My grandmother Lou died when she was 52. Lung cancer and lymphoma transformed a lively red headed woman into an emaciated bald skeleton. There was no body to bury. She donated her body to science. Dissected to bring better treatments to those suffering. At her funeral my 12-year–old body sits in a pew huddled with my family in a line. Cindy, Jay, me, dad, and my uncle Bob. I’ve never seen Bob cry before. When his tears come, they overtake him and he exhales, “Oh shit.” The tears stream and his face is etched with the deepest pain I have ever seen. I hold my father’s hand tight and lean into him. Cindy and Jay are giggling nervously. The Beatles song, Hey Jude, and it’s the long version, has just reached the screeching crescendo. "Judie, Judie, Judie." It’s a rowdy song towards the end. Jay is pinching me to try to stop the awful sorrow just underneath the stifled snickers. I look over my left shoulder. My granny Bowman, Lou’s mother, is crying and holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Raw, red, and puffy. Lou was full of life. Vibrant and her laugh was contagious. I hardly remember her without a smile or a warm embrace. She was the give you the shirt off of her back kind of woman.
Lou let me help her in the Claudeville café, the diner she ran. I washed dishes and set tables. I even took and served a drink order once, a gigantic task for a ten-year–old. Once in a while we had an ice cream request and she allowed me to wrestle with the ice cream scoop against the hard chocolate. Her customers were so patient. I asked her if I could make deviled eggs to sell. She thoughtfully pondered my request, and shook her head yes. She asked me how much we should charge customers. I looked up at her and asked, “How much do the eggs cost?” She cackled and rolled with laughter and said, “Lord you know whose child that is!”
I loved sitting at the counter with the high swivel stools covered with shiny red pleather. An all the way hot dog and crispy wavy fries would be waiting for me. I sometimes stop into the café to order a hot dog all the way. It can never replace the memories. My legs don’t dangle down off the stools anymore and my red headed smiling grandmother is not laughing across the counter from me. I chase the smell, the taste, the red lipped smile, and love. When Lou was done for the day, I would curl up in a booth and wait for her to mop the floor. I always fell asleep.
The chemo took her beautiful auburn hair. She wore a wig when she went out. Her baldness never disturbed me. She still carried her beautiful bright eyes and smile, but the hair loss bothered her. People stared. And looked away with some strange mixture of surprise, fear, and pity. She was such a gorgeous woman and now her self-confidence was wrecked. People inspected her penciled in eye brows and missing eye lashes. We were eating lunch one afternoon and a couple, a few tables over, could not stop staring at her. Rubbernecking like passing some terrible car crash on an interstate. Lou leaned in and whispered over the table to Aunt Linda, “They won’t stop looking at me.” Lou was irritated. Annoyed. Self-conscious. As I sat next to her in the booth, I peered at the people across from us. Yes, they were looking at her and whispering. I scooted closer to my grandmother as if to somehow create a protective shield around her. My little eyes glaring. As the words, “Just ignore them” were being spoken, without warning, Lou lifted her wig off her head like a hat and nodded her bald head and said, “Nice to meet you!” She replaced her wig with a satisfied air. Aunt Linda began howling. I broke out into a grin and looked up into Lou’s beaming face. The reaction from the observing couple was that of shock. Blood drained leaving ashen fallen faces. They quickly packed up their lunch and hurriedly left. Laughter and tears were now flowing freely and I felt a sense of defiance sitting next to my beloved grandmother that afternoon. I was bathed in feminine strength, humor, and boldness.
I remember the phone call. At granny’s. I hear Aunt Bobbie’s voice over the black receiver. I hang up the phone. My hand won’t let it go and the wall cradles me. We had just left the hospital and returned to my great grandmother’s house. Lou’s hospital bed is in the corner. I thought she would be coming back. Lou is gone. Passed over. Twenty minutes later tires crunch the gravel. Aunt Bobbie pulls up in the driveway. I walk down the steps and fall into her arms. She envelops me in a hug emanating love, compassion, and grief. I don’t want her to let me go. It hurts. She holds me. The pain of losing Lou. It must have been hard for my father not being there when his mother passed. I don’t think he wanted his twelve-year-old to witness her passing. So he took me to grannies.
I reflect upon my aunts and uncles. My father. They were so young to lose a loving mother. Jay was in high school. My uncle must have been 18. Cindy, 21. My dad, 32. How lost without their mother they must have felt. It’s not abandonment, but a sense of something precious being stolen. An unseen force of extreme violence. A generational trauma.
I hear my name being called. “Wendy Eckenrod, Lou’s granddaughter,” is announced by a reverend facilitating Lou's service. I look around. I am confused and turn to my father. He tells me to go to the front and pick a rose. I step past my uncle and find myself in the aisle. So many people fill the pews. I walk with hesitation to the bundle of roses on a table at the front of the funeral home. The roses are laid out. Different colors. Long stemmed roses. I pick one. A red rose.
Lou’s wishes were discussed before her passing. She did not want us to mourn, but instead celebrate her life. She wanted us, as a family, to toss our roses in the river, in memory of her. We drive to Kibler Valley and I find myself standing on the bridge with my family. The roses are tossed in like penguins dropping into the ocean. One by one they float down the river. I can’t let mine go. “It’s ok Wen,” my Aunt Jay whispers. I let it go. The rose fully emerges and bobs up on top of the water. The current gently takes it. “Watch it for as long as you can,” Jay instructs. She pulls me close to her side. We watch till the red dot dissolves into the distance. I wonder what will happen to my rose and I hope it makes it the ocean. Our family slowly disperses and we make our way towards the Slate’s house. An old white house that sits on the river. A party is waiting, but the kids are not allowed to stay. I go home with my cousins and play. A solemn play. My cousins blanket me in their love and building a tree house a good distraction.
I was 29 when I married. The flowers I chose for my wedding bouquet were red roses. I am wed next to the river, at the Slates house. We take a limo to the valley. All my brides’ maids. They look beautiful. Black elegant dresses, hair up. Gorgeous. I sit next to my dad in the limo. When we get to the valley, I open the sun roof. The smell. I love the smell of the valley. The trees, the river, the red clay dirt, the sun, and the clouds. The valley has its own unique flavor and mixture. A scent I wish I could reproduce and bottle. When I am in a car driving to the valley, as soon as I turn onto Kibler Valley road, I roll the window down, and embrace the delicious breeze with my arm. It is peaceful. The stress rolls off of my shoulders. I am home. My sacred place.
My father and I wait behind the house to enter the ceremony so no one will see me. My dad is the most amazing man I have ever met and he is weeping beside me. Brushing away his tears with his index finger, I whisper to him, “Stop that.” My own tears trickle down my cheeks. Oh G-d, my makeup. I laugh at my worry over makeup, and hold my father close. My Aunt Jay brigs out paper towels. And I howl. It’s the only thing she could find, but it is appropriate as my daddy is a little fountain of tears. He has such a soft heart. As do all of the Eckenrod’s. We are tough bear’s on the outside and gooey on the inside. When I was 19, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen while my dad was watching a movie, Free Willy. As I was preparing the meal, I heard sniffles coming from the living room. I poked my head around the corner to see my dad wiping away tears. I ask my dad out of disbelief, “Are you crying?” His response, as he turns his head to look at me, tears leaking, “It’s just so emotional.” I giggle and shake my head. Yes, our hearts are tender and soft.
All of the small details ahead of me have been well executed. My Uncles Mark and Stan roll out the white carpet, my sweet nephew Miguel brings a handkerchief to each mother, my blonde angelic curly haired cousin walks Barley, my beloved’s chocolate lab, down the aisle, and the flower girls. A gaggle of little girls with white sparkly butterfly wings, glide down the aisle. Dropping red rose petals. The red contrasting the white is breathtaking.
This moment is special. So meaningful. My dad. He was the one I needed to walk me down the aisle. He was the one who raised me to be the woman I am. I think back to his cancer and surgery. I squeeze his hand. He is here, with me, on this beautiful sunny day. The procession begins and we walk towards the river, towards my future husband. We walk past the rows of people and I look into their faces and smile. I am so grateful they could be here.
We approach the end of the aisle. I cling to my father’s arm and I know in a few minutes he will let me go. It is a moment I dread, “Who gives this woman to be wed?" “I do” my father says in complete confidence. Yes, the words “I do” was intentional. He was the one who raised me. Always paid child support on time. Something he was proud of. My mother never paid a dime when I went to live with my dad. Not a dime. “I do.” Yes, he owned that.
He lifts my veil, our eyes meet. He kisses my cheek and turns. I watch him in shock because it happened so fast. I watch my father hunch as he turns to wipe away tears, then he sits. Shoulders back. Dignified. I turn towards my beloved. The ceremony is eloquent, poetic, and beautiful. I have a hard time repeating the vows. Vows. I pause. What did the reverend just say? I can't remember and my voice is frozen. My beloved squeezes my hands in encouragement. I am stuck. Paralyzed. He makes a funny gesture to the crowd. They roar with laughter. I smile and swallow the tears. I remember what the reverend said, and repeat the lines. It’s an emotional gut wrenching ceremony.
After the pictures, hugs, and well wishes from friends and family, I find a quiet moment. I slip off my shoes and walk to the river’s edge. My silk ball gown brushing the grass. I gently close my eyes, and inhale the sweet smell. I open myself and enter into a space, where my loved ones exist in the spiritual realm. I feel them, hear them. I am still and present with them. I breathe in their love and extend mine. I pull a single red rose from my bouquet and hold it for a moment before tossing it into the river. It submerges for a brief twinkle as it joins the current. The river is down and the cool water slowly carries my red rose. I love you Lou.
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