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Random Post-Funeral Thoughts

The week before my mother died, I had nothing on any credit cards, save for any recurring expenditures.

TIMING

My father died on a Thursday; we had the funeral on a Sunday, and he was buried on a Monday. My mother died on a Tuesday, and our first inclination was to have the funeral on the following Saturday. But, instead of working on the obituary or the program on that day, we sat around telling Trudy stories. I think, in some way, we died my father’s death the way he would have wanted his death to be handled, quickly and efficiently; it also helped that we knew my father was going to die at least the day beforehand. Whereas mom’s death took us, and indeed her long-time doctor, by surprise; her heart was still strong, even after the stroke, and we were having conversations about placing her in some medical facility after she got out of the hospital the very morning she died.

Once Saturday was off the table, we considered Sunday, but it was Super Bowl Sunday, on which my mother’s mother died; I remember getting the call during the 3rd quarter of the game in 1983. Besides, it was just different. My dad was the hare, my mother, the tortoise, and we all know that slow and steady win the race.

So, it was a Tuesday funeral, which had an enormous number of people outside of the family wanting to speak, and a Wednesday burial at the Salisbury National Cemetery in Salisbury, NC, about 40 miles from Charlotte, Section 8, Plot 358, next to my father. I read a few passages from the Proverbs reading my eldest niece read the day before, then sang a little, then I, then my sisters, in turn, shoveled some dirt on her cremains, then we sang some more. Then we went to Waffle House, which was one of my father’s favorite places. I believe I had only been to that gravesite once since his burial there.

FOOD

One of the traditions in the South, at least in my parents’ circle, is for people to come over, often bringing various food items, usually homemade. And by “come over”, I don’t mean that they call and ask, “Would this be a good time to come over?” I mean that they just show up. I became aware of this tradition ten and a half years ago; can’t say that I’ve gotten USED to it. But it was (mostly) nice.

MONEY

The week before my mother died, I had nothing on any credit cards, save for any recurring expenditures, such as the newspaper. Can’t say THAT right now. The next bill will be a whopper; it will include:
The funeral parlor. When my father died, the same funeral parlor accepted the promise of payment from his insurance; not so this time. So it went on my credit card. I’ll get reimbursed eventually. But it was the least amount of money we could spend, which would have pleased my mother, $840.
The obit. I totally miscalculated how much it was going to cost: $472.75. I’ll probably eat half of that.
The niece’s last-minute plane ride from California. Somewhere north of $600, which I hope to get back eventually.
The hotel. Once my wife and daughter arrived, the house would have been too crowded with my sisters, my nieces, and a family friend. Five nights, $330; not bad actually.
*Miscellaneous stuff, including a meal after our bizarre visit with the funeral home – was she high, merely incompetent, or uncaring because we weren’t spending enough? She couldn’t even spell Charlotte, and at one point, my sister threw her out of our meeting.
This doesn’t even count the train tickets or the rental car, which are on my WIFE’S credit card. BTW, 3 days out on Amtrak is a better rate than 2 days out, which is WAY better than one day out.

TECHNOLOGY

I had access to the home computer, but I didn’t have one of my own. My wife actually brought the daughter’s laptop, but it was uncharged, and she forgot the plug, so it didn’t work.

Of course, I had to focus on the funeral stuff and managed to write four blog posts in the 12 days I was down there. Viva the blogger’s reserve, which I was trying to create for our vacation this fall. C’est la vie.

The hotel had one (count’em, ONE) computer in the “business center”, which was often occupied. Once I was on it – at 2:48 a.m. – and some young woman came down and said, “This is the ONLY computer here? I have to do my homework!” I ceded it to her at 3 a.m. after I’d spent an hour on it. BTW, it needs a new keyboard; the a, c, e, m, and n were unreadable.

The house printer didn’t work. The hotel printer was quirky, at best.

I used my cellphone more in that two-week period than I had in all the previous two years.

One Twitter tweet, one Facebook post. Just no time for it.
***
The train ride back from Charlotte to Albany last Friday.

 

E is for Ed and Edna

Gert requested/demanded that Trudy, who was an adult, to have nothing to do with Ed either, and she capitulated to that. I know that, except in passing – they lived only four blocks away – I never saw them.

Sometimes, I felt bad for my mom. She got stuck between a couple of dominating personalities and often sublimated her own.

But let’s go way back to the early part of the 20th century. My great-grandparents, Edward Yates and Lillian (nee Archer-pictured) had four children who lived past infancy: Gert, Ed, Ernie, and Deana. Edward died by 1920. Gert fell in love with a guy named Clarence Williams, got married, and had a child, Gertie (my mom, who I’ll refer to as Trudy because that’s what she later called herself.) Well, Lillian didn’t approve of Clarence, a baseball player in the Negro Leagues, for reasons not clear to me, and apparently drove him away. So my mother was raised by her grandmother, her mother, and Aunt Deana. The primary male role model for her was Ed since Ernie had gotten married and started raising a family. Lillian died c 1937, but by then the damage to Gert and Clarence’s relationship had been done, I gather.

Ed fought in World War II and everyone was proud of him. I remember seeing his picture in uniform on a mirror in the house Gert and Deana shared when I was growing up. But just as my grandmother stopped talking to another relative when he started having children with a woman without the benefit of matrimony, so too did she pretty much disown her brother Ed when he started living with this woman named Edna in the mid-1960s. And I suppose that was her right, though I found it sad. And peculiar too, since she wasn’t really that much of a religious person; I can tally on one hand the number of times she went to church while I was growing up.

What I found more painful, though, is that Gert requested/demanded that Trudy, who was an adult, have nothing to do with Ed either, and she capitulated to that. I know that except in passing – they lived only four blocks away – I never saw them.

Then, in 1970, we got a call to rush to the hospital; Ed was dying. We got there after he passed away; he was the first dead person I had ever seen not in a casket. My burning recollection is of Gert and Edna crying on each other’s shoulders at Ed’s funeral. Edna died within a couple of years of Ed.
***
Want to read an uplifting tale of an Ed and Edna? Go HERE.

Valentine’s Day

Both songs speak of yearning. I know, from vast past experience, that Valentine’s Day is not hearts and flowers for everyone.

At my core, Valentine’s Day is one of those mixed blessings days. Why, for instance, do I so connect with a song written by lyricist Hal David and composer Burt Bacharach, Anyone Who Had A Heart? It was performed originally by Dionne Warwick and covered by several others (Cilla Black, Luther Vandross, Wynonna Judd, Dusty Springfield, Shelby Lynne, among others).
Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me, too
You couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me,
Like you hurt me and be so untrue
What am I to do

Here’s Dionne’s version of Anyone Who Had a Heart.

I also relate to Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder). It’s a song from the legendary Beach Boys album Pet Sounds, written by Brian Wilson and Tony Asher
Being here with you feels so right
We could live forever tonight
Let’s not think about tomorrow
And don’t talk put your head on my shoulder
Come close, close your eyes and be still
Don’t talk, take my hand and listen to my heart beat
Listen, listen, listen.

Here’s a couple of Beach Boys versions:
a capella and traditional.

Both songs speak of yearning. I know, from vast past experience, that Valentine’s Day is not hearts and flowers for everyone. I guess that’s why I relate to the melancholy songs so much.

Not incidentally, these two songs are performed back to back on Linda Ronstadt’s Winter Light album, which appears to be out of print, AND I can’t find either track on the Intersnet. One can find them on her box set.
***
I should say that Scott, who noted my mom’s passing in his blog, and Jaquandor, who had mentioned it previously, are each requesting that you Ask Them Anything. Here’s Scott’s link, and Jaquandor’s.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin-Classics Illustrated version, by Fred Hembeck

And then, the evil Legree stalks off, satisfied that he’d dealt out a sickening sort of justice.

The first blogger I knew personally was my friend Fred Hembeck. One of his posts that most impressed me, and probably got me to start blogging a couple months later, was his February 25, 2005 piece on a particular comic book. Fred has allowed me to reprint his story. After a mention of an accidental(?) coloring error in an issue of Sgt. Fury:

I soon realized Gabe WASN’T the first African-American I’d encountered in the comics. A full three years earlier–maybe four–I read a couple of key issues of CLASSICS ILLUSTRATED.

One was their adaptation of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s historic 1852 novel, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”…

Before we get to that particular story, first a few words about CLASSICS ILLUSTRATED in general.

They scared me.

Compared to the sunny Harvey and Dell comics I was used to at that point–this was when I was a mere lad of 6 or 7, and not yet fully aware of the DC and Atlas titles out there, bear in mind–the dark and overly delineated artwork looked to be from another century, and the stories themselves, though greatly watered down from their sources, included what ALL the great classics did–DEATH, and lots of it!

(I touched on this topic in pictorial form in an episode of my “Little Freddy” stripCLASSICS ILLUSTRATED website, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was originally published in 1943, and was never overhauled. The stiff and archaic appearing linework provided by an artist named Rolland Livingstone nearly two decades before I had a chance to read it was the only pulp paper pictures the Civil War-inciting saga was ever to know. To my younger self — and even still now — the drawings look as if they actually could’ve been done during that era, and at age seven, I found that very notion unsettling.

I also learned that seven full pages had been eliminated from the 1943 version by the time 1960 rolled around, what with ALL comic books reducing their page counts in the interim years. Perhaps that’s why the story seemed a bit disjointed–and the Cabin in the title totally absent from the action — when I sat down to read it for the first time in over forty years last night…

(And no, I’d never actually read the original, but oddly enough, it was one of several books ninth-grader Julie was assigned to read this fall for her English class in the new school she’s going to, along with “The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn”, “Ragtime”, “The Joy Luck Club”, “The God Of Small Things”, and “My Antonia” –and that was six more books than she was obligated to read during the entirety of her two-year tenure in our local public school junior high, one of several motivating factors for her change of scene, but that’s a topic for ANOTHER time. And no, she didn’t READ the comic book version, though I DID offer to let her peruse it after she’d successfully completed her paperback, mainly as an aid in assisting her prepare for testing. True to past form, Julie pooh-poohed the comics and managed just fine without it. For the record, while she found some of it needlessly repetitive and overly talky, she enjoyed the book for the most part, as there was plenty of engaging melodrama to draw readers in. I’ll say!…)

Let’s see if I can give this to you as succinctly as possible…

Uncle Tom is an older, beloved slave on a plantation in Kentucky. When his owner gets into difficult financial straights, he has no choice but to sell Tom to an auctioneer, with the provision that he be appraised of just who purchases Tom, so that, once his money troubles are behind him, he can go out and buy back Tom. This of course, sounds awful to a modern audience, but in the story, this fellow’s clearly one of the GOOD GUYS!?!

While Tom goes off to the auction, there’s a side plot concerning a less accommodating woman slave, who instead runs off to avoid being put up for sale. In trying to escape her pursuers, she has to cross a raging river, breathlessly stepping from one chunk of ice to another in a desperate effort to make it to the other side–all the while holding her infant child in her arms! This sequence was made famous on stage and silent movie versions of Beecher Stowe’s book, and rightfully so–it’s an unforgettable image.
Too bad the comic devotes a mere four tepidly rendered panels to perhaps the single most visually unique passage in the whole tome.

On the way to auction via steamboat, Tom befriends a beautiful blonde child named Eva — and after he dives overboard to save her from drowning, her grateful father buys Tom, and brings him back to his even more impressive plantation–which is only fitting, because, if anything, he’s an even NICER guy than Tom’s original owner!

One of the chores given to the wise and patient Tom is teaching a little wild child by the name of Topsy to read — AND to have a positive image of herself. Naturally, this is happily accomplished in a matter of panels.
But tragedy soon rears its ugly head, when lovable little Eva collapses, and, despite the prayers of everyone, white and black alike, is soon taken off to a better place by a couple of rather unique travel agents…

Folks, THAT sequence scared the living bejeezus outta me!!

I couldn’t have been all that much older than that cute little girl when I first read those panels, and it was all just so–have I used the term “unsettling” already? Well, pardon me for repeating myself, but that’s the word that fits it to a tee. At that age, whatever passing thoughts about death I’d had generally concerned older people–WAY older. Little kids like me didn’t croak. And certainly, none of my comic book friends–Dennis, Lulu, Tubby, Dot, Audrey, and all the rest (let’s just leave Casper out of this discussion for a moment, okay?..)–none of THEM was ever in any danger of taking the nap that never ends! But here, in THIS comic book, that was the last we were ever going to see of the sweet Little Eva! Brrr. And just eyeball that overly symbolic send-off! Geez–all of sudden, I’m afraid of angels!

Well, back during that first read-through, I didn’t quite comprehend how much the plot turned on the youngster’s sad demise, but now I found myself suitably impressed with the twisted plot machinations the author surrounded the event with. Had she been alive today, Miss Harriet would’ve made a fine contemporary writer–of SOAP OPERAS!!

Follow me here: on her deathbed, Eva makes her daddy promise to free Tom if anything should happen to her, and good to his word, shortly after the funeral, the plantation owner informs the grateful slave that he plans to make good on his pledge to his late daughter. He’ll sign the necessary papers tomorrow.

Uh oh…

First, though, it’s off to the local cafe for a whiskey. Been a rough day, after all. It was gonna get rougher. Trying to stop a knife fight between two other bar patrons, Tom’s owner is accidentally stabbed. To death. And his widow–who’d been portrayed as little more than a vain, selfish, self-absorbed woman, has absolutely no intentions of honoring her late husband’s promise to Tom. In fact, she sells the plantation and all the slaves right quick, and for old Tom, the third time is definitely NOT the charm.

Tom’s new owner? A fellow with a name you might recognize: Simon Legree.

Yup, THAT Simon Legree. I’ll confess that, until I read through my copy of CI the other night, I didn’t quite realize that the by-now-generically familiar name had originated within the pages of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”, but reading on, he certainly managed to live up to all expectations. Beatings, whippings, the “N” word tossed around casually, filthy living conditions–Tom and his fellow put-upon slaves had to endure all this and more as Legree worked them to the bone in the hopes of making as much money as possible from their dawn to dusk toiling.
This is not to say escape attempts weren’t made. Two younger female slaves in fact hatched a plan to hide in the main house’s attic, and then run off disguised as ghosts, knowing full well that Legree possessed an overwhelming fear of the supernatural.

That’s sadistic Simon there, flanked by his favored henchmen, Quimbo and Sambo. Yes, that was their names–don’t blame ME.

(And yup, even though it’s clear that those are only pretend ghosts, that’s ANOTHER panel that indelibly etched itself into poor Little Freddy’s defenseless noggin! Thanks, grandma…)

Well, old Legree isn’t TOTALLY stupid, and eventually figures out that the two women have escaped. He calls in Tom and badgers him relentlessly to give up the whereabouts of the pair, but the proud slave refuses to share any information with his cruel taskmaster.
As you might imagine, that stance didn’t go over so well with the heartless Legree, and the hapless Tom is soon fatally bludgeoned by the irate overseer.

In a rare nod to taste, the panel that precedes the one over to the side merely pictures shadows of Legree’s raised weapon over the head of his cowering victim, bathed symbolically in blood-drenched hues of red.

And then, the evil Legree stalks off, satisfied that he’d dealt out a sickening sort of justice.
Time for the story to take one last soap-like turn. As Tom lies on the ground, only moments away from death, who should show up but the son of Tom’s original owner. Seems as if his dad had passed on, but now that the family is financially flush again, he’s there to buy Tom back.

Simon Legree chuckles nastily at the notion, and then offers to let him have Tom for nothing–after all, even he doesn’t charge for DEAD slaves!…

The stunned man runs over to the fast expiring Tom, cradles him in his arms, and hears his final words.

(The artwork in this panel reminds me of the work of Guy Colwell, who wrote and drew a series of undergrounds in the late sixties called INNER CITY ROMANCE COMICS, as well as DOLL in the late eighties and early nineties–wonder if that’s just a coincidence, or if he was influenced in his depiction of African-American characters by reading this comic around the same time I did?…)
After Tom dies, the outraged son of his former owner punches Simon Legree in the jaw, and then returns home, ultimately deciding to free ALL his slaves–and then delivers an uplifting speech concerning the need to abolish slavery worldwide, just to put the icing on the metaphorical cake.

The end.

The message comes through loud and clear–slavery was bad, really, REALLY bad. Not exactly front-page news in 1960–now, a comic about the evils of the era’s Jim Crow laws, THAT would’ve been ground-breaking. Didn’t happen, of course…

“Uncle Tom’s Cabin” is a tricky book to adapt, even more so now than back in 1943. Obviously, its author was well-meaning in her sincere condemnation of the practice of slavery, but without historical context–this really WAS a bold gesture back in 1852–a lot of the relationships between the black characters and the otherwise well-meaning folks who just happen to OWN them, well, they come off as unavoidably patronizing. And the pairing of the little blond curly-haired cutie with the large noble Negro? Hey, how was Ms. Beecher Stowe to know she was writing the template for just about every other Shirley Temple movie ever filmed?

Anyway, it was fascinating revisiting this comic after so many years (via a coverless copy picked up at a convention about ten years back–there’s no date on it, but I’m betting it’s an even later printing than my original copy, as the printing quality has gone noticeably downhill from the ones Gran bought me off the stands–my apologies for the muddiness of some of the scans.)

Go to Fred’s original article and read about Huck Finn in drag. Subsequently, this piece inspired me to write an article about how the term “Uncle Tom” has been misapplied. Thanks, Fred, for letting me purloin your article.
***
The Tom Caricature

How Do You Sleep QUESTIONS

I might sleep for four hours, then stay in bed, feeling that I had not slept at all the latter part of the time. But I know I have.


Looking at all the Beatles and John Lennon songs, I’m reminded of the fact that Lennon mentioned the topic of sleep a few times. I’m Only Sleeping was on the Beatles’ Revolver album, though I first heard it on the US LP called Yesterday and Today. It starts off:
When I wake up early in the morning,
Lift my head, I’m still yawning
When I’m in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float upstream

Then, for the Beatles white album, Lennon writes:
I’m so tired, I haven’t slept a wink
I’m so tired, my mind is on the blink

The tone of the vicious Lennon attack on Paul McCartney, How Do You Sleep is contrasted with #9 Dream in my mind.
So long ago
Was it in a dream, was it just a dream?
I had known, yes I know
Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me

1. How do YOU sleep at night?
2. Do you remember your dreams?

On those nights I sleep for six or seven hours straight, I tend not to remember my dreams. But on the nights I have a lot on my mind, I might sleep for four hours, then stay in bed, feeling that I had not slept at all the latter part of the time. But I know I have because the dreams are so vivid, it’s as though they were real.

Ramblin' with Roger
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