Excerpt from: "Burying Bea"
It’s tradition in my family to dig the grave for the newly departed. A bizarre tradition, but tradition nonetheless. The passing of a loved one can be a difficult time for the family, and funerals are generally filled with sorrow. Years ago, my family decided to honor our dearly departed with a celebration of sorts, which is how the tradition of grave digging began. Laughter was the sole reason for this ritual.
As I climbed the sloping hill behind Blackburn Church, a wave of sadness swept over me as I imagined my grandparents’ wedding many years ago at that same sanctuary. I’d never asked Grandma Bea about that day. We’d never discussed her hopes and dreams, even though she had always been supportative of mine. Guilt mixed with sorrow as I chastised myself once again for not waking my grandmother on one of the last days of her life. I’d missed my chance to say good-bye, to tell her I loved her.
The holiday season can be overwhelming, and that Christmas had been no exception. Hurrying into my grandmother’s room at the nursing home to deliver her annual gift of See’s candy, I’d found her sleeping. Her roommate was also sleeping and I struggled with the decision of whether to wake my grandmother. I knew that if I did, she’d experience temporary confusion as to who I was. At my previous visits, she’d eventually make the connection—a smile lighting up her face as she said my name.
But I was in a hurry. Did I really want to wake her, only to have her not know who I was and risk not having the time to stay until that smile of recognition lit her face? I left quietly, not knowing that the image of my sleeping grandmother would be my last memory of her.
At the top of the hill, we Thompson women stood hunched against the cold January wind, our voices and laughter carried away with each frosty breath as we contemplated the frozen Oklahoma dirt.
I am the oldest of Mutt and Bea’s grandchildren and, in my opinion, the most like Grandma Bea. My grandmother and I loved a good story. She had dabbled in writing throughout the years, creating wonderful poetry, touching short stories, and much-anticipated family letters.
Months after her passing, I came across a short story that she’d written in 1970 as a tribute to a fir tree she could see from her hospital room, where she was recovering from gallbladder surgery. She’d penned it when I was in junior high school and the world was in turmoil. My grandmother had paid homage to the fir tree, painting a picture of a tiny seedling struggling to survive the elements to reach maturity. She imagined what stories the tree itself would tell if it could speak. The last paragraph of my grandmother’s story echoed in my mind each time I felt myself navigating a difficult time.
“If we would examine our hearts and minds, plant our feet firmly on the groundlike this ageless fir tree, and lift our eyes and hearts toward the heavens, we would know that the turmoil of our present day shall become the history of our tomorrow.”
My grandmother’s love for storytelling is how we came to be at Blackburn Church. She would be buried in the church’s small cemetery. Her funeral service, to be held the next day, a celebration of her life as those who loved her encircled her final resting place and shared their favorite Bea stories.
“I think the ground’s too frozen to dig,” my cousin Mandi said.
“God, I hope not.” I stepped into the family circle and toed the ground.
Handing me a steaming mug, my sister Lori said, “Maybe if we toast the dirt, the dig will be easier.”
We hoisted our hot toddies in salute to the cold, hard Oklahoma soil . . . and, of course, to Beatrice Thompson, mother of five, grandmother to nine.
My cousin Rita Lee, who’s named after my mother, grabbed the shovel and asked, “Who wants to dig first?”
“Wait,” Lori said. “Let’s take pictures first.” My sister took the shovel from Rita Lee and struck a pose.
We finished the photo shoot and took turns digging the hole. Lori placed the urn into the small opening and put a couple of Grandma’s favorite peppermint candies on top as she said good-bye. We each took a turn adding a handful of dirt as we said our silent farewells. The wind had picked up, and dark clouds swirled across the waning sun causing the temperature to drop from frosty to freezing.
I cast a worried glance at the sky. “Mom, did you make arrangements to hold the service inside if the weather turns bad?”
“No.” She blinked at me from behind her bifocals. “Do you think we should?”
“It might be a good idea.” Six sets of eyes looked up at the darkening sky.
“Kimila, would you speak with Pastor Dave?” Aunt Glenda asked. “You’re good at arranging things.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I trudged toward the church and found Pastor Dave in his office. After I explained my predicament, he escorted me to his secretary, Kathy.
“Kathy,” Pastor Dave said, “this is Kimila. She and her family are preparing the grave for her grandmother, and—”
“They’re doing what?” Kathy stood abruptly, sending her chair careening into the wall behind her.
“Uh, we’re digging the hole for my grandmother’s ashes.” My stomach clenched at the look of incredulity and anger on Kathy’s face.
“Who gave you permission to do such a thing?” Kathy asked, hands on hips.
“I’m . . . not sure. I believe my mother and aunt spoke with someone and made arrangements.”
“Well, they didn’t talk to me!” Kathy narrowed her eyes at me, then turned to Pastor Dave. “I’ll take care of this, sir,” she said with a tight smile.
Pastor Dave nodded, looking relieved that he hadn’t given permission to dig the hole.
“Come on,” Kathy said. “I need to talk to your family.”
Boisterous laughter reached us before we crested the first hill. When my family came into view, I knew instantly that they were in the middle of another toast.
I waved and called out, “I found someone who can help.”
A frenzy of activity muted laughter, and I assumed they were hiding the thermos of hot toddies. We were at a church, after all, and coffee laced with a little schnapps might be perceived as disrespectful.
“Mom, Aunt Glenda, this is Kathy,” I said. “She’s in charge of funeral services for the church. She’d like to know who you spoke with regarding digging Grandma’s . . . hole.”
“Let’s see . . .” My mother put a finger to her chin. “It was, uh, do you remember who you spoke with, Glenda?”
“Me?” My aunt glared at my mother. “You said you’d make all the arrangements.”
“Well, I left a message for someone . . .” A pink hue colored my mother’s cheeks.
“Is there a problem with us digging the hole for our grandmother’s ashes?” Lori asked.
“Possibly,” Kathy said, hands on hips once again. “You see, we have two William Thompsons. You might have the wrong gravesite.”
“Well, I’m guessing you don’t have two William ‘Mutt’ Thompsons,” Rita Lee said, pointing to the headstone, which declared that William Mutt Thompson had been laid to rest in 1986. Grandma Bea’s name had been etched next to his.
Kathy looked at the large gravestone and said in a sarcastic tone, “Yes, well, there’s still one problem.”
“What’s that?” Mandi asked, mimicking Kathy’s hands-on-hips stance.
“You’ve dug the hole on the wrong side of the gravestone.” Kathy crossed her arms.
All eyes glanced at the small mound of earth at the bottom of the stone, where my grandmother’s ashes now lay. I swear I could hear Grandma Bea laughing.
“In our cemetery, the deceased are buried with footstones, not headstones,” Kathy said. “Your grandparents’ gravestone was placed at the foot of your grandfather’s casket. You’ve placed Mrs. Thompson in someone else’s plot.”
“Oh,” we said in unison.