Dispatch from Texas - Granny's Funeral

I traveled earlier to Houston to help one of my aunts tweak the wake and funeral programs for my granny's funeral this weekend. I had thought I'd also collect some of granny's belongings to take back to New York with me, but I couldn't walk into her bedroom. I haven't found the strength to step inside the room where she died.

The best intentions sometimes fall short when in the midst of things; when faced with what we planned from hundreds of miles away, we clam up or alter plans.

The last time I was in Houston was for another funeral, my aunt who succumbed to cancer. I know that death is a part of life. I'd say that while reading online newspapers of tragic events near and far, or the local news. It's not until death takes a loved one from your reach that the philosophizing and emotional distance is no longer enough to shield you from the grief. The television or computer monitor is a buffer from the pain others undoubtedly feel as they're distraught on camera or video.

My two flights to Houston were fraught with wind turbulence. The aircraft felt like a crop duster or toy plane as it bobbed and weaved at various altitudes in attempt to find calm air. I clawed the armrest, sure that the airplane would spiral to the ground. It wasn't as if I wished for death, but a thought occurred to me that I wouldn't have to walk into granny's house without her sitting on the sofa, phone pressed into her lap waiting for a call. I wouldn't have had to put on a suit and polish my shoes this Friday evening before the wake at the family church. I wouldn't have had to stand in front of the congregation and reminiscence about Granny Gums without collapsing to the floor, making a spectacle of myself.

I erased images of an angry mythological Greek god or goddess standing in front of the plane gently blowing against the craft for amusement. I remember praying to God to calm the wind and allow the plane safe passage into Houston. I was en route to eulogize my Granny, and nothing would prevent that from taking place. My cousin Carl picked me up from the airport. We didn't fall apart in the airport when we saw each other, and I don't know that I thought we would. There's usually drama in our family, so we occupied our travel time poring over various relatives' hiccups and disasters.

There's a marked absence in Granny's house, one that was once filled with nine daughters, two sons, and countless other neighborhood children. Each bedroom was a protective chamber for its slumbering inhabitants. The kitchen where the girls and women in the family sat alongside the stove to get their hair pressed with a straightening comb has changed and now doesn't feel as warm or vibrant. The living room, or meeting room as it seemed to me, where everyone filtered through like a revolving door, is now void of Granny's voice.

Carl and I have been scanning pictures since Monday night. We Were The Williamses. We Were The Party Family! There are so many pictures in various photo albums of us hosting birthday parties, at banquets, at house parties, or picnics. My family was large back then, and even larger now that we're into our fifth generation. One of the biggest tragedies of Granny's death is that she was the glue that held this family together. Now that she'll no longer be physically on earth, I think everyone will scatter to the four winds. Each one of us will leave the funeral and accompanying family dinner changed -- reflective, remorseful, or regretful.

Death comes to us all, but we're never prepared even if it's preceded by a prolonged illness. Death comes to us all, and we're left to think about things left unsaid or undone. Flipping through the various photo albums, I know that granny lived a full and rewarding life. Rarely was she without a brilliant smile, head tilted to one side, with her signature poise radiating from the picture.

Ode To Granny Gums

My ninety-year-old granny took her last breath today at 2:30 p.m. Houston time, surrounded at home by family. I'm told that my cousin turned off and unplugged the oxygen tank, after checking her pulse, and finding none. She had been unconscious since last Wednesday night. The doctor and hospice nurse had written her off as not surviving through Thanksgiving. She had several stints in the hospital this year, each visit according to the attending doctor would be her last one. She repeatedly proved them wrong as a testament to her will to live.

Granny was born in Texas in 1917, and I can only read about what her life was like back then as an African American girl in the segregated south. She lived through the Great Depression, two World Wars, the Korean and Vietnam War.

A month ago I was cleaning the living room when I felt my granny's presence next to me, and saw her face in my mind's eye. It was a harbinger of bad news. I immediately called my mother and demanded to know whatever secrets my family was hiding. My mother tried to assure me that all was right as it pertained to Granny Gums (my nickname for her). Mother called again in about an hour to confirm what I felt in my bones three thousand miles away. Granny was in the hospital, and wasn't expected to live more than a few days back then.

Granny would always tell me that I'd live a long time because I'd call her just as she was talking or thinking about me. Granny had so many isms and expressions, her most famous when someone would ask her how she was doing, she would respond: "Fine and dandy, mighty handy, sweet as candy!"

I want to believe that Granny will be around in spirit for years to come to advise and/or warn of potential pitfalls, just as she came to me telepathically one month ago to tell me she was hospitalized. We were very close in life, and I don't expect that to change now that her soul has left her physical body. She can now travel wherever she desires - New York, Germany where my cousin and new wife and newborn lives, or the outer stretches of Kermit, Texas, where my other cousin lives.

I've fond memories of Granny. My fondest being of her transporting me under the cover of dawn in a wheelbarrow to her house when I was five years-old. I was wearing footed pajamas, school clothes on a hanger, and lunchbox in tow. It was probably a five minute journey, if that, but we were together in the quiet of the early morning.

Granny was my biggest supporter, along with my aunt Margaret Ann, who'd walked to every daytime assembly during my three years in junior high that I was on stage regardless of if I only said, "Good Morning and Welcome." I don't think she had a favorite grandchild or great-grandchild, but some of us were closer to her than others. It's a given fact in a family as large as ours that there would be cliques, alliances, and hurt feelings.

Granny was the go-to person for family and neighbors alike, running errands and sitting with recent widows and widowers in their living room or front porch. She was known for her energy, spirit, and beautiful smile.

I remember her being a human shield when a few of the grandchildren were about to get a spanking. We'd sit suctioned at her side, careful to not blink for fear of one of our mothers snatching us from Granny's protection.

Granny gave me a nickname, Keneritz, one day after struggling to recall my christened name because my younger brothers and I have similar-sounding names, as do three of my cousins. Some of my relatives refer to me using this nickname, and I've coined my budding production company with the same moniker.

I know I didn't imagine my granny's visit, nor are my feelings for her fleeting. She is the strongest woman I've known to date, measuring in at 4'11", and probably one hundred pounds. Her strength was emotional and spiritual. I remember she was firm in her faith and belief in God, but that didn't rule out her telling me years ago that she communicated with my deceased grandfather, despite the raised eyebrows from her children. I look forward to speaking with her in my dreams and waking life.

Family Legacy and Lore - Writing A Memoir

I am in the early stages of gathering information that will become a family memoir. As with many other people who've written, or are planning to write a memoir, I think my family is worthy of a book-length manuscript.

Where to begin and what to write? My family wouldn't populate the state of Texas, but a small fishing village. We were awarded the largest family plaque at church years ago, before our numbers increased. I've lost count, or perhaps we've opted to stop counting how many grandchildren, great-grand, and great, great-grandchildren my ninety-year-old granny has. The last count was twenty-two grandchildren, and thirty-three great-grandchildren. We are moving into our fifth generation.

Granny originally had twelve children - nine daughters and three sons. Only two of the male children survived beyond infancy. As of this writing, both of my uncles and two of my aunts have died, along with two of my cousins.

I've been reading memoirs, creative non-fiction, and how-to write memoir books, with the express intention of learning from others who've gone before our family.

We have a large family as you read above. The question remains on why should I spearhead and write our story? Writers have written biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs for centuries. What do we hope to impart to a reading public? What makes our stories of breast cancer survival, diabetes, high-blood pressure, gossip, and betrayal unique?

Growing up in my family, I thought there was no end to aunts and cousins who were in every room, on the front or back porch, or in the spacious backyard. We exemplified that the motto that it takes a village to raise child. Sometimes this was a source of conflict among my aunts when commenting upon childrearing skills, or lack thereof.

I used to think that we were a less glamorous version of a nighttime drama. The women in my family were determined to raise boys who'd become strong men, with varying degrees of success.

Granny's house was kid central for children in the neighborhood. We'd play hopscotch in the street in front of her house using chalk from sheetrock we'd find here or there, dodge ball, or hide-n-seek at night.

I remember climbing the pecan trees in the backyard for my aunt who made the sweetest pecan pies, or just cracking the shells with my teeth, careful not to choke on the chalky fragments. There was a treehouse, clubhouse for our bicycles, and camping outside when some of us joined the Cub or Boy Scouts.

We temporarily had a horse in the backyard, Jenny, who broke free and escaped down the street after a neighborhood boy pummeled her with rocks. We were told horrible stories of her ending up as glue, especially scary for our young minds when it was time to buy back-to-school supplies: Elmer's Glue.

Granny Gums has been the family matriarch for as long as I remember. I don't remember my uncle who drowned on his high school field trip, or my grandfather who had a heart attack on the front porch swing, both within two months of each other in 1973. I remember my uncle who was a cook in the Army, who'd park his white mobile home next to the front window in driveway. I remember the plastic-covered furniture in his living room in Augusta, Georgia, where he'd relocated to after his tour in the Army.

We have to sort through what we remember, and what would be interesting for others to read. I know everyone in the family won't participate, or be happy with the finished manuscript.

I have a few memoirists on my winter 2007-2008 reading list: Augusten Burroughs, Nick Flynn, Mary Karr, Jeanette Walls, and Tobias Wolff. Each one writes differently, and focuses on specific aspects of their pasts. We're not setting out to write Roots, but a compelling story that others will enjoy, share, and perhaps learn something about our lives.

October Reading List

I just bought three books the other night to read over the next three weeks: Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison, and Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison.



I'll read them in the order of the above images. I've been meaning to get away from my routine in New York City for the longest time, but I can't afford to travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia. The Day Trips on the Metro North, buses, and trains in the metro NYC and tri-state area will have to do.

What better author to read while traversing public transport than Toni Morrison?

And after I've taken my excursions, read for pleasure, I'll be ready to do my research for a new novel I've outlined that has a main character with bipolar disorder.