The Day the Music Died

 Don’t Wait for the Funeral

Flowers for the Living

My 40x2 +3-year-old mother recently made a request that was unusual—even for her.

She wanted to know what we would I say at her funeral.

This was not because she had received bad news from the doctor or had any plans to leave us soon. She is feeling the pressure of the countdown.

Apparently, Mom was simply curious about her reviews.

Mary Jim has always enjoyed being the center of attention, and evidently she sees no reason a funeral should be any different. She wants to know what will be said.

And honestly, she has a point.

Why do we wait until someone dies to gather in a room and tell wonderful stories about them? We spend time writing down all the things we loved, admired and will miss—and then read them aloud when the guest of honor is the only person who cannot hear them.

We fill the church with flowers after they are gone, when we could have handed them a bouquet while they were still here to enjoy it.

Although, in Mom’s case, we should probably skip the funeral shrubberies.

She is a plant murderer.

Some Southern women lovingly tend gardens filled with roses, hydrangeas and heirloom tomatoes. Not my Mom. She views a plant as an unwanted responsibility with leaves. Giving her a houseplant is not giving her a gift. It is assigning her a chore she never requested and has no intention of completing.

If you want to honor Mom while she is living, take her shopping, to a concert, or to Applebee’s.

Now that is her love language.

Mom was manager of Kenwin store in downtown Picayune, a clothing store, which was less of a job and more like putting a bird in charge of the birdseed. She has always loved clothes, shopping and finding something new to wear. She didn’t just shop; she conducted extensive retail research.

She also served as the advertising director for our hometown newspaper. She loved it. It was the perfect job for a woman who loved people, knew everybody and had no objection to getting their attention.

Some people quietly enter a room.

Mom makes an entrance.

She is fun, silly and willing to get up and dance (anything from the Charleston, the Floss or the Stanky leg) in front of a crowd—with or without music, rhythm or an invitation. If she isn’t the center of attention, she usually knows how to remedy the situation.

She has never confused getting older with becoming invisible.

Mom was married to my father for 50 years before he died in 2012. Fifty years of marriage she put up with my Dad. That’s saying a lot for two people who were very different. Yet, she took good care of him as his health was compromised and he was disabled at 48.

Their main disagreements were navigation and driving issues.

Even today, she drives like a bat out of hell and semi-trucks need to move out of the way. However, to her driving credit, no one has died.

Mom and Dad raised two children and a few extras. They were always taking in family, neighbors or community folks. They parented whoever arrived on the doorstep.

Family has always mattered deeply to Mom. She loves her people fiercely, even if she never expressed that love through a spotless house, freshly ironed curtains or a homemade casserole.

Traditional homemaking was never really Mom’s spiritual gift.

Some women keep homes that look as though no one actually lives there. No plastic covers at our house! Mom’s home has always provided evidence of life—along with shopping bags, misplaced items and cats.

Especially cats.

Mom is a proud, fully committed crazy cat lady. She doesn’t simply own cats; she works for them. The cats are in management, and she is responsible for food service, housekeeping and meeting their emotional demands.

The rest of us learned our place in the family hierarchy years ago.

Still, Mom gave us something more valuable than a perfectly organized home. She gave us laughter, personality, spontaneity and stories we will repeat for years.

You always know when Mom is present. She is a joy to be around.

That is one of the great gifts a person can give a family: a presence so distinct that the room changes when they enter it.

Writing Mom’s mock eulogy made me realize that these words should not be saved for someday. Love should not be kept sealed away like the good dishes, brought out only for special occasions and funerals.

Tell people now.

Tell your parents what they gave you.

Tell your siblings why they matter.

Tell your spouse what you still appreciate after all these years.

Tell your children what makes you proud.

Tell your friends which memories you treasure.

Give people their flowers while they are still living—even if, like Mom, they would rather have a new blouse and a twinkie.

Celebrate the people you love while they can laugh at your stories, correct the parts you got wrong and remind you of several important details you accidentally left out.

Mom is still here. She is still shopping, laughing, dancing, loving her family and taking orders from cats.

She is not quiet.

She is not conventional.

But she is fun. She is vibrant. She loves her family, and she has always been completely and unmistakably herself.

There will never be another woman quite like her.

Frankly, I’m not sure the world could handle two.

So, Mom, here is part of your eulogy early. You can read it, enjoy it and tell me everything I should have written differently.

We love you. We celebrate you. And we are thankful you are still here to hear it.

Now don’t go dying on us.