Wildflower Bouquets

The day before the funeral, My aunt leaned over to tuck my hair behind my ear.  'Your hair is so pretty. I had forgotten how pretty you are. And this dress. Well...just lookitchoo.' It makes my jaw set, irritated, like I'm a small child being forced into a dress I don't want to wear, for best. At the same time, I can feel a simper come on.  I don't quite know why the reaction is so strong, so confused but it is fierce. It comes off the back of my 2nd cousin looking floored when I said I'd put on the new toilet seat. They always seem surprised when I turn out not to be hapless or when they learn I love to fish. 

But it also takes me right back to those toddler pageant days, to being called 'Rach.'  Aquanet. Mascara. An emerald green bikini. It is a compliment but I have never really been comfortable being assessed for my looks. 

'Don't look so surprised, J,' I say, laughing about the toilet seat. 'I'm blonde, not helpless.'

She almost laughs but I make her uncomfortable, with my ways, my half-Yankeeness. My eccentricity my similarities to Betty Lou.  'Well, I don't judge anyone about being blonde. I know plenty of brunettes who are helpless.' We laugh. Later I buy a new toilet seat and install it in my bathroom. My bathroom. I now own land. It's a strange feeling. I had thought I would just sell the land but this morning at 0430, listening to the rain, I just don't know.  I go back to bed for a bit, waking at 0730 to pick wildflowers and go for a hike.

My aunt goes back to cooing over my grandmother's body. 'She was just a simple backwoods woman,' she says leaning over my grandmother's casket.  I sigh. She was a hermit. I could see myself following her path except I enjoy people, usually. Just, you know...not en masse. 

Open casket for a few minutes. The rain has made a graveside service well nigh on impossible. 

We sing Amazing Grace, my cousin R plays the piano. He has lost another grown child, a niece, his dad, all in the space of year.  Lunch at Crazy K's 'Dive on 45,' where the food is delicious and inexpensive. Blue plate specials. Family. Laughter. People lean over to hug me, tell me how much I am loved. I catch up with my cousin T, we swap singleton war stories, and I realise as much as it chafes at times, they really do accept me with my eccentricities. 'I could spend more time here,' I think. I could linger, teach my kids about life at a slower pace.

Throughput the day, I learn she was a poet, a song writer, that she could play the organ and piano in unison.  I learn that - like me - she had a deep love for wild horses, that when she was younger, her daddy bought her a dappled grey that was a true wild thing. She'd ride him bareback, laughter ringing out. 

 The next morning, I wake up safe in the knowledge we did right by sweet Betty Louise, and that is all we can do: love and try our hardest to do right by ourselves and each other. I walk out onto my land, breathing in the smell of cypress, honeysuckle, fireants, rain. I concentrate on the feel of the humidity against my skin, the sound of coyete swabbling, a rooster marking time.  It's my land, for this brief time and I desire muchly to be in sync with this place. 

 Tomorrow afternoon, I'll drive back to Atlanta. I've begun to make a hamper for my friend M, who I will stay with on Friday night, so we can soak up each other's company.  

For now, I am just happy to be on this place, in this moment, filled with a rich contentment I do not need to explain. 

Betty Louise Howse Young Edmond, 13 Aug 1931-8 September 2021. My beautiful, cantankerous wildflower of a grandmother...I love you fiercely, wherever you are.