Saturday was the 40th Annual Farm Sale at the Clay County fairgrounds. Uncle Ronnie and I had been planning this day for some time as this was the first year I was to be a vendor. (Yes, me, a vendor of farm implements. Dreams really do come true, darlin'.)
I hopped out of Uncle Ronnie's truck in my blue jeans and muck boots as I always do. I smelled the familiar aromas (it's a pasture the rest of the year, so I'll let you do the figuring on that). I heard the sounds of folks milling around, the familiar voices already working hard at telling stories, the familiar call of Mr. Magee starting the auction.
But nothing felt the same this year.
I rifled through some new work gloves at the table toward the entrance when Mr. Magee came up. He knows Uncle Ronnie, but asked, "Now just who are yore par'nts?"
I told him. Then added, "I buried my mama Thursday."
I scratched the old wire-haired dog sleeping beneath the table as Mr. Magee tipped his hat, offered his condolences and went back to the truck to continue the auction.
Same old truck. Same old dog.
But not the same old me.
Mom turned 69 years old on Sunday, March 30, and on that day, we took one last road trip together. When I walked in her nursing home at 7 a.m., there she was, sitting in her wheelchair in the hallway, ready to go. After several attempts and reconfiguring, the nurses got Mom situated in my car and away we went.
Mom listened as my West Coast gal pal and I prattled on about this subject and that. Now and then, Mom would say something, just a word or two, to correct us on an actor's name or confirm that she was doing OK.
That afternoon, we arrived at Circle of Life Hospice in Bentonville.
Now, for as long as I can remember, yellow roses have been my mother's favorite flower. She was always fond, as am I, of all the old-fashioned ornamentals nestled in Granny's garden: hydrangea, lilac, iris, canna, daffodil and roses of every color. But a yellow rose would stop Mom in her tracks. From a blouse to a set of stationery, if a choice held the possibility that a yellow rose could be emblazoned on it, then that was her pick every time.
A beautiful bouquet of yellow, long-stemmed roses awaited Mom in her room. She smiled.
"Pretty," she said.
I stayed with her most of the evening. I didn't want to miss a bit of her birthday. Later, I went home and took a nap and shower since I was beginning to have the same aroma as the fairgrounds. I threw some clothes in to wash, then came back to be with Mom.
We spent most of the next day together. We watched one last movie together. And I held her hand.
All the way to the end.
I didn't want to do the next few days. So much of what we do in the South in the name of tradition seems so hard on those left behind -- the long visitations, the loads of food when the last thing in the world you want to do is eat, the things well-meaning people say that you have to smile through -- but I suppose there is purpose and healing in it for everyone.
I styled my hair with big curlers, just like Mom liked. And I placed a call.
"I'll take as many yellow roses as this will buy," I told the florist.
"Let's see, I'll have to order those, and I could add some other things like iris or some --"
"No, thank you. Just yellow roses please."
Her service was as nice as I could make it considering it isn't something one wants to make at all. A quilt of Granny's draped across her casket, peeking from beneath a sea of yellow roses.
And just like that, everyone's world began spinning again, except mine. I stayed a few days with Uncle Ronnie and went to the sale.
"Lisa!" he hollered from off in the distance, but I didn't hear him. Like a border collie waiting for a ball to be thrown, I'd spotted something at the sale and was focused on Mr. Magee.
"Sold to Number 113!" he bellowed as others asked why he knew my number and no one else's.
I caught Uncle Ronnie in the crowd. He was smiling. "Good girl."
I smiled.
No, it's not the same. But I'll plan on being here again next year.
Commentary on 04/10/2014