In a minute I will get to the dream Deborah asked me to share here, which is an honor.
First I need to revisit this day last year- in which we were in Montana, getting ready for Betty’s funeral. What to wear, what kind of flowers to send, who needs a ride, what needs to be delivered to the church, what needs to be delivered to the Garrison house, what to cook, what were others cooking so there wasn’t too much of one thing. This is how a small town prepares for a funeral. And many other events, for that matter. Most people know whose role it is to make the pies with the best crust, the green bean casserole with the crunchy topping, or the taco casserole everyone loves. And this is a good thing, because it is my firm belief that church-lady pies and casseroles are part of what holds the world together. Even if you don’t go to that church, or any church, for a short time you help make and deliver the church lady pies and casseroles, because this is what the people need. They need the tables laid out with all these hand made dishes, lovingly made by people who know each other and want to help each other. They need the church ladies’ soothing presence in the church kitchen- warming things in the ovens, removing tupper-ware lids, carrying large quantities to the tables, replenishing the coffee pots.
At the reception of Betty’s funeral, I would share a last church-lady-casserole meal with Val. And Deborah would get her some more jello because not much else was easy for her to swallow. Jello is part of church-lady meals as well. Along with potato salad, macaroni salad, lots of coffee, bundt cake, brownies and a cake that I just know has jello in it. And I knew-and-didn’t-know that this was our last meal together, around the table of the Baptist church Val’s family has attended for years. This is what’s been on my mind as I read other recent posts from Val’s beloved people about food memories and Val’s birthday cake. And one year ago this last Wednesday her lovely Mama departed before her. A year, and a blink of the eye.
Few funerals have made me weep as much as that day at Betty’s. Not as much in grief for Betty, as for Val. I loved Betty and was sad that she passed- in that way that is so hard to say goodbye to someone who has just simply been there your whole life. But I also knew she had lived a full and long life. The progression of aging and nature makes sense to most of us. The grief I was not prepared for was what hit me when I saw Val. I was looking for someone who was standing up. When her brother Brad waved me in her direction, I was not prepared for the woman in the wheelchair, with the oxygen tank, and the thin body, who was so obviously dying. I hadn’t seen her since July, when she had still been standing and walking. At that time I knew-and-didn’t-know that she was dying. It just wasn’t so damn obvious. So in July my brain was still holding out some tiny bit of denial and hope. In April the denial and hope shattered into uncountable pieces at her mother’s funeral.
Wisely, my own mother chose a bench at the very back of the church, near the door, for the funeral service. Where I sat weeping non-stop until the service was over and I could dash out the door and privately pull myself together outside. When my mom found me I simply said, “This is about Val” and she said “I know”. Because of course she’s known both of us our entire lives. Pulled back together, we went inside for the reception. Mom found Val, kissed her on the forehead and said “You are beautiful”. Then we all sat and shared our love and grief and church-lady casseroles.
A few days later I would walk from our ranch to Garrisons’ ranch- which I have walked so many times- and sit in a back bedroom, having my last conversation with Val. We chatted, we had quiet moments staring out the picture window at the apple trees and garden. We talked about our mothers, about how nothing is permanent. About poetry, and one specific line referring to death as “that time of parting for which we are never sufficiently shored”. We talked about death and goodbyes. At some point Val waved her hand toward the window. “When we were kids, running around all over out there, what do you think we would have done if we could have seen all this coming?” “Christ” I said (in a not-very-church-lady-like way) “I’m so glad we didn’t. I would have been on my knees in the hayfield with grief. I’m so glad we just got to be kids and not even have these thoughts in our heads.” “Yes” said Val simply, nodding her head. “Yes.” And we would talk more about goodbyes to family members, each other, and the strange movement of time and impermanence- how it’s never really in our grasp. A year and a blink of the eye.
I didn’t cry as much that day- which seems odd considering the intensity and topics of our conversation. But somehow it was easier to have that conversation directly with her than to have to stand amongst a lot of other people and try to put on a good face. In the following few weeks leading up to Val’s death I would take to allowing deep grief wash over me when I showered in the morning. Sometimes hanging onto the wall with deep sobs and grief-sounds coming from the back of my throat that I didn’t want anyone else to hear. And if I stepped out of the shower with a wet face and red eyes, no-one noticed because showers do that. I wanted to protect the other members of my household from that intensity, which is a funny way that we protect our loved ones. And that I know Val had versions of doing that too- of not wanting to worry or hurt others with her own illness and death. She held onto life long enough to protect her mother from the grief of losing a daughter.
And in a few short weeks it will be one year-to-the-day Val died. And I don’t know yet what I will do that day. I don’t know what any of the rest of you will do. But I know that all of her loved ones will feel it. And it will feel like a year and a blink of the eye.
Which brings me to the dream that I had recently. To be exact, a year-to-the-day before Betty died. Speaking of many shiny crows:
I’m walking on the ranch on a nice sunny day, having just passed through the old wooden gate from the barnyard into my grandparents yard. Off in the distance toward the mountain foothills I can see some crows flying, which of course instantly and always brings Val to mind. The crows begin to fly closer to each other and grow in numbers. Then they grow so thick it’s like an enormous blanket of crows woven together, and I can hear the wind moving through their wings as they come nearer to me. Many shiny crows. They form a swooping rectangle, curve down from the sky and pick me up! I am terrified of heights, and even in my dream I keep waiting for that fear to hit me as they carry me higher. But it never does. Somehow as they lift me by the clothing around my arms and shoulders, I feel completely safe as they carry me over trees and hills, seeing this gorgeous view of everything. Over our ranch, over the Garrison ranch, up the side of Ksanka mountain and back down. Eventually they start to disperse in small groups, until just a few are left and they lower me gently onto a sidewalk. And two stay with me, tucking themselves, one under each arm, and we stroll down the street as happy and content as beings can be. So- dear Val and dear Betty, if that was you- thank you. It is a gift I will always cherish.
many shiny crows 