Two Richmonders Against the Odds

Good grief! Planet Bill's first post of 2011, and we're treated to a cemetery shot? Am I in a dark mood? No, not at all; I've just been roaming Richmond with my camera, and Morris & I found ourselves sticking our noses in a couple of places that were new to us. Let's take a look.

The picture at the top was taken in Holy Cross Cemetery, located at the southwestern edge of Chestnut Hill. This district was one of Richmond's original streetcar neighborhoods, and contains many examples of Queen Anne, American Foursquare, Greek Revival, Bungalow, and Colonial Revival homes. The sky was gray, and the wind was cold & brisk on the day that Morris & I rode through the graveyard. We came across a curious plot with multiple iron crosses with no names, simply the abbreviation for Rest In Peace.

Cemeteries have never terrified me. Even as a child, when I found some of them pleasantly creepy, they were assurances of the order of life. I remember visiting the graves of relatives, some known and others gone prior to my birth, and hearing remembrances of these people from my grandmother. Like the books I loved to read, there was a beginning and end, but the stories between the similar covers were colorful, fascinating, and unique. Death is part of the natural order of life. Ashes to ashes, and all that. What is important is what we write on our pages.

After a Saturday breakfast at a place called Yesterday's (appropriately named, since we were fueling up for a day of local history), we drove toward downtown. At the edge of the city limits, we took a detour up a rutted road in search of Woodland Cemetery. It was a forlorn place, barely kept, and made meaner by winter's harsh light. Groundskeeping seemed limited to common areas, for many gravesites were wild with dead weeds & brambles. The cemetery was bordered by untamed thickets on two sides, and industrial buildings on another. The two pictures, above & below, give an idea of the unwelcoming atmosphere.

What better place to bury a local hero! Yessiree, here's where you will find Arthur Ashe, champion of Wimbledon, the Australian Open, and the US Open. After a lifetime of battling racial discrimination, he rests in a place for Richmond's deceased black citizens - desolate Woodland Cemetery.

Arthur Ashe grew up in Richmond. His athletic grace was matched by his intelligence. He had to fight to play tennis, growing up in a time when he was not allowed on most courts. Ashe was a fighter on & off the tennis courts, breaking into a traditionally "white only" sport, and then becoming an AIDS activist. Ashe contracted HIV through an unscreened blood transfusion in 1983. Although he wished to keep this information private, when he learned that USA Today was nosing around his business, he pre-empted their news coup by calling a press conference to make his own disclosure of his disease. He established the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, and became a champion of humanitarian causes.

Arthur Ashe attended Maggie Walker High School in Richmond, a school for black students during segregation named for another determined underdog, where teachers urged their pupils to excellence. Our destination, although Morris & I got sidetracked by cemeteries, was the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward District. I highly recommend the tour of Maggie Walker's home, which is now a National Park Service property.

Maggie Walker was the first female president of an American bank, an accomplishment all the more noteworthy because she was African-American during a time of unabashed racial discrimination. Her mother was a former slave who took in laundry to support the family after Maggie's father was murdered. Maggie attended the Armstrong School, and became a teacher there after graduating. At that time, only single women were allowed to teach, so she left her job upon her marriage. She rose to a prominent position in the Independent Order of St. Luke, a benevolent organization that assisted African-Americans with health care & burial services. She chartered the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and became its first president in 1903. Keep in mind that this was even before the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote in elections. Her bank gave many black citizens an opportunity to have a savings account and buy a house.

The picture above shows one of the double parlors in Maggie Walker House. When touring most historic homes, the tour guide (when pressed) will say something like "These pieces are reproductions. We've furnished the house the way we sorta kinda figure it might have looked originally." Not so with Maggie's house. The house passed directly from the Walker family to the National Park Service in 1979, and still contains most of the original furnishings, including the pictures on the walls. Recently, the Walker descendents donated fifty additional original items to the house. You really get the feeling that you are walking through Maggie's home, and that her boisterous grandchildren may run through the room at any moment.

Another wonderful aspect of the tour is that you get to see nearly the entire house. Parlors, dining rooms, and bedrooms are part of touring most historic homes, but I always want to see how people really lived. What were the back rooms like? Above you see the kitchen, and below is the laundry room. Can you imagine cooking a meal for a large family plus guests in a kitchen with no countertops? Today we have Viking ranges, granite counters, motorized gizmos, and most Americans haven't got a clue about cooking from scratch. If the box doesn't say add water & stir it's time to make restaurant reservations.

A small bedroom for a granddaughter has her collection of dolls on the bed.

Now, I can pretty much assure you that you're not going to take a tour of a gilded-age mansion and hear a tour guide say "Mrs. Vanderbilt repaired to this chamber when she needed to take a slash." Next we see Maggie Walker's bathroom, complete with clean-but-stained toilet, bidet & bedpan. There are no pretenses here; the tour guide will even point out the upstairs window where Maggie's son shot & killed his father, mistaking him for a midnight intruder.

In the next photo we see why there was a bedpan in Maggie's bathroom. She spent her later life as an invalid. She had diabetes, and her cause of death in 1934 was listed as "diabetes gangrene." Her two sons and their families lived with her, and there were up to ten people living in the 28-room house at one point. Upstairs, Maggie had her own little oasis: a large bedroom, her own spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette that had been fashioned from an upper enclosed side porch. The kitchenette had a wall of windows that faced east, and I imagine that she enjoyed this cheerful, sunny room in the mornings.

She also enclosed a porch off her bedroom at the front of the house, which you can see in the first photo of the Maggie Walker House. Here, she liked to sit in her wheelchair to watch the traffic go by, looking down at the Jackson Ward neighborhood that she helped make the "Harlem of the South" and the "Black Wall Street of America."

Alcoholism took its toll on her family. It is said that her husband and both of her sons were alcoholics, and that her husband came home drunk and was trying to sneak into the house via an upper rear porch when his son fatally shot him. There had been a series of neighborhood robberies, but the family had to endure a murder trial before the son was aquitted. He never recovered emotionally from the tragedy, sank deeper into the drink, and died a few years later.

Ending your tour today, we have a few more photographs. These were taken in the very old section known as Union Hill, a district which dates back to around 1805. Thanks for dropping by, and I hope your year has started out smoothly.

An American Tragedy

see more pwn and owned pictures

I hope none of my readers has killed anyone in their zeal to find Christmas gifts this year. Can you believe that story about the Walmart greeter getting trampled to death? I can't say I was surprised, but I certainly was disgusted. Someone told me that the remaining crowd was angry that they couldn't get inside to shop, and had to be told "No. You've already killed someone. We're closed."

I avoid that store unless I have a very compelling reason to be there. My cousin in Iowa sent me an idea recently that I'll share just in case you must shop at Walmart in the near future. It's Walmart Bingo, but you'll have to make your own game cards because I'm not clever enough to copy it from her e-mail message to this post. Here are the things that go on your Bingo card:

• child without shoes
• woman with hair curlers
• someone with an eye patch
• "rat tail" hair style
• obese person using scooter
• Rebel flag tee-shirt
• white girl with 3+ multi-racial children
• someone using an oxygen mask
• kid riding a bike in store
• frozen food item left to melt in random aisle
• dirt diaper left in parking lot
• someone using a voice box
• (free space) person oblivious to the fact that they are in your way
• bearded woman
• teardrop tattoo
• child over 5 drinking from baby bottle
• someone buying beer and diapers
• entire family wearing NASCAR apparel
• man under 30 with no teeth
• somone missing a limb
• someone giving away kittens
• someone with puke or blood on their clothes
• unattended crying children
• pregnant woman with visible "tramp stamp" tattoo
• someone with unbearable body odor

I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet. I'll probably do most of it on the Internet. Some folks enjoy the holiday crowds, but I'd rather eat ground glass. I'm the new Scrooge.

On a lighter note, I took my first ever Yoga lesson today. It was very enjoyable and relaxing. I'll probably wake up sore tomorrow, but I'm looking forward to the next lesson. It's too good of a deal to pass up because there's no charge. My sponsor is a Yoga instructor and a Feldenkrais healer, and he is giving free lessons prior to our Saturday morning AA meeting. Sweet!

Breakfast & a Dirt Nap

One recent morning my friend Jean and I went to breakfast, followed by a walk. Jean & I get together every few weeks following my early morning AA meeting for some eggs and exploration. During the Christmas season we strolled Richmond's famous Monument Avenue after eating at Karen's Diner. The holiday decorations were lovely on many of the mansions, but my favorite expression of the season was the Christmas Caddy, a 1963 deVille bursting with toys, decorations, and a stuffed Santa at the wheel.


On our last outing, following our breakfast, we drove over to Hollywood Cemetery for a walk. On the way there, we passed through Virginia Commonwealth University, an urban campus. As we sailed down West Franklin Street, I pointed out the handsome mansion of Elisabeth Scott Bocock. It sits in the middle of modern-day VCU, but this was not the case when it was built by Mrs. Bocock's parents in 1907. It was then in the heart of one of the most fashionable neighborhoods of the wealthy.


Jean and I both attended VCU in the late 1970's, and I told her about peering in the dusty windows of Mrs. Bocock's carriage house when I walked through the alley behind her home. Mrs. Bocock was still alive then, and had a collection of antique carriages which could be seen (dimly) through the elaborate grillwork protecting the window glass. She allowed them to be displayed in selected parades and exhibitions, and following Mrs. Bocock's death her heirs donated them to Maymont's Carriage Collection, which she helped fund in 1975.


Elisabeth Scott Bocock (or ESB, as she also identified herself) was known as the loony old lady in the stone mansion when I was a VCU student, but as I've learned more about her I now know that she was an implacable force behind the preservation of many of Richmond's historic buildings and landscapes. You just can't stop a determined southern lady. I wish I had known her.


When we reached nearby Oregon Hill, we coasted through the gates of Hollywood Cemetery. It was a nippy but sunny day - perfect for a stroll amongst the dead. I should tell you right now that I love cemeteries, and have never found them scary or creepy. When I lived a couple of blocks from Hollywood in the mid-80's, I would often slip through a well-known hole in the fence to take my roommate's dog, Calpurnia, for a walk. Even in the gloom of night, I thought of this cemetery as my own personal parkland. I'm fairly sure that Daniela shares my affinity of old boneyards.


Hollywood Cemetery covers hundreds of acres, and sits on high bluffs overlooking the James River and Belle Island. There are over 75,000 people buried there, including 18,000+ Confederate dead. Designed in 1847 in the "rural" style, its roadways twist and wind under massive trees - including its titular holly trees. It is easy for a newcomer to get lost inside its walls, as I well know from my first visits in the late 70's.


We parked near President's Circle, but headed away from the tombs of James Monroe & John Tyler, and were immediately greeted by a magnificent tulip poplar in full bloom. We wandered through the headstones, agreeing that this was a great place to collect character names for stories, and read many of the epitaphs. I always enjoy talking with Jean about books, writing, history, and spirituality. We walked downhill to Mausoleum Row, where we saw an artist capturing on paper the beauty of the art-deco muse on the door of the Sauer family tomb. The funky music blasting from her car stereo added a lively note, but it wasn't loud enough to wake the dead.


We took a look at the graves of Jefferson Davis and his family. Poor old Jeff. Not only did he lead a lost cause, only one of his six children survived childhood. There are many notable figures from history buried at Hollywood, including J.E.B. Stuart, Matthew Fontaine Maury, Ellen Glasgow, and U.S. Supreme Court justice, Lewis F. Powell, Jr. There's also a local vampire associated with Hollywood Cemetery, and a midnight visit to the mausoleum of W.W. Poole was a rite of passage for VCU students when I lived on campus.


The terrain is quite hilly, and we soon climbed up to a row of graves high above the James River. We had a clear view of the rocky section of the river across from James River Park, and we paused to observe a bird just above us that seemed to be singing his heart out just for us. In addition to the winding roads, there are curving footpaths to explore. Clearly, this cemetery was created during a time when families enjoyed spending time with deceased loved ones. Many family plots have benches inviting visitors to rest their feet, before they take their own final rest. Each family lot is bordered by stone curbing, and some plots still have their original iron fencing. It must be a nightmare for the groundskeepers, because even a pushmower would be of no help, let alone a lawn tractor. Yet, the grounds are meticulously maintained from corner to corner.


Before we left, we spied a handsome Celtic cross at the crest of a distant slope. We could see, as we approached, that its stone was beautifully carved with scrollwork. As we stood at the base of the cross, I glanced over at a raised vault beside the monument. Serendipity had brought us, amidst thousands of graves, to the resting place of Elisabeth Scott Bocock, the eccentric old lady with the antique carriages. No longer a believer in coincidence, I determined at that moment to learn more about her. I am now reading an interesting biography of Mrs. Bocock, Never Ask Permission, and I'm sure I'll be writing about her soon on Planet Bill.


If you are ever in Richmond, please include a visit to Hollywood Cemetery. It is considered one of the most beautiful graveyards in the nation. You may click this link for an at-home tour of some of its highlights and history.

Fake Post

Okay, I'm going to cheat, and I'll be candid about it. Here's why: I need to leave soon for my regular Tuesday evening AA meeting, so I don't have time to craft a new, sparkling post. It also occurs to me that, although a few of you have been landing on Planet Bill for a long time, most of you have only recently started exploring my corner of the galaxy. Roaming through the archives can be hit-or-miss, so I'm going to pull out a few things for your convenience.

I've been feeling very good lately. This coming Monday will mark one year of sobriety for me. I know that, as long as I do what I have been doing for the past 350+ days, I will meet that mark. To get a little idea of what a difference these days, weeks, and months have meant to me, you can click here to zoom to my first Planet Bill post. When I read this post, I am extra-grateful to be where I am today on my journey. Also, here's a post that was printed in my area's AA newsletter.

Many of my posts have been about my childhood. I am thankful that I had such wonderful parents, and that my life was generally happy and carefree. If you are curious about how I ended up with a Po' White Trash version of a traditional treehouse, this will answer your questions. I spent many happy hours in and under my treehouse, usually in the company of my faithful dog, Pebbles. You can get to know her right here. Pebbles wasn't my only pet, but she did survive my stewardship the longest. There were quite a few others that passed through my careless little hands.

My childhood wasn't all fun and games. Life has its bumps, and during the past year I've come to understand that a couple of these changed my view of the world and how I relate to other people. Growing up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents doesn't preclude unpleasant experiences. If you click here and here, you can read about a couple of the rough spots. The good news is I'm okay today with everything.

I mention my family in my posts. I would be honored if you would read about my remarkable but humble father, my irrespressible grandmother, and my favorite aunt. They all had a lot to do with making me the man I am today, God bless them. My mother has her own companion blog of her daily diaries (the link is on the right column), and I thank her for my love of books and reading.

Oops, I'm running short on time, but I've given you more than enough to occupy some time - and, perhaps, put you gently to sleep. Blogging has turned out to be a fulfilling activity for me over the past months. Not only have I been able to make important discoveries about myself, I have found a network of talented, wonderful fellow bloggers. I always look forward to reading about you. When you are sad, I pray for you. When you are happy, it makes me smile. Thanks for sharing your world with me, and you have an open invitation to visit Planet Bill whenever you can.

The Little Father

Have you met someone in your life travels who, even years later, gives a lift to your heart when you remember them? Perhaps they were (or are) a part of your daily life, or maybe someone you encountered only once or twice. Something about them made a lasting impression, an impact on our lives, and from time to time we think of them with gratitude.

I first met Father Fred when I was in my early twenties. One of my favorite co-workers, Flossie, had a son who had just started high school at a Catholic school for boys. Tuna (his real name was Vincent, as I recall, although no one called him that) was a bright young man with a zest for life, but he had never enjoyed good health. Tuna had a passion for sports, and he begged Flossie to allow him to play football when he entered high school. With many misgivings, Flossie finally relented, and let him try out for the team, hoping he wouldn't make the cut.

Tuna did make the team, and he was on Cloud Nine. His dream had come true, and he eagerly exchanged his school uniform for his football jersey each afternoon for football practice. One afternoon, during a scrimmage, Tuna was tackled hard. He stood up, wandered a few feet, and collapsed on the field. He was rushed to the hospital, and later died.

My boss Cathy and I went to the hospital immediately after the accident to be with Flossie. Tuna was still alive, but the outlook was grim. Father Fred, Flossie's priest, joined us in the waiting room. He brought a sense of calmness and assurance to the chaotic little room. He was serene but not detached. Father Fred met privately with Flossie, and spent time with Tuna doing whatever priests do at times like these. He surprised me, though, by coming back to the waiting room to spend a little time with Cathy and me to be sure we were okay. Something about him assured me that, although Flossie would have to say goodbye to her son, God was there with all of us and everything was happening the way God intended. A few days later, Father Fred also made a point of coming up to Cathy and me following the funeral to comfort us and tell us that our presence was helpful to Flossie and her family.

Father Fred was a small, spare little man with a balding head and spectacles. He had a lively step, a bright smile, and warm sparkling eyes. As my Aunt Therza would have said, Father Fred was "cuter than a speckled pup under a mushroom on a rainy day." Not being Catholic, I doubted our paths would ever cross again, but I was wrong.

I transferred into a different job with the company I worked for, but by this time my former boss Cathy was a very close friend. Although I was still in the closet at work, when I met my partner Michael I knew it was time to tell Cathy that I was gay, so that she could meet this wonderful new person in my life. Cathy and Michael hit it off right away. A few months later, Cathy met the man who would become her husband, and Cathy and Dan started going to a different Catholic church close to their new home after they married. Re-enter Father Fred, who was the priest at their new church.

I would now see Father Fred socially when all of us gathered at Cathy and Dan's for dinners. Father Fred was a scream, and he could put the saltiest sailor to shame with the length and breadth of his profanity. He would hold us spellbound with his stories, until we dissolved into laughter. Fred had a gift for telling a story, and we enjoyed his quick wit. He was interested in the goings-on of each person in the room, however, and when Michael fell ill Father Fred always managed to find a quiet place for a few minutes of private conversation. His energy was amazing, and he seemed able to be everywhere at once.

I'll never forget a story he told at Cathy's table one evening. Father Fred had bought a small cottage in the country outside our city for a personal retreat, although he continued to live at the church parsonage. A winter storm caused him to worry about his cottage, so he drove out to the country to check on it. He promptly got his car stuck at the end of the driveway. Father Fred was pleased to discover that good old redneck boys live for days like this. They grab their girlfriends and hop in their 4X4 pick-up trucks. With the girlfriend planted right next to them on the seat, they roam the countryside looking for folks who need to be towed out of ditches and gullies. One of these helpful couples found Father Fred, and had him fixed up in no time. Fred was quite impressed. He was also amazed by the girlfriend who, despite her 1980's big hair and make-up, jumped out and pitched right in. Father Fred said "her jeans were so tight if she'd farted it would have blown her boots off."

Time passed and Michael's illness worsened. After he had been hospitalized for about a week he buttonholed one of his nurses for information. The nurse told him that he was reaching the end of his life. Michael was no dummy; he knew he had been moved to the hospice floor, but I think he just needed to hear it. Nonetheless, it did throw him into a tailspin. His mom and I would alternate spending nights with him; the hospital provided a fold-up cot. One night when it was my turn to stay with Michael, I walked his mother out to the parking deck because it was late and dark. When I returned to the door of Michael's room, I heard what seemed to be a conversation, but when I entered the room Michael was alone.

I asked Michael who he was talking to. Michael said he was talking to God. I asked Michael if he'd like me to leave the room and come back in a little while. Michael said "No, that's okay. I don't think God wants to talk to me."

Uh-oh.

When pressed, Michael said that God wouldn't want to talk to him because "God doesn't like gay people." Okay, now I knew I was in over my head and needed to call in reinforcements. I'm not a wise person, but I knew that this was no time for platitudes. The next morning, as soon as the hour was decent, I phoned Cathy and Dan. It was time to call in the Big Guns.

It was time for Father Fred.

Father Fred called me. I recounted the previous evening's conversation with Michael, and Father Fred said he would take care of it. That morning, Father Fred blew in. I left the room, and Fred and Michael spent time together. Father Fred found me in the waiting room, and told me he had to run because he had two weddings and a funeral that day. He said all should be well with Michael now.

He also told me what he told Michael, and I know now that he did this so that I could benefit from this message as well. He said:

"Michael, you know how you've suddenly had something get in your eye, and it drives you crazy? It seems huge, your eye tears up, you can't see. You can't think of anything else until you get it out. It feels like it must be as big as a boulder, and then when you get it out of your eye you can't believe it...it's such a tiny speck that you can barely see it. Michael, that's what you're doing. You are worried about something that isn't even as big as a speck in God's eye. Do not be afraid. God loves you and He is with you."

After that, Michael's smile returned. He was in pain, but his joy for life and his belief in God's perfect and infinite love was restored. And when God came for him a few days later, Michael met Him with a tranquil heart. God had prepared all of us for this by sending his powerful instrument, little Father Fred.

Remembering Michael

Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives. - A. Sachs


As I sit here in my den on a pleasant evening with a waning moon, it suddenly occurs to me that tomorrow is October 1. The beginning of a new month with a fresh round of bills to pay, a new sunrise to greet as I sip my hot coffee, an early morning meeting when we will study a Promise from the Big Book (Alcoholics Anonymous). I have a certain love for the Promises because I was asked to read them aloud at the first AA meeting I attended. At the beginning of the meeting when I read them, they seemed unattainable, but when I walked out after an hour's passing, I had hope.


Tomorrow marks fifteen years since the death of my partner, Michael. His mother and I took turns staying with him overnight at the hospital during those last days, and she had stayed with him the previous night. I went to his room early that morning, before I went to work, and his mother and I admitted to ourselves that we would probably lose him that day. I raced to work and found a supervisor. Only my very close work buddies knew what was going on with Michael. I told the supervisor what was happening and she looked at me and said one word: Go.


His mother and I spent the morning beside him, each holding a hand, and we talked to him. Several seizures had left him unable to talk, his eyes were rolled up in his head, but we knew that he could hear us. We told him not to worry about us, that we would take care of each other, and that if something came for him he should go. It seemed that he had been waiting to hear this, because his labored breathing slowed and after a little while he was gone. It was strangely beautiful and comforting, and I am glad we were there beside him.


Michael had a zest for life that his illness could not squelch as hard as it tried. He was concerned about others, and continued to do thoughtful things for people even when he was tired and weak. A few days before he went into the hospital, he was over at a friend's house roto-tilling behind their deck. The powerful machine gave his wasted body a run for its money, but he just laughed and carried on, enjoying life and helping others. That's how he lived life.


Never knock on Death's door: ring the bell and run away! Death really hates that!
- Matt Frewer


When he went into the hospital it was his first time there, so everyone assumed they would fix him up and he would come home. His first visit was his last, and I know he would be pleased with that. His doctor told me later that he had wanted to admit Michael to the hospital several times, but Michael flatly refused.


We each had a cat, and Michael's cat, Taz, was very fastidious about using the litter box. When he went in the hospital I noticed on one of my brief trips to our home that Taz had started peeing outside the litter box, which was quite out of character. At this point, Michael had been moved to the hospice floor and his spirits were low. A friend of his from work suggested that we smuggle Taz in to visit Michael, and this sounded like the kind of hare-brained caper that he would appreciate. We drove the cat to the hospital parking lot, stuffed her in a pillowcase, and slipped her into his room undetected. Taz was very curious about the room, and after she had checked out the surroundings to her satisfaction, she snuggled up beside him on the bed and purred. Michael was so happy to see her, and they spent the evening together. A nurse bustled in at one point, and her only comment was "What a pretty cat!" That's when I knew that he would not be coming home.


Taz seemed to know this, too, and once she knew where Michael was, she never went to the bathroom in the wrong place again. She accepted his death before the rest of us could. She continued to live with me until this past May, and she was twenty-one when she died right next to me one night. I believe she stayed with me until she saw that I was firmly on my path to a new life. Tonight I feel a bit wistful, but not sad. I know that Michael is well, and he knows that I love him.


It's funny how fluid time can be. I've been in staff meetings where I fully expected to glance outside to see a glacier creep by; today I couldn't tell you even one thing that was discussed. But, even though fifteen years have passed, I can still hear Michael laugh. In that way, time sometimes treats us with kindness.


"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"


Death thought about it.

"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice." - Terry Pratchett

Auntique Therza

My Aunt Therza was one of my father's younger sisters, and she was my favorite aunt. Aunt Therza and Uncle Mark lived on a farm which abutted the Jefferson National Forest in the Appalachian Mountains. Their property was in Virginia, but the Tennessee border was just a short distance away. I loved to visit their farm, and would spend hours walking through their fields and pastures, climbing higher without looking back. Then, when I reached the edge of the forest, I would turn around to see a beautiful valley spread before me. I liked following the cow paths because, like me, they seemed to have no direction in life but their path always went past interesting things.

Aunt Therza was an attractive woman, and old family photos prove that she was a real knock-out when she was young. No wonder my Uncle Mark was crazy about her, and so it remained all his life. She had beautiful dark hair and snapping deep brown eyes. In the summer she would turn brown as a berry. But the most beautiful part of her was deep inside.

Aunt Therza was a wonderful cook. When we would visit, I would awaken to the smell of freshly baked rolls, red-eye gravy, and country ham. She made potato rolls from the previous evening's mashed potatoes, and they were so good you wanted to smack your grandma. I was a picky eater when I was little, and she tricked me into liking squash with her casserole recipe (which I make to this day). Mealtimes were special because there was always a lot of love, laughter, and good conversation passed around the table along with the wonderful food. She never put on airs, but she could set a beautiful table with her Stieff Rose silver pattern.

In addition to being a gracious hostess, Aunt Therza had a keen eye for antiques. From her, I learned to love and appreciate antiques also, although I never developed her expertise. The two of us went "antiquing" frequently when I would visit, and she would sail right past the fancy shops. Aunt Therza loved fine china and silver, but preferred primitive antiques when it came to furniture. The orphaned, careworn items that others had cast out in place of newer, shinier (shoddier) possessions found a home with Aunt Therza. She appreciated the nicks and gouges that time had inflicted on these sturdy Old Faithfuls.

We would stop at ramshackle shops that I feared would collapse if we dug too deeply for hidden treasure within. I recall one place where she found a serving fork that I thought was, frankly, stomp-down ugly. In her sweet but firm way, she bargained the price down to one dollar. Our next stop was at her jeweler's who offered her $50 on the spot (this was back in the mid-70's...it would be worth hundreds today). She knew when she picked it out of a box of junk that it was solid silver. It didn't stop her from wanting a few dollars off, though.

Another thing I admired about Aunt Therza was that she didn't suffer fools gladly. In fact, she didn't suffer fools at all. In her view, life was too short and there was too much to do. I never saw Aunt Therza be rude to anyone, but there was little mystery as to how she felt about folks. Thankfully, her daughters are the same way.

Unfortunately, Aunt Therza was right...life is too short. She died battling cancer when I was in my twenties. I did visit her when she was still taking treatments, and I was saddened to see how that damned illness was taking its toll on her body. Toward the end, I planned to go see her in the hospital, but my dad did not want me to do this. He loved her so, and it broke his heart to see her so fragile and frail. It was one of the very few times I heard my dad cry. He wanted me to remember her in better circumstances. This is one time I wish I had followed my heart even if it meant defying my father. I don't think he realized that I would have looked beyond the tarnished body, and I would only see pure shining silver.

Death is a Holiday

Death became an intimate if unwelcome visitor in my life from an early age.

When I was four, my favorite uncle died from emphysema and alcoholism. He thought I made the sun rise every day, and I was so happy when he would visit us from out of town. My mother would cringe as he put me in his car, because she knew I would end up sitting on a bar as my uncle showed me off to his new drinking buddies. He would take me to a nearby lake, and we would sit in a boat and rock gently among the lily pads.

At five, my grandfather was my best friend. An Iowa farmer, he and my grandmother would visit us in wintertime when the fields were fallow. Each day when I came home from kindergarten, we would play a game or two of Uncle Wiggly. My grandpa was fascinated by the construction of the bridge linking Virginia Beach with Virginia's Eastern Shore, and we would go sit on the sand at Chick's Beach and watch the bridge rise out of the Chesapeake Bay. One evening when we were in the living room he stood up to get his glasses off the mantle and died of a massive heart attack before my eyes.

When I was nine, my best friend died with bone cancer. It was a painful ordeal for Scott, but he was usually cheerful. He looked very small in a child's white casket.

As time went on, I lost more people...a favorite aunt, my grandmother, both of my parents, and my partner.

AIDS inserted itself into my relationship with Michael. At the time, there were only two treatments available, and Michael could not tolerate either one. Within two years of diagnosis, death relieved him of his suffering. You would have loved Michael. He was funny, artistic, had a green thumb, and he loved people. He was also a fighter. His doctor was amazed at his determination, and finally had to tell him that he must quit working. He was with a friend shopping one day and fell down with a grand mal seizure. Our friend wanted to take him to the hospital, but he got up, dusted himself off, and kept on shopping...adding new meaning to "shop 'til you drop."

After Michael died, I fell into a paralyzing depression. Although I believed in God, I did not feel part of it. One night before I fell into a fitful sleep, I asked for some sign that Michael was okay. Two days later, a close friend that I worked with told me that her husband had had an amazing dream two nights earlier (the night I asked for a sign). Ronnie had dreamed that he was at work, outside taking a smoke break, when Michael drove up in his little red car. Michael told Ronnie that he was doing great, and Ronnie asked to ride with him down the road. Michael told Ronnie "no, I have to go alone. You can't go with me, but tell everyone that I'm doing fine," waved good-bye, and drove on.

If I had had this dream myself I would have chalked it up to my mind trying to comfort me with a false vision. But since this message came through a dear friend who loved and cherished Michael, I took it as confirmation that Michael was where he should be, free of pain and enjoying a new life.


I believe that God sends us messages of his love for us constantly, but we are usually so caught up in our day to day worries that we do not see these messages for what they truly are. The next time you are frustrated because you were delayed by a red light, consider that if the light had been green there may have been a haphazard driver down the road that may have involved you in a terrible accident. God is like us: all he (or she) really wants is acknowledgement and thanks. We are created in his image.

I believe that death is a gift, our reward for an earthly life well-lived, and that we will rejoin those loved ones that have gone before us. Take the time today to be of service to others. Even small gestures can mean much when offered in the spirit of friendship and love.