Private Stock #2: Eulogy for my mother
Mary Rebecca Ferrell Hendrick
July 27, 1920 - May 29, 2020
Above: Mama at her 90th birthday party, Jackson MS, July 27, 2010.
(THE FOLLOWING WAS ORIGINALLY COMPOSED A DECADE AGO AND UPDATED IN MAY, 2020. It was to have been read/spoken, along with projected images, at Mother's funeral service in Jackson, Mississippi, if her death and funeral had taken place during "normal" times. She died on Friday, May 29th, after having tested positive for COVID-19 but being, mercifully, asymptomatic. Her memorial service will be "virtual," held online so that family and friends, home-bound as the world continues its response to the pandemic, can participate, at least in spirit.)
I’m Becky, the middle daughter, the one that left.
It’s an interesting thing, living far away from “home,” and far away from Mama. Growing up there was that generation gap, you know, the 60s and all those changes, and, being the middle girl, I was rebellious and at odds. So until adulthood, we weren’t very close. But really, absence --- or distance --- indeed made our hearts grow fonder and, especially in the last 15 years, since Daddy’s death, Mama and I developed an unexpectedly intimate and tender relationship.
Ray & I got to sleep at her house when visiting Jackson; she and Daddy would show up at our art shows no matter where: Santa Fe, Baton Rouge, Houston, there they’d be. When they visited us in New Mexico, once or twice a year, parking and staying in their RV under the big tree across the street, Daddy and I would walk around the rural valley roads every day for an hour. And every day --- not every OTHER day: every one! --- he’d tell me how much Mama loved us girls and then how much he adored her, how she was the smartest person he’d ever known, and did I mention how much he loved her? (That love shows in the photos: that isn’t the Mama I knew, but it’s the Mary who loved the photographer, and the love shows!)
When she was 14, her mother (who’d always been sick, in Mama’s telling) died, so she and Dot (age 12) and Bob (age 2: “I was the only mother he ever knew,” she’d always say) moved “into town” --- from Etta to Oxford --- to finish growing up with her mother’s parents. (btw: her older brother Baker had already left home; he was called “Brother” and by us nieces, we knew him as “Uncle Brother”!) Anyway, when Mama would talk about her grandparents she’d describe her Granddaddy (who we girls called Granddaddy when he lived w/ us on Crane; he was my best friend before I started school) as being “sweet” and her grandmother as being “tough.” I think it’s interesting that folks who knew both my parents well use similar descriptions for them: Daddy is never mentioned without the word sweet, and Mama was/is “strong” or some other word like “tough.” They were complements, for sure.
Those who remember her from her younger days know that she was ALWAYS on the phone. I hate talking on the phone, but living long-distance, it was a necessity, and Mama and I got pretty good at it. Usually I’d call her; back before she moved into the Blake, it was nearly every day, and sometimes she was actually home! Every once in a while she’d call me, usually after finishing a book I’d sent her --- book reviews were a MAJOR phone topic, as were world events and politics, but this was when she was in her young 80s ---, once just raving over Terry Kay's To Dance with the White Dog and telling me stories about the war and her life, and Daddy’s, in the Forties.
Mama changed so much over the years, and her adaptability and evolution --- in the areas of religion, and then losing Daddy so suddenly --- were really inspiring to behold. She never stopped questioning and growing, and that’s a definition of a true liberal: being open and willing to change. Mama had that, was that, and it made her my role model.
You know those families that end every conversation with an “I love you” --- and in the South, it’s usually “Love ya!”---, sort of flip and casual, instead of "Goodbye"? Well, the Hendricks were not that family! But something really amazing happened to me back in 2001. Daddy answered the phone, which was unusual, but they were playing Bridge with either the Purvises or the Martins, I can’t remember, and he was “dummy.” I’d been a Daddy’s girl, and he and I had an easy relationship, but even so, this was a particularly personal and deep conversation about a recent family-related crisis that bothered him (he usually steered clear of any estrogen-related drama). We talked for quite a while, and then, for probably the first time and for ??? who knows why ???, I said: "I love you, Daddy," and he said he loved me, too. That was a Thursday night, and he was gone 2 days later.
So.
For the last four or five years, while she could still communicate by phone, at the end of every call I would say “I love you, Mama,” or sometimes a more casual “Love you lots!” which is how she would end her emails and letters. (Daddy, on the other hand, ended his hilarious letters with an exclamatory “Behave!”) And in person I would hug her goodbye and say, straight out: “I love you, Mama,” or sometimes, again, the more casual “Love you lots!” One of the last times I talked to her, before this final illness, I did that; it had become a habit. When I said ”I love you, Mama,” she said “I love you, too, more than you can imagine.” And I said, “Oh, Mama, I have a great imagination!” And we both laughed. End of story.
When I composed this eulogy, Mother, nearing ninety, was still hearty, but already all her years had readied me for her (my) heaven. When Daddy died in 2001, I reverted to the childish notion of heaven, imagining his being welcomed by his friends who'd left before him: Jennings and Ross, brothers Ed and Roger. They sit at a table telling stories and jokes, recalling old times and laughing, laughing until they have to wipe their eyes and then sit in silence a while. So, anticipating this a decade ago, I wrote about Mama and heaven: She will approach the gate slowly, absorbing every detail, how the stone wall is put together and what flowers are blooming in front of it, almost but not quite as glorious as her own earthly gardens. There are some flaws, she'll notice, some pearls needing a polish, and this is what she is thinking so that when Daddy greets her --- so excited, he's been waiting so long, with her sister and brothers close behind him --- the first thing she says is that someone should get busy and make things perfect!
Let me end with a few recent anecdotes because, even though as time went on and on --- well, that reminds me of a couple right there: Mama used to say --- and I’m talking 15-20-25 years ago: "One of these days I’ll wake up dead!" Another related remembrance is that during a phone conversation when she’d been at the Blake a year or so, on her own but doing just fine, she mentioned to me that “folks are just living too long.” And I said, “Mama, you have nobody to blame but yourself: you never smoked, you never drank, and I suggest you start right now.” But did she listen to me???
There's a story behind this photo, taken at JJ's Cantina in Cholla Bay outside Puerto Peñasco. In 2007, Mama went with Ray and me to see our in-progress property in Puerto Peñasco (aka Rocky Point), at the top of Sonora, Mexico. She flew to El Paso, stayed with us in rural La Union, New Mexico, and then took the day-long car ride with us through the beautiful saguaro-filled desert to our house near the Sea of Cortez. She was quiet and introspective, sad over the recent death of her dear younger sister Dot. It helps to know that in addition to being a civil rights activist and political liberal, she was also a lifelong Southern Baptist and, as I recounted above, she had never had a taste of alcohol. But touring a bayside neighborhood outside PP, we stopped to show her JJ’s, a local bar that also leads down to a boat launch and souvenir area overlooking the water. Walking in we were greeted by this stereotypical bar-fella, chain-smoking and chain-drinking. We asked if he’d pose with Mama and when he enthusiastically agreed, everyone laughed. The photo with it’s silly caption is fading on my refrigerator.
Then, more recently, there were two other times that made me laugh out loud even though, with her decline, there was less to laugh about. Despite the increasing physical and mental limitations, her “toughness” and highly critical nature stayed pretty much intact. Visiting last year (2019), my job was to ready her for a Christmas luncheon, to make sure she had on her lipstick and so forth. She was resting, asleep on her back, nicely dressed and almost ready to go, but I had to nudge her awake. I’d just decided to let my hair grow out one last time and had visited a stylist who’d sold me some expensive “product” to squeeze into my wet hair to make it “scrunch,” so that was my look as I leaned over to wake her up. “Mama, come on,” I said, “Time to get up.” (Her eyes opened and started to focus.) “Let me put on your make-up and fix your hair…” And, just to prove her personality was still doing just fine, thanks, her response was: “You might want to do something with YOUR hair first…”
There was also the matter of the dinner table organization. At the Blake, the residents sit at assigned tables so they’re with the same three people at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mama’s companions weren’t talkers --- well, one DID maintain an ongoing conversation, rather softly, but it was with herself or with an internal friend, no one we could see --- so the Sisters assigned me to ask Mama if she might like to change tables, to be seated at one with people who could converse. It was the least I could do --- actually the MOST --- so, of course, I asked: Would you like to sit with folks who talk? And she said, “Let me think about it…” and then: “No, I don’t think so.” “Why not?” I asked her, and, age 99 ½ here’s what she said: “Ehhh, they’re all Republicans!”
For decades I always resembled my father, but lately the mirror looks back at me with my mother's face. She bequeathed other important things to me: a love of reading, an intolerance of (other people's) misspelling and grammatical errors, and --- as several Hendrick-girls' spouses can confirm --- "the tone."
Oh, Mama, I love you lots! Most of all, I thank you for giving me your name. How can I ever live up to it?
(Rebecca Ferrell Hendrick; May 30, 2020)
Then, more recently, there were two other times that made me laugh out loud even though, with her decline, there was less to laugh about. Despite the increasing physical and mental limitations, her “toughness” and highly critical nature stayed pretty much intact. Visiting last year (2019), my job was to ready her for a Christmas luncheon, to make sure she had on her lipstick and so forth. She was resting, asleep on her back, nicely dressed and almost ready to go, but I had to nudge her awake. I’d just decided to let my hair grow out one last time and had visited a stylist who’d sold me some expensive “product” to squeeze into my wet hair to make it “scrunch,” so that was my look as I leaned over to wake her up. “Mama, come on,” I said, “Time to get up.” (Her eyes opened and started to focus.) “Let me put on your make-up and fix your hair…” And, just to prove her personality was still doing just fine, thanks, her response was: “You might want to do something with YOUR hair first…”
There was also the matter of the dinner table organization. At the Blake, the residents sit at assigned tables so they’re with the same three people at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mama’s companions weren’t talkers --- well, one DID maintain an ongoing conversation, rather softly, but it was with herself or with an internal friend, no one we could see --- so the Sisters assigned me to ask Mama if she might like to change tables, to be seated at one with people who could converse. It was the least I could do --- actually the MOST --- so, of course, I asked: Would you like to sit with folks who talk? And she said, “Let me think about it…” and then: “No, I don’t think so.” “Why not?” I asked her, and, age 99 ½ here’s what she said: “Ehhh, they’re all Republicans!”
For decades I always resembled my father, but lately the mirror looks back at me with my mother's face. She bequeathed other important things to me: a love of reading, an intolerance of (other people's) misspelling and grammatical errors, and --- as several Hendrick-girls' spouses can confirm --- "the tone."
Oh, Mama, I love you lots! Most of all, I thank you for giving me your name. How can I ever live up to it?
(Rebecca Ferrell Hendrick; May 30, 2020)
While in Peñasco in 2007, Mama bought us three small bougainvilleas grew to fill the large window that looks out from the dining/kitchen area of the house. We call them “Mary’s flowers.”
