She was often the person who lifted others with her laughter and a "you are looking great, honey." No matter where you saw her, she had a smile. Her life was not an easy one. Her husband was killed on his job when she was fairly young and she raised two children on her own, working at our local state park.
She was a petite lady with white hair, always perfectly coiffed, never a hair out of place. She studied the Bible. She knew the Bible and she was a wonderful Sunday school teacher, one of the best and she did love her family, her church, her nation and her community. She would tell you anytime about her loves. She wasn't ashamed to express her love. When she worked on Sundays, she would take her lunch break during morning worship service and she would drive around the corner to her "home church" and enjoy the service. She was the biggest fan the church choir had. On Sunday evenings, when the choir practiced, she was in the audience cheering them on and encouraging them.
At church covered dish luncheons, we watched to see where she would deposit her famous "nut" cake. It was a heavy cake with a heavenly taste.
The choir, loaded up in a big van owned by one of the church members and, at times, she would travel with the choir. She was so much fun. She didn't castigate anyone if they wanted to enjoy a cigarette. She wasn't one who would "cough, cough, cough," and say "that is killing me." She wasn't a "Debbie Downer." Nobody really likes anyone who looks like they were weaned on a dill pickle.
I never knew her to say an unkind word about anyone and I never knew anyone to say an unkind word about her.
Now, many towns and cities have individuals similar to the one about whom I am writing, but these towns didn't have this lady. She was a blessing spring, summer, winter or fall.
Then, one day, quite suddenly, dementia claimed her and though she was alive, she wasn't alive. She wasn't the same person. She didn't fade away slowly. She lived a number of years in her own world. People would say, "What a shame. She doesn't know anyone or anything." But, I don't know about that.
I like to think in that world of her own she saw her husband, who she still talked about with love. I like to think she was enjoying the kind of companionship and love she enjoyed with him when she told me about the gift-set of her favorite perfume he bought for her on the last Christmas he lived. I like to think she talked with her son, who died before she did. Maybe she walked and talked with her sisters and her parents. None of us know what goes on in a mind that has departed from this world. We can guess, but we don't know.
Recently, we interred a friend's ashes at his home church in Clay County, over in Middleburg. He had a phenomenally creative mind. He wrote scores of songs, music and lyrics; many of them about the Sunshine State. His name was Frank Thomas. He was, for many years, the undisputed Dean of Florida Folk music, a Florida folk heritage award winner.
Frank never listened to the radio while driving in the car and he rarely listened to the radio at home. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the music of others, his mind was always whirring and thinking about his next song, the music and the lyrics.
He was a headliner for many years at the Florida Folk Festival. We loved to hear him sing his "Cracker Cowman" and "Flatwoods of Home." We loved to hear him sing "My Heart is Buried in this Sand" and we loved to hear him sing "Spanish Gold." He was buried in Clay County near Middleburg.
My brother talked some at Frank's celebration of life about the parable of the prodigal son. There's a part of that parable that people sometimes miss. Don't you know the night when the prodigal son was finally asleep under his father's roof that his father might have walked by his room and, looking at the sleeping young man, said to himself "My child is home?" I can picture that.
Frank Thomas is "home" now with his family members who have been in this state for over seven generations. My lady friend I mentioned earlier is "home now," too. Both of them had struggles and troubles before leaving this world, but they are "home."
Over this past Memorial weekend, I hope we remembered the lives of many young men and women who laughed, loved, cried and gave their all, including their lives, for the freedom of this nation. It doesn't matter what political party you belong to, if you are able to walk around in a free America, be grateful that someone died so we could enjoy Memorial Day weekend and speak your mind or what's left of it, as is my case.
I wish, for one minute of one day on Memorial Day, the nation could close their eyes and just say "thank you" to our Creator, to those who died for our freedom and "thank you" for our freedom. I wish folks could be as positive in making their communities more positive, as the lady about whom I wrote and Frank Thomas. They made us feel glad to be alive and there's something to that. Remember, we are not here for a long time, but we can be here for a good time if we think about the goodness of the Lord, of good friends, count our blessings rather than our crosses and be so thankful for those who made the supreme sacrifice on the altar of freedom. May God continue to bless us all. God Bless America!
From the Eight Mile Still on the Woodpecker Route north of White Springs, wishing you a good day and a Happy Memorial Day! Lest we forget, God bless America!