It Takes a Family

It was an absolutely brutal morning.  I made the four hour drive from St. Louis in my shorts and t-shirt, with my suit ready in the back seat.  When I got there I had to hurriedly change in the car and it was already incredibly hot.  Walking up to the front door I was met by my sister, who helped straighten my tie.  I must have looked like death warmed over, having gotten about an hour of sleep after a late night of putting out signs at the polls.

We hugged, and after complaining about the heat I told her I had better get inside.  I opened the door and at the opposite end of the hall was Steve Jones.  I walked down the hall and shook his hand, and I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I am never happy to see you”.  To which he replied, “You should be happy to see me.  It’s when you can’t see me that you need to worry”.  We both smiled, and then I went around the corner to say goodbye.

I walked into the room where I had said goodbye to so many others; aunts and uncles and cousins.  I remember when my Grandpa died many years ago, when I was a young boy.  Pap was 90 and he had lived a long life and raised nine kids on a little farm.  I remember looking at my cousin Carol Dean and telling her I didn’t want to go to the funeral.  Carol Dean was nine years older than me and in her teens at the time.  She looked at me and smiled and said, “Oh Honey, NOBODY wants to go”. 

But we did go.  And although I have missed some, for the most part we have all showed up time after time, and each time we would hug and cry and remember.  We would make nervous jokes in the hallway and the waiting room, and catch up with what all of our various family members had been up to. 

Carol Dean was there that day, but she could not hug me.  This time was different.  This time we said goodbye to her. 

My grandparents’ nine children went on to give them 33 grandchildren.  The first, James Davis, was born in 1924 and the last, my baby sister, was born in 1971.  With the death of Carol Dean we have now lost 13 cousins.  There are 20 of us left.  

My grandmother died on September 1, 1944.  It was my Dad’s 15^th birthday.  Dad was the youngest, and losing his mother at 15 was devastating.  My Aunt Mary Jo was eight years older and had been married for 3 years.  As his oldest sister she took Dad under her wing and they were always very close. When we would visit Kentucky we would stay with Mary Jo and Carrol, and we developed a close bond with their daughters Carol Dean and Kay.

Carol Dean was the salt of the earth who never knew a stranger.  She was never afraid to speak her mind.  She was the tomboy and would tease her older sister endlessly, chasing her around with bugs and fishing worms.  I remember her bucking bales and hoeing tobacco with us.  She taught me to fish with a cane pole. She also taught me about honesty and decency and integrity. 

Carol Dean married Dwight in 1970 and they had Matthew in 1976. As I entered the room last week I saw Matthew and a million memories flashed through my head.  Matthew just turned 40 but all I see is Carol Dean’s little boy.  I gave him a big bear hug, and gave one to his Aunt Kay as well.  Although I am a grandfather something tells me Carol Dean and Kay looked at me the same way I look at Matthew. 

The memories kept flooding past.  Carol Dean and Dwight moved up to St. Louis for a while as she went to Beauty School to be a hairdresser and he worked at Chrysler.  Later they ended up getting divorced and Carol Dean married Tommy Owens.  I remember countless times where we all found ourselves on that hill in the country sitting on lawn chairs by a fire, with Tommy and me going back and forth with jokes and good natured jabs. 

When Carol Dean married Tommy she gained a step-family.  She became a grandmother to his grandchildren and she loved those kids dearly.  During the funeral those kids were gathered around their grandfather lending their support as they grieved as well.  The love was obvious.

Carol Dean and Tommy were in the process of moving a little closer to that hill in the country to be a little closer to Matthew and Kay and the rest of the family.  Tommy has had health issues and one morning last week Carol Dean called an ambulance for him.  They came and checked them both as she was complaining of chest pain.  She checked out ok but died later that day of a heart attack.

The funeral procession from Providence to the little Mount Pleasant winds through the curvy country hills of western Kentucky.  It takes some time.  We eventually arrived at the little Mount Pleasant cemetery where Dad and Pap and all of my aunts and uncles are buried.  The heat was unbearable and my shirt ended up completely soaked by the end of the short ceremony.

My daughter and I took a moment to look at headstones.  The cemetery is filled with Rakestraws and we find my grandparents and great grandparents.  Great Grandpa Josiah was born in 1852 and his dad John and Uncle Jim Rakestraw were both born in the 1820’s.  There is rich history here.

We walked across the road to the Mount Pleasant Methodist Church where the best food ever was in abundance in the church basement.  My cousins Amy and Barbara were there serving food just as they always have with the only difference being the absence of Carol Dean standing next to them.

I look at this room and I remember Sunday school.  We would attend church when we visited and I remember Carol Dean sharing her faith during those sessions in the basement.  Her faith was simple and strong.  She was not one to overcomplicate things and her faith was no different.  She believed, and she acted accordingly.

When someone was in the hospital, Carol Dean would be there.  When someone needed help, she would be there.  And when she thought you needed to step up and do the right thing, she would let you know.  It may not have been easy, and she may not have wanted to, but she did the right thing.  And yet, she did it with kindness and that great belly laugh of hers that I miss already.

By the time we finished our country ham and corn and beans and casseroles and dessert they were putting the topsoil back into the hole.   Sad and numb we got into our cars and drove back to St. Louis.  It was still far too soon for any of this to be real for any of us.  The next few weeks will be hell on Matthew and Kay and Tommy and the rest of the family. 

The weekend before Carol Dean died we went to a birthday celebration for my first grandchild, Warren.  He is adorable and we were of course joined by the other grandparents Kim and Bruce and the rest of the family and one of the highlights was seeing Warren and his cousin on his Mom’s side sitting in a little pool together.  These two toddlers were too cute for words. 

As Warren sat in a high chair stuffing a birthday cupcake into his mouth he was surrounded by family who loved him. As I watched my own children playing with their nephew I couldn’t help wondering how many cousins Warren will end up with and how close they will be.  My brothers and sister and I have had a total of 10 kids who now comprise a finite group of cousins, and they all get along well.  The week before Warren’s party we all got together at my brother’s house and spent time looking at old pictures.

With due respect to Hillary Clinton, it doesn’t take a village, it takes a family.  It takes a Mom and Dad, but it also takes siblings and grandparents and grandchildren and aunts and uncles.  It takes a sister stepping up when a mother dies to care for her younger brother.  It takes a grandparent stepping up to help Mom and Dad when they are not sure they will ever get through their kid’s first year.  It takes people who love you unconditionally and who are not afraid to tell you the truth when you need it.  

It takes a cousin who shows up at the hospital in St. Louis when your mother has to have surgery.  It takes someone who will bake the country ham and have it ready in the basement of the church after the funeral.  It takes a step-mom who will love her husband’s kids and grandkids like her own.

Sometimes all it takes is showing up.  You may wonder what good it will do for you to show up at the funeral.  But when you feel the tight grip of that bear hug you know why it is important.  You can’t fix what happened but you can help your loved ones in their time of need.

Sometimes we don’t feel like stepping up.  Sometimes we don’t feel like going.

Just remember, it’s ok.  None of us WANT to go.