The Return Home

Beebe, Arkansas 1942. When my grandparents were my age, this was home.


So since I just returned from the funeral of my grandmother, you can probably imagine that there will be an overall serious tone to my writing this evening. Having said that, I should probably get the tasteless stuff out of the way first.

The night before the funeral, I had this really lurid sex dream that involved Scarlett Johansson and an alien. For some reason, Scarlett (who was looking as lovely as ever) was begging this green alien for sex. And the alien totally conceded to her wishes. I mean, who the hell is this alien to say no to fucking Scarlett Johansson? Did I mention that I'm pretty sure that I was the alien? Huh.

So the next morning when I woke up, my brother (who I shared a motel room with) told me that I talked in my sleep. Uh-huh. He didn't look at me funny or anything so he probably thought I was just mumbling bullshit. And let's face it--I was playing the role of an alien in a Scarlett Johansson sex dream, so I'm sure I was mumbling bullshit.

In my head, I began to laugh at the silliness of it all, but then stopped--you know, the way you do when you realize that you shouldn't be laughing about anything for a while. It was time to get dressed to go to a funeral.

The Place

Beebe, Arkansas. It's pronounced BEE-BEE. Think Red Rider model from A Christmas Story. The picture above is what Beebe looked like in 1942, when my grandparents were exactly my age, married for about six years and new parents to a one year old kid, my Uncle Rob. Robert and Mildred were great people who had jobs just like anyone else that might have been around then. My grandfather, who passed away in 1990, helped run a family-owned grocery store with his brother. My grandmother was a teacher, among so many other things. She established the first special education program in the small town. The bulk of her work with children was with the mentally handicapped. She also taught piano. Playing the piano was the great love of her life outside of her family and God. My mother is also an amazing piano player. My brother is a graduate music student who plays the trombone. I come from a family of educators and musicians. Of course, I work in education but don't teach and love music but don't play anything. I've always been a bit off. Imagine that.

My grandmother passed away last week after a prolonged bout with Alzheimer's and dementia. I could write on and on and on and on about all of her accomplishments, but I'll be brief. She'd hate people "going on" about her. At the funeral, the minister remarked that one thing that really stood out about her was the fact that she never really talked about herself. She talked about her children and most especially her grandchildren. We were her great joy. And if someone asks for one reason why I'll miss her, it might just be that fact. Being her joy gave me the assurance that I'd always be loved by someone great. Life becomes a little less certain when people like that in your life start to go away. My grandmother put her life's priorities in a very simple order. God, family, and everyone else. It almost sounds like a bit, but that's really how she was. She spoke of it, but she also lived it. Her strength in that way has always been a comfort, but now I fear that it helps to reveal my own most feared shortcomings.

The service was beautiful. I cried, even though I thought I wouldn't. When she passed away, I didn't cry because I was so relieved that this great woman of dignity, the matriarch of our family, was finally home. She was finally delivered the great promise of her life and returned to be with my grandfather. After the funeral, I took a drive around town. Even though I hadn't been back to Beebe in a decade, it took me about three minutes to remember where everything was. I drove down College Street, past the place where my grandparents house had stood before a tornado had destroyed it in 1999. I had taken a walk there the previous day and my heart pounded and my senses tightened as I walked by the place where so many of my childhood memories had been made. I had stayed with my grandparents and then just my grandmother for weeks every summer from my birth to about the age of fifteen. To so many of my friends, spending time with their grandparents was lame and such a heavy obligation. But I can honestly say that those summers I spent in Beebe were great. I had great conversations with my grandparents and never felt that I was wasting time or being lame. Summer in a small southern town is something pretty magical when you're a kid. I ran around, played with neighborhood kids, explored, read books, ate ridiculous amounts of Yarnell's cookies and cream ice cream, drank coffee for the first time (well before my mother ever would have approved), and slept the best sleep of my life. When I was in Beebe, my entire world's volume was turned down. My mind took a break. I was safe, warm, and taken care of. I don't know if I'll ever have that feeling again but at least I know what it feels like so I'll know it if it ever comes around again.

Random memory that I couldn't shake while I was in Beebe this past week: My grandmother and I would stay up really late and watch TV. I mean, that was the best part of being in Beebe with her. She'd totally let me stay up later than I could at home. What was our favorite show? Mama's Family. It's an absolute classic, genius of a show that starred Vicki Lawrence, Betty White, and assorted other veterans of the Carol Burnett Show. It was a show about an old woman and her crazy, dysfunctional family in a small southern town. I never heard my dignified, straight-laced, genteel grandmother ever laugh so hard. I mean, I'm sure I could name a million more important things we did and lessons about life I learned and all that. But that's what stuck out most to me this past week. The fun. The ease of our relationship. My grandmother was a great friend and I'm thankful for knowing her, whether she was my grandmother or not. I'll never forget the last time I saw her before her memory of me had completely disappeared. I went with my family to visit her at her nursing home and it took her a few moments to gather her thoughts and connect with who I was. She took my hand in hers, looked at it, and then looked straight at me and said, "This is us. This is us." I'll always consider that to be my true goodbye to her and will fondly remember it to be a moment consistent with the gentle and beautiful nature of her soul.

I drove by Knight's grocery store after I turned off College Street. She used to let me go there and buy as many Mad Magazines, packs of Skittles, Archie Comics, and liters of Mello Yello soda as I wanted. So this is what I did before the internet. Huh.

Finally, I drove back to the cemetery. We had been there earlier in the morning for a short service before the funeral and memorial service at the Methodist church. But now, the burial had been completed. It was a cold and rainy day which drove me a little nuts because it didn't fit my grandmother at all. I wasn't sure why I had wanted to get there, but I just did. I stood above the shared Warren gravestone that now sat above my grandmother's newly dug grave. I just stood there like an idiot in the rain and stared. And then I began talking to them. I had things to say and I really spoke--out loud and not just in my head. After the beautiful service in which I was once again reminded about how my grandmother had defined her life by her kindness, giving, service, and love of others, I suddenly felt so small. Both of my grandparents had been thought of this way, which was evident by the turnout to their funerals by people I had never known who had been given food during hard times by my grandfather or had received free piano lessons from my grandmother when their families couldn't afford to pay.
I stood there and balled like a little five year old kid again and told them how much I loved them and that I hoped I had been a good grandson and that I'm sure I could have been better. I told them that I was sorry that I was twenty-seven and hadn't really accomplished much the way they had. I told them that the next time I returned, I would have more to tell them, that I would be a better man in some way. I told them that I was glad they were together and of course I didn't mean in the ground but in Heaven but that I was glad to have a single place where I felt like I could come talk to them. I told them that I was selfish and didn't do enough for others but that I would try to do more and I'd have something more to tell them the next time I was back. The cold rain and my tears mixed and my speech had suddenly run its course. My cousin earlier in the day had asked me what was going on in my life. I told him "work", and was struck by the fact that I really had nothing else to offer up. My grandparents were defined by so much more and I didn't want to say anything else until the next time--when I had something more to tell them. I told them that I loved them, walked through the muddy grass and back to the car.

I drove back to Knight's, got a pint of Yarnell's cookies and cream ice cream, and headed back to where my family was waiting. You see, you can't get Yarnell's where I live. And I just wanted to feel some slight piece of what I used to feel like when they were here and when I was hopeful and I was carefree and I was tantalized by the possibilities of life and knew that this place, this little small town would always be a home to me.

And now I'm home. Back on my couch in Oklahoma City. I'm pondering where I go from here. I'm pondering whether or not I have the strength to keep my promises. Tomorrow I go back to work and I'll be hoping to find other answers to the questions of "what's going on" with my life. People always say that funerals aren't for the dead but for those that they leave behind. I think that if I'm lucky, my grandparents will never leave me behind. It's time to find some conviction about things, even if I'm not sure what those things are. My grandmother picked a small handful of things to be devoted to and stuck with them and found fulfillment. Such are the elements of a life of substance and importance.



Just to end on light note....


Scarlett Johansson. Alien Delight.


Album of the Week: "Boys and Girls in America"

Artist: The Hold Steady

Song Highlights: "Stuck Between Stations", "First Night", "Party Pit", "You Can Make Him Like You", "Citrus"





Song of the Day: "Funeral"

Artist: Band of Horses

Album: "Everything All the Time"

Lyric of Possible Relevance:

"At every occasion I'll be ready for the funeral. Every occasion, once more it's called the funeral."