♫Unforgettable, that’s what you are.♫ Nat King Cole may have sung it best, but today my Great Aunt Margie, who is 91 or 92 (we couldn’t remember and neither could she), said it best when she saw my mama, Vivian Crooms, for the first time in about 4 years. My sweet Aunt Margie doesn’t remember most of what has happened in the last 24 hours of her life, but she looked up from the table at her assisted living home, and said, I know you! You’re Vivian! My Grandma Mary J. Smith Vaughn Pope was so wonderful. I still fall apart when I think of her and long for those times I had with her, but didn’t cherish as the fleeting moments they were. She’s been gone 17 ½ years, but I can still smell her Rose Milk lotion or see a place we visited together, and I’m right back in her living room on a Saturday visit that has lasted until nightfall, watching Laurence Welk, Solid Gold, and Hee Haw (they had a better antennae and reception on their TV than we did at home with just channel 13, and if it was cloudy, not even that to watch). Then bathing in her old bathtub with her funny back scrubber, powdering my panties with a dust bowl sized cloud of Shower to Shower, just like I’d seen her do, and slipping into one of her old night gowns to wrap all around me and wear home on those endless rides between her house in Hawkinsville, and mine. I’m right back in her kitchen, smelling her cooking delicious foods that she never thought were ‘good enough’, snitching potato chips out of her freezer where she stashed them, or seeing the bacon or sausage and piece of toast that always seemed to be sitting out on her stove, no matter what time of day or season of the year…leftovers for whomever might be hungry, with no thoughts of food poisoning, lol. Grandma Pope was the oldest of three girls, and one spoiled boy. After she was born, Carrie Lee and Margie Ree (she later had it legally changed to Marjorie), the twins, came along, then the baby boy, Richard. The three girls grew up, or so I’ve been told, always thinking that Mary J and Margie Ree were the plain, simple girls, while Carrie Lee was the pretty one. Funny, I know I’ve seen my Aunt Carrie Lee many times in my life, but I cannot remember her face or how she looked. I only remember that you didn’t ask Aunt Carrie Lee to pray if you were really hungry and wanted to eat any time soon. She was a very faithful Christian, and praying time meant praying for everyone, individually, by name, with the reasons categorized and delivered in detail. I remember her praying one time when we were at a family reunion at a restaurant my Uncle Billy and Uncle Richard had opened, and when a few of the other uncles and older male cousins heard that Carrie Lee was gonna pray, they grabbed a bucket of chicken and slipped out the side door to the backyard to begin their meal MUCH earlier than the rest of us got to. Another funny I remember about Aunt Carrie Lee was that the only present you could give her that she wouldn’t/couldn’t re-gift was a bra—she was a tiny, big boobed gal. Her 32DDD bra’s wouldn’t fit anyone else. Richard, I’ll save for another trip down memory lane. He was my ‘gangsta’ uncle, the playboy…ooh lah lah…fresh out of Midway Community! Anyway, God must have felt like He needed my Grandma more, so He took her home all those years ago. I remember my Aunt Margie walking into Grandma’s house before the funeral and I almost lost it. She and Grandma Pope looked so much alike, from the side and back, that I thought Grandma had pulled a fast one on all of us and was walking back in. However, once Aunt Margie opened her mouth, you KNEW who was in the room. She has a distinct, slow southern drawl, befitting only the finest of southern women. She could put Dixie Carter to shame. Somehow, though, with Aunt Margie’s presence, and knowing that I could still physically see someone who could connect me with my Grandma Pope’s similar body, mannerisms, and southern lady charm, I felt peace. A few years ago, when I guess I was feeling a little more than the usual need for family, and was missing those who have already gained their wings, Aunt Margie showed up at Mama’s for Thanksgiving Lunch with Uncle Billy. Now, this was a real surprise for a few reasons. First, no one had told me she was coming. Second, Aunt Margie was getting on in her years and opinions, so she didn’t travel much anymore. Third, this was a major surprise because Uncle Billy and Aunt Margie are known for their own individual levels of cantankerousness…is that a word I just made up? Maybe, maybe not. It passed spellcheck…and the sheer fact that they survived two hours from south GA to Milledgeville and home again in the same car may have been a miracle right up there with the Jesus healing the leper or feeding the 5,000 with 5 loaves of bread and two fish. It was a Thanksgiving to remember. Margie kept us in stitches the whole time she was there. She told stories of her childhood, of her children, and of my precious Grandma. She told us things about Mama and Uncle Billy and Aunt MaryAnn (pronounced MAYRAN, {for you non-southerners} who wasn’t there since she had moved to Nevada, but Aunt Margie INSISTED on sending her a pic of our meal to let her see what she was missing, plus we had to call to tell her all about it and so Aunt Margie would get to talk to her) that may have been secrets that were supposed to have been buried long ago. Regardless, it was definitely a day of giving thanks for what and who were there, and for those we could only hold in our memories. I think it was the best Thanksgiving I can ever remember. I haven’t seen Aunt Margie since then, until today. I’d like to give all kinds of important reasons that I haven’t seen her, as I’d like to be able to justify my slackness to you, and to myself. But there are none. Life has marched along at its normal, chaotic pace, and I’ve used it as an excuse to call later, write later, visit later. But this past school year, as I took Mama to Eastman and to Midway Community for the funeral services and burial of Joyce, Margie’s long-term sidekick, her partner in crime, her bestie, I realized Aunt Margie wasn’t at the funeral. Someone made the comment that Aunt Margie’s health had kept her away. Then they said that they weren’t even sure if Margie would know that Joyce was gone. The blow hit me like a ton of bricks in the stomach. How could the woman who was so full of life when I had last seen her, as I remembered her, not know that her friend was gone? How could she be so down in her health that she’d miss the final chance to honor her friend? I knew in that moment that I had been living in the nice little lie of a world I’d created, where Aunt Margie was a permanent fixture, rather than a fading flower in my garden. I also realized that I had to see my Aunt Margie. Again, life took hold, and the months have passed. But this week, on Fall break, I was determined to make it happen. I enlisted my mom’s company—she needed the reconnection as much as I did—strapped Jil, my granddaughter, in the back seat, and we three stooges set off for an adventure. I say adventure because I must admit, my Mama and I are the two most geographically, map-and-direction-challenged individuals on the face of the planet. We can be on a one-way street headed north and wind up in the southbound express lane without a turn. We are a couple of nuts just short of dangerous when we’re let loose on the roads together. We have a good time, though. Today’s trip only wasted an extra 30 minutes or so on side roads that eventually got us to the right places, and two turn-arounds that ended us in the right place, with the wrong name. Despite the warnings from some kindhearted relatives (“She won’t know you.” “Don’t get your feelings hurt.” “It’s a long trip for someone who won’t know who you are.”), the trip was worth all the treasures of the world, and added to our lifetime of memories. Mama walked into the front room of the assisted living home where Aunt Margie resides and Aunt Margie spotted her before Mama’s eyes could adjust. Mama walked over to her, and Aunt Margie said, “I used to know you! You’re Vivian!” The rest of the visit was priceless. Yes, she’s up in years. Yes, time has taken its toll on her mind and her body (although she got up off the couch faster than me and was a speed demon with her walker). Yes, she said some things over and over again. But her smile, her laugh, her sense of self, hadn’t changed. Despite some fogginess, her happiness and joy didn’t seem to falter. She talked of some things that she said were too far back for her to remember well, and she thought Jil and Mama were her grandchildren, (I was just a nice person stopping by to visit), and she asked us to remind her a few times how we were related. She did, however, remember her Tennyson, whom she still cries for and loves dearly, and remembered her Vivian, who ‘never changes’ according to her. She told us about how much she loves her home (her room at the facility), how good the food is, how nice the people are, and how she lays in her bed each night, thanking God that He is still taking such good care of her. I left the facility today, promising to return to see my Aunt Margie, whether I’m just that nice person who comes by, or if she remembers me as Shannon, and I will. Because as I told one of my relatives who was worried that she wouldn’t know me…she may not know me and that I was there for her, but I will. And that’s all that matters.
Posted on: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 02:02:17 +0000
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