The Ides of March: In Memory of Betty Clair

The following piece was written by my Grandmother, Elizabeth Clair. Everyone called her "Betty." She always wanted to be a published writer. If she was alive today, I am sure she would be a blogger, for she loved to give her opinions to anyone who wanted to listen, and to some who didn't. Today, by the way, is the 20th anniversary of her death. She wrote this about her own parents and, to my knowledge, it has not been published previously, except in copies distributed to her four children and twenty-four grandchildren. I am fortunate to count myself among the twenty-four. So here's to you Gramma. We miss you.

IN MEMORIAM by Elizabeth Clair

It was five days before Decoration Day, and time to get the hoe, rake and trowel, and give the resting place of my Mother and Father its, shall we say, Spring Cleaning. Wonderful, these Americans; they have a day for everything, and if it's a Designated Day for something, that makes it important.

While getting the car out, and because I'm always wondering about something, I idly wondered what percentage of people were doing their "spring cleaning" at the cemetery because there would be Company on Decoration Day, and they didn't want to be talked about (the same as a woman will feverishly clean her house from top to bottom when she has club) and how may people did it because there was an ache in their heart, and that was one way of relieving it.

I was hoping the forget-me-nots I had planted on their graves had successfully survived the winter, and stopped on the way, to buy some flowers now in bloom. I selected the finest geraniums I could find; this was my mother's favorite flower. She always had pots of them on her kitchen window, and when she'd go to church on Sunday, she'd pinch off a few leaves, put the stems in the folds of her best hankie, and hold them in her hand like a young girl with her first corsage. She brought this custom with her from Roumania, and she observed it until she died. Even at 75, her hankie and geranium leaves in her hand, she seemed to have stars in her eyes.

While selecting other appropriate flowers, I wondered what kind of flowers my father liked. I never did know...Strange thing about men; they must keep a lot of things bottled up inside--or perhaps men didn't care for flowers. Maybe God didn't make flowers until he first created woman.

I was surprised to find myself alone in the cemetery, with only the caretakers fixing a few graves. I came to the spot which was sacred to me, and sat down on the rustic seat we have placed there, under the poplar tree which stands there like a sentinel on guard. A satisfying sense of peace permeated my whole being; I didn't feel as though they were under the sod, but rather as if they were sitting with me on the bench--I even moved over to make room--and we were all discussing which flowers to place where. I knew mother would want father to be taken care of first, and for him to have the nicest plants; that was her way, so I started there, weeding , hoeing, letting the nice moist earth run through my fingers.

It's funny the things you can think of, when you have complete solitude, with only the birds watching you, and you didn't mind them, because you felt they understood. The thoughts of my father's struggle for existence in a strange country, with eight children, were not pleasant. We settled in the city, but as there seemed to be less discrimination against foreigners in the country, we moved to the Farm. We earned our living through truck gardening, and we all worked, from the youngest to the oldest. When the corn was four feet high, you couldn't see me in the cornfield; all you saw was my hoe going on ahead, as though it was operated by remote control.

Farmers were not organized then; prices were low, taxes were high. My parents brought with them their village ideals of helping those less fortunate than themselves, and of course, were exploited. Things were tough. I remember one time Dad went in with a wagon-load of produce, the money from which was to buy shoes for the family. I remember he brought the shoes home in a Salvation Army bag, and offered them to my mother with a look of utter defeat on his face. It seems he couldn't get even a quarter a basket for the tomatoes, which the whole family had stayed up until 2:00 A.M. to wipe and place neatly into baskets, so he gave them away to people with too large families and too small incomes. Like a sprig of pine and holly tucked into a very special Christmas gift, so each basket of lovely red tomatoes had tucked in it his own special goodwill towards mankind.

My mother looked at the shoes which he said were mine, and by her face I knew they were at least two sizes too large, the heels too high and the toes too pointy for growing feet. I was eleven. She said to me "These are yours, Veta-- aren't they pretty?" I put them on, and hating them said Yes, they were pretty. I took those shoes to my heart; they were mine; they were the best my father could do, and I accepted them. I was as sensitive about them as Cyrano de Bergerac about his nose, and like him, all anyone had to do was to look at them twice, and it was a call to battle. I remember my first day with them at school . . . no one looked at them twice. Even children know not to needle anyone with an air of defiance, whose head is held so straight it almost bends backwards.

I planted a border of marigolds, - and felt a warm tear trickling down my arm. . .

My only protest against those shoes, and all they represented, was to tell my father, with all the rebellion of age 11, that he was being exploited by people he thought were friends. "Don't you see"--I stormed--"that the only time so and so comes to inquire about your welfare, is during peach canning season? You not only let them have the peaches free, but pick them and give them your own baskets!" "Yes, I know"--he said, "but you are too young to understand. I fully realize all you say; but I also realize, due to my years, the things you don't. People like that are hard-hearted and selfish, and don't know what happiness is. If I can add a little to what they think is happiness, by giving them something for nothing, why shouldn't I. I shall by happier knowing those peaches are eaten by someone, rather than rotting on the ground. A good deed is not wasted; it may take years to produce fruit, but eventually it will."

It was the craziest kind of business philosophy I ever heard of, but he observed it until he died, giving of what he had, and of himself. When he died, I noticed able-bodied men cried unashamed. Were they some recipients of our free peaches and tomatoes? I don't know. Now that I am over 40, I am wondering if perhaps his philosophy, much of which he acquired while tending his sheep in Roumania - is not the right philosophy, even here in America. My father lost his farm, but his wealth was in his friends, who still speak of him with moist eyes.

I stopped at a prosperous-looking farmhouse one cold autumn day, to purchase some tomatoes for juice. A heavy frost had been predicted on the radio, and I was suprised to see this field red with tomatoes, which would all go to waste. I helped pick them, and filled my basket to the handle. I looked that the basket Mr. Prosperous-Farmer brought to my car; it was about two-thirds full. "Why didn't you fill it?" I asked. "You have enough in yours to make them both level", he said, with a glint of steel in his eye.

I looked at the large, freshly painted buildings, the beautiful lawns, everything in order, and with a smug air of prosperity, and thought, "in the wisdom of my eleven years, this is what I wanted for my father. His wisdom was given to him by God."

I never enjoyed that tomato juice; it tasted bitter and strong. "After all" - I thought, "perhaps one shouldn't blame some people for having their parents' graves tended by caretakers."

As I lovingly ran my hand over the fresh earth for the final pat, I thought "You, of whose seed I am, also taught me, through your death, not to be afraid of death." I remembered, when I was called to his bedside, I was washing clothes. I yanked the plug out of the washer, and bluejeans and all, left immediately, praying fervently, with tears streaming down my face, that I would get there in time. I did. He died in my arms with such dignity and beauty that I lost then and there all my apprehensions about death. It was like a beautiful symphony, and my sister's loud sobbing was like a discordant note. "Strange," I thought, "Death is just as beautiful as birth" - and because I didn't know what else to do, I laid his head down gently, and washed his feet, with a prayer to our Blessed Mother that she would see he was properly taken care of.

I got over to my mother's side, and decided to make the flower pattern for her, a continuation of his - to make a harmonious whole. That's the way they were in life, and that's the way their "garden" would be.

It seemed I handled the soil on her side a little more gently; if possible, a little more reverently. That's the way she was, gentle and reverent. It came to me as a shock, about two weeks after she died, that I had never in all my life with her, heard her speak ill of anyone.

With all the worries and cares she had, things always ran smoothly at home. We always had plenty of good wholesome food, and clean clothes, properly mended. She was up at four in the morning to help with the milking, and when the boys got to the dating age, she was up until whatever time they arrived home.

Of all her children, I was the one who troubled her most, because I was always asking questions she could not answer. The education required in a simple old-country village is not such as is required in America, and I guess I made her feel inadequate.

We left her working when we went to bed, found her working when we got up. She didn't have time to love us properly - which according to present-day psychologists is probably why I have the emotional make-up I have - but in my sleep I remember her covering me gently.

I suppose it really is true that children desperately need loving... I remember once she let me sleep with her; it must have been when she needed comfort, herself, for some problem, because she held me so close it seems I could feel her heart throbbing in her stomach. Wide-eyed, I wanted to ask her if she had swallowed her heart, but was afraid if I said anything, she wouldn't hold me so tight, and I didn't want her to let me go - ever.

Who was it said "God couldn't be everywhere, so he made Mothers." Mine was one of his finest, I know.

It's strange how fast tears cool by the time they reach your fingertips...

I finished their summer garden, and felt they were pleased with it. Their contribution for it was the gentle rain that came down when I was through working; it felt like a benediction.

The chimes from the cemetery played "Nearer my God to Thee"... I knelt down, and said an "Our Father" and a "Hail Mary", and felt this was all right, even if this was a Protestant cemetary. God was above such things.

Then I picked up my tools, and left - with regret. It was so peaceful there, so quiet; just the right place to get the proper perspective on life.