It’s been a busy week. Aside from the usual Christmas hype and activities, we got a call early on Monday morning that the last grandparent remaining to either of us had passed away.
At 93, it’s hard to say it was unexpected, but given that she’d been up and mobile in her wheelchair, interacting with lots of people earlier that day it was a bit of a surprise. She was fine when the nursing home checked on her at 11, and she was gone when they made rounds at midnight.
I only knew Lena Belle Henson for about 10 years. During that time, though, she became something of a surrogate for my own grandmothers. Even when her dementia was progressing and she had no short term memory, she always seemed glad to see me when I walked in the door.
Her funeral was on December 23, which makes it a little hard to stay in the holiday spirit. It hit me when I was bundling the packages up to go to that side of the family on Christmas day. The candy we’d bought for her was under the tree waiting to go to her. This was also the first time that I hadn't bought my own Grandma her favorite candy for Christmas.
Funny how the most insignificant things can choke you up.
It was my first North Carolina funeral as well. I’d been to a few others, mostly professional obligations where an appearance was all that was required. Attendance at this one started for me with lunch (she called it "dinner") at Belle’s house.
Amazingly enough, the living room was open. I’d only been in there once before in all the time I’d known her, and that was to bring something out. Several of her great-grandkids commented that they’d never been in there, either, so I didn’t feel excluded at all.
At first appearance, it was much like any other living room of a little old lady. She didn’t “live” there, it was reserved for formal occasions. The one most people thought of next prior was her husband, Lemuel’s funeral in the early 1980’s.
There’s a lot of wear left in that carpet.
The room was full of her treasures, though. Aside from the myriad of family pictures, there were dozens of knick-nacks, salt and pepper shakers, and assorted stuff that we tend to collect.
At first, it didn’t look to have any significant value, but then, as different people were cycling through the living room eating the "dinner" that the church ladies provided, someone would pick up something and relate the story about it – an ash tray from a child’s first visit to Washington, DC, brought back to grandma. A music box that was Belle’s own mothers, that a child listened to when lying down for a nap.
Some of the things were truly hideous, the obvious choice of small children with limited resources looking for just the “right” thing for mom or grandma. They were received as treasures fit for a queen, though, and proudly displayed as such.
If you looked at the collection, though, it was obvious that Belle was loved. The choices had a story, and I’m sure that she could have told us about each one of them. Unfortunately, many of those stories are lost, or they will be after this generation.
Lena Belle has now gone to a place where none of us has ever gone, and no first-hand reports exist of what’s waiting. But if being a loved mother, grandmother and surrogate grandmother is any indication, she’s in a good place.
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