I live on a really great street, one with block parties and contact lists and traditions, one of which I just learned is that when someone on the street dies, the neighbors send a flower arrangement with a banner that reads, “Royal Heights Neighbors.”
That tradition says something about my neighborhood, doesn’t it? It says that we know each other well enough to care that someone died, to send flowers, and to note ourselves on the banner. It also says that people live on this street a really, really long time.
Mr. Edgar Wilson was 95 when he died on Sunday morning, in his bed, in his sleep, in his home. He was a decorated World War II veteran, receiving both silver and bronze stars for his service as a forward observer infantryman. His family opted not to have a military burial, something I found disappointing on many levels, but it was touching and mind-boggling to hear about all this gentle man did and never mentioned. Like creating an endowment for PhD candidates studying war. Or getting his fellow veterans to tell their stories to the University of Tennessee’s Center for the Study of War and Society. Or naming the auditorium he funded at Milligan College after his wife, who’d passed away years prior.
This man who could have written books about his life was my neighbor, but my conversations with him were limited to the weather and how he was feeling. Important topics, certainly, but I never asked him deeper questions because I feared he wouldn’t want to talk about it.
So instead we all exclaimed about what a long and interesting life he lived while standing at his grave. And I recalled that he sent us a thank you note the day after our wedding. He sent us a thank you note.
I accompanied our street’s maven to Mr. Wilson’s funeral. She is 84 herself and has lived in her house since she and her husband bought it (new) in 1948. She organizes the twice-yearly block parties and we all know to duck if she’s headed our way. But without her, I wouldn’t know the people on this street, people like Mr. Wilson. Every time I see her, I want to hug her.
My husband says I’m just like her, that I’ll be the 84 year old woman harassing people into hosting parties. I hope so.
On our drive home from the cemetery I asked her a thousand questions and I learned a thousand interesting things. She and her husband were married in 1947 in the hangar of the airport owned by her father. The first day she met her future husband, in fact, she asked him if he’d like to go for a ride. She took him out on her plane! They strung garland between the two planes (his and hers) for their wedding, had chairs brought over by their friend the funeral director, operated the airport until a few years after her father passed away. We have plans for me to go over and pore through her wedding album, and I can’t wait.
Penelope talks about how to ask the right questions in your career – and she’s right – but I’m finding that asking questions in all parts of my life is just as important. And much more interesting.
6 comments:
As a journalist, the reason I like to write more of the "fluff" and feature pieces is because I have a passion for uncovering those hidden treasures that make a person's life unique.
Unfortunately, I forget to ask the right questions regarding my own family. I think it's incredibly important that each person's story gets told, because as boring as you think you may be, there's a gem of a story waiting to be told.
Since I'm entering a life dictated by the military, it's a little hard to hear he didn't have a military burial, but in my mind he'll still be respected and honored as a hero and a soldier.
Thanks for this post. It really hit home with me.
I'm glad it hit home.
I'm actually incredibly angry and sad and frustrated and pissed and disappointed that he didn't have a military burial. How can you opt "no" for a military burial for ANYONE who served, much less someone in WORLD WAR II? Hello???? If it was a financial choice -- and I don't think it was -- I'd have freaking paid for it. ARGH. Anyway, in my head and heart I'm sending him off with full military honors. Don't know if that matters, but it's something.
I visited my grandparents last week, and the thought of asking to see old photos passed through my mind but I never got around to it. Now I wish I had....
Your post reminds me of a quote that I read recently and really love. To paraphrase: "We best honor the dead not with mourning but with gratitude." Just lovely.
i don't remember who said it first, but "retrospectacles give you 20/20 vision." in my fairly short life thus far, i have lost far too many people too early. after each loss, the hardest part of my grieving process was always my unanswered questions. i implore you, ask. whatever silly, pointless or intrusive question you want to ask, ask it. if you cross into uncomfortable territory, i doubt you'll offend anyone. you may even spark warm memories, thought forgotten.
oh, and hug your neighbor. even if she's weird about contact (like me) she will enjoy it. i hug my neighbor's dogs and bring them homemade dog cookies in lieu of actually touching the humans.
One of my biggest weaknesses in life (and this is both personal and professional) is my reluctance to ask questions. I've always been kind of socially awkward, and to top it off, my biggest fear is rejection (eh, who's isn't?). So I NEVER ask questions. I either get brain-tied and can't think of what I want to say, or I feel like maybe I'm prying and, well, if they wanted me to know, they'd tell me, right? Socially I come off as disinterested and stand-offish. Professionally, I lose precious time and possible opportunities. This was really a post I needed to read, and a lesson I need to learn.
I can understand the frustration with him not having a military funeral, but maybe it was his choice? Maybe he or his family didn't want his last resting place and ceremony to be military in nature and instead focus on the other aspects of his life that were more profound to him or them? Either way, it's incredibly sad that he passed away, he seemed like a really nice man when I had the chance to meet him.
I've been thinking about the reasons why we don't ask these questions when we seem to have the chance. Perhaps it's an intrinsic respect for boundaries and/or privacy that may be unfounded and unnecessary? Who knows what another person, especially one we barely know, will find difficult or too personal to speak about. By respecting these self-made boundaries, though, it seems like we miss the opportunity to really get to know some really great people. I don't know.
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