and life.
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