Last Thursday, my wife’s grandmother passed away. I flew home from California on the red eye, slept a few hours in my own bed, filled the car with our family of three and headed to Minster, Ohio.
The visitation was Sunday, and the funeral was Monday. At the visitation, I picked up a Mass card. I fully expected to see a typical bible verse or Psalm.
This one, though, was different. It read:
Poem for the Living
When I am dead
Cry for me a little.
Think of me sometimes
But not too much.
It is not good for you
Or for your wife or your husband
Or your children
To allow your thoughts to dwell
Too long on the Dead.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moment
it is pleasant to recall.
But not for long.
Leave me in peace
As I shall leave
you, too, in peace.
While you live
Let your thoughts be with
the Living.—Theodora Kroeber
I met Sylvia Moorman Sommer just a couple of times. The first time I met her, we sat in the kitchen of her farmhouse and fell into one of the most comfortable conversations of my life. She told me stories of Patti as a little girl, stories about Patti’s dad and his multitude of brothers and sisters…and about the barn cats, one of whom had lost a paw in a fight with some piece of farm machinery. She told me she called him “Stumpy” and I almost fell out of my chair onto the kitchen floor in laughter.
I found myself naturally falling into stories about my childhood. Stories about the 7 dogs I had grown up with. Stories about how my family would take all seven of those dogs AND the 6 children, stuff them into an RV and travel up and down the East Coast. Stories about how I spent my earliest summers in Long Island with my family and grandparents, mostly fishing off the end of our dock. Stories about how Patti and I met and how we thought our future was going to go. We talked for a long time.
And then, without missing a beat, Sylvia asked me a question I had never heard before in my life and have never heard since. She asked, “Do you want to know what I think about you?”
And while in any other circumstance, I think that question would have shocked me, in this case it did not. I did want to know what she thought about me.
She went on to tell me that she thought I was most deserving of her granddaughter. That she thought I was a genuinely kind person. I was a pleasure to talk to. I listened. I was respectful. I was “a joy.” She hoped we would get to have many more conversations like this first one we had just shared.
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel the same way about you, and I’m glad to be part of your family.”
I should have made more time for conversations with Sylvia. Instead, I only managed a couple more when we took Jackson up to visit as a baby. Patti was much better at keeping in touch than I was. But I never forgot my time with Sylvia. And I don’t think I ever will.
The Mass card made a request of all of those attending the funeral. And Sylvia’s children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren respected her wishes. Obviously, we all mourned the loss, but more importantly, we all celebrated her life. The Aunts and Uncles and cousins and great grandchildren gathered and sang and shared meals and told stories and joked and laughed – sometimes to the point of tears. The beer flowed. I saw several of her grandchildren hoist a few Stroh’s skyward – Sylvia’s favorite beer – with a cheerful “To grandma.”
The time together passed too quickly. And the goodbyes were long, filled with promises of seeing each other again soon. And I know they were not empty promises. I know Sylvia will have a hand in making sure those promises are fulfilled.
Sylvia touched so many lives. So many lives that have now touched mine. And as we sat in the car at the cemetary, Jackson asked me why he didn’t get to see his great grandmother more than once. “We could have come to Ohio a couple of more times…instead of Disney World all those times,” he said. And you know what? He’s a smart 8-year-old. No, I take that back. He is wise.
One of the Mass cards now sits on my bedside table, completely contrary to Sylvia’s request. I have not stopped thinking about her since the weekend. But I will, I suppose. Eventually. I will tuck the card into the drawer at some point. Maybe next week. And I will think of her sometimes. Just as she requested. And instead, I will spend my time and thoughts focused on the living, the lives she has touched, those who represent where my life intersects with hers. For that is where I know I will always find her.
Pointless Thoughts from Jim 