By definition, a eulogy is a commendatory oration or writing honoring the life of the deceased. As I prepared to stand and honor my beautiful mother at her funeral last November, I couldn’t help but think of her eulogy as a mini-biography, a snapshot of a story pulled from an unpublished and bound version of a life uniquely lived. I’ve had much time to reflect on Momma’s life with my father and sister over these grief-filled months: shared memories, laughs, and snippets of wisdom as we guided her through the final stages of her illness. I can’t count the times that I or others defined my mother as a “character.” That’s what she was, and she played so many parts.
So, if I were to browse the shelves of memory and recollection to stumble across my Momma’s title, what would catch my eye?
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I know that Myra Browne Lewis’s biography would catch my eye from the beginning. I imagine the title would jump out at me in bold block print like a red laser rivaling the shade of her perfectly-applied trademark lipstick. It would be displayed in the most ornamental way possible – a high fashion jacket beckoning like a coveted on-trend look that Momma used to put together so effortlessly. It would be so colorfully decorated that it would invite me to pick it up, hug it close, and feel its message, thumbing the corner pages of the book gingerly. I would have to read it, and I would predict that it would be a fast and predictable dramatic read. I would be wrong.
Although her book would be too short in narrative, I would quickly find that it would neither be predictable nor simple at all. The bold cover that pulled me in would prove to be a descriptor less about a life of drama and more about a life of introverted complexity. Momma loved with her mind, not necessarily her hands. The gregarious outer cover was not insincere; it just was not her true comfort zone. Momma liked to keep her loved ones close and safe inside her protective circle. She shined in her care giving role when Kim and I were young, and she had a knack for nursing. How special it was for us to give that gift back to her in her final days.
I imagine the font chosen to reveal Momma’s story would vary from chapter to chapter, oscillating between Comic Sans when describing her quick mischievous wit to possibly Wing Dings when describing her more anxious moments. Her hospitable southern charm and knack for decorating captured perfectly via a gallant Calligraphy type set. Antiquing? Bookman Old Style. Not so simple or straightforward, a new layer peeled with every page turned. There would be varsity font, cheerful and block-lettered, for her beloved days in Alabama, summoning a crisp and fragrant scene of houndstooth, magnolia trees and worn penny loafers. Pages would be turned rapidly when reading about her years as a Kappa Kappa Gamma and getting pinned to her handsome Delta Tau Delta beau at the University. Who would be able to put the book down and go to bed without dreaming of pomp and circumstance? ROLL TIDE ROLL!
Her story would be historically informative, containing well researched chapters derived from years of researching genealogy with her brother, containing special footnotes about love of family tradition and heirlooms. Then it would take solemn detours when reliving losses such as her beloved father’s unexpected death and the profound sadness she suffered losing her mother after spending time recovering from her own unexpected illness.
I would be taken on a geographical adventure throughout the United States, seeing life through the eyes of a dutiful military wife, telling tales of one- of- a-kind friendships. I could envision young adults in Mess Dress bonding over overpriced Pina Coladas in Officer’s Clubs near and far. I would try to put myself in the shoes of a young new mother living at home with her parents as her high school sweetheart flew missions over Vietnam with infrequent communication – something we cannot fathom today in this world of smart phones and social media.
I would feel maternal love when others described her interactions with her babies. Her girls; her EO and Gonk, her life’s greatest accomplishments. I would empathize with a woman who suffered loss of quality of life due to Parkinson’s Disease. I would repeatedly ask why? I would and will continue to weep at the cruelness of the disease.
Perhaps when I put the book down I would wish I had skipped the sad parts. Or, I may decide to reread the story again and again like a cherished novel. Maybe I’d realize that some of the chapters that were the hardest to get through may become my most cherished memories and trusted resources. The chapters on my relationship with my mother will be a continual work in progress, with edits and messy red ink marks included.
Each of us chooses how in depth we read a story and how present and engaged we are when we pick it up in the first place. I guess I really don’t have to “read” Momma’s; I helped her live it. I was a part of it. In losing her, though, I now want to revisit her as an individual with fresh eyes and devour every page.
If Momma’s life were bound in the volumes of a book, she’d be more than just a pretty cover. I could pick her up whenever I needed her, and you can be damn sure she’d let me rest my bottle of Coca Cola on her with a smile.
Just Say Momma 