Morning Glories

Rose, Lilly, and Fern were sisters. Just a couple years apart, born in the 1920's in a small Dixie town. As adults, Rose and Fern each married boys freshly back from serving Uncle Sam. But Lilly, the middle girl, never quite found the right man. She often remarked in her 20's, "Women have been called queens for a long time, but the kingdom given them isn't worth ruling." [Louisa May Alcott]

She took to collecting this kind of quote and used them like pellet ammunition against any fool stupid enough to ask her why she never got hitched. She'd tack them purposefully to the walls of her downstairs bathroom. When her friends would visit, they'd add to her collection of the folly of men quotes, soon covering the feminine daisy wallpaper. As the years went on they got more compelling. People used to go off to the bathroom, and find their way back to the dinner table a half\-hour later. "Where've you been?" "The bathroom." They'd say. And folks would just bob their heads knowing full well what had protracted their return.

"The trouble with some women is they get all excited about nothing - and then marry him." [Cher]

"Whenever you want to marry someone, go have lunch with his ex-wife." [Shelly Winters]

"Marrying a man is like buying something you've been admiring for a long time in a shop window. You may love it when you get it home, but it doesn't always go with everything else."

The honest truth though was, if you asked Lilly, she just was plain happy. Her love of the world wasn't with specific people but with books. And being a librarian, she lived out many zestful and scandalous relationships with the printed page. Lilly was the keeper of the Victory Garden during the war, and kept up the well-tended peas, carrots and potatoes until her late 60's. Vegetables were her thing, with one exception. She loved morning glories. They were evident in every hybridized color in her yard - around the lamppost, mailbox, railings, downspouts and window boxes. And all summer into the crisp fall, those morning glories of periwinkle, white, pink, purple and rose, would wind their tight tendrils around their support. The window box vines would push against the screens, waiting and anxious to blossom indoors, for any willing to take them up on their wanton desires.

She lived a rich life with her sisters and their families. Her sisters' children loved her. Not because she spoiled them. No. Not because she fed them well. And not because she gave them trinkets or baubles. No they loved her 'cause she knew how to tell stories. She collected them like stamps, and after a meal of homemade macaroni and cheese, which frankly was the only thing she made well, they'd settle in for a good reel of a tale. Lilly collected true stories, that inspired, challenged, confused or surprised her audience. Her nephews loved the Great Molasses Disaster.

Lily would tell it while serving cornbread. She'd pull out the molasses from the cupboard, and warm it in a saucepan, then slowly pour it over their individual square.

She's start in. In 1919 it happened in January on the 15th. It was an unusually warm day. On Kearney Square late in the morning it burst, a huge molasses tank, 50ft tall by 90ft in diameter. Damn thing just blew. Witnesses stated that as it collapsed there was a loud rumbling sound like a machine gun as the rivets shot out of the tank, and that the ground shook as if a train were passing by. An immense wave of molasses 12 feet high, moving about 35 mph pushed through the north end. The wave broke girders on the railway, and lifted a train clear off its track. Nearby buildings were swept off their foundations and crushed. Several blocks were flooded to a depth of 2 to 3 feet. One eyewitness recalls:

Molasses, waist deep, covered the street and swirled and bubbled about the wreckage. Here and there struggled a form - whether it was animal or a human being was impossible to tell. Only an upheaval, a thrashing about in the sticky mass, showed where any life was. . . . [Stephen Puleo]

11 died, 50 were injured. Now it may be long gone from this day, but take a big whiff of that molasses children, 'cause some still say on warm days in July, in the North End, you can still smell the remains of that molasses disaster.

Her nephews and nieces would leave her house jabbering about the probability of such natural odd disasters, and wipe each others faces clean of crumbs and the sticky residue of their worry.

When those children grew and had their own children, they too would sit around the table with now Great Aunt Lilly and listen to her stories, fantastical stories of modern events, always true, always strange, always beguiling.

Her favorite in the last couple of years was of Maybelle James. A substitute mail carrier in Goshen, Indiana. She covered routes when the standard carriers were sick. Once when the postmaster had walked Maybelle to her car, turns out he peeked in the back seat, and saw a mountain of mail. "What's that Maybelle?" "Mail." She replied frankly. "I can see that," he said, "why isn't it delivered?" "Well" she said, "I got tired." "There's more in the trunk". And sure enough, the trunk, when opened was like a rusty water spiket with letters splashing from the trunk. When the FBI got involved, they found over 22,000 pieces of mail dumped in her basement that never got delivered. "What's the big deal," said Maybelle. "I didn't open anything, and I promise I'll get to it someday. - Really." Gives new meaning to Lost in the Mail doesn't it, said Lilly.

When Lilly hit her late 60's, her sisters began to worry. Something was amiss. You'd never know if you asked her to tell one of the stories that seemed to reside within her but still, something was out of whack. One Tuesday morning, Jan from the P & C called up Rose.

"Ms. Rose," said Jan, "I don't mean to be a bother, but your sister Lilly could use your help."

"What do you mean Jan?"

"Well," said Jan not wanting to continue, "She was checking through my line with her groceries today, and tried to write me a check. But she just got confused, and tried writing them with the deposit slip. When I showed her the check instead to write out her payment, she got snippy with me. It's so unlike Lilly and I went round and round, and she just got agitated with me. Now she's just mad, and I couldn't straighten it out. She's sitting in the manager's office right now kind of mumbling to herself. I thought you'd want to know. I've got to get back to my register, Ms. Rose, can you come over and pick her up?"

"Sure, sure." Said Rose. "Right away"

When Rose opened the door to the little office next to the produce aisle, there was Lilly sitting on a green plastic molded chair. A tired old air conditioner sprang oddly to life, and a bare bulb reflected harshly over the Formica table. Lilly just sat there, wringing her hands.

"Hi love," said Rose. "You OK?"

"Sure, sure, why wouldn't I be?" Said Lilly as she sprang to life, reached down for her pocket book and asked Rose if she wanted to go to lunch.

"Ok" said Rose confused, and they walked to Clare's Diner across the street. Lilly's groceries stayed in the cart next to the manager's office for the rest of the day, melting, molding, forgotten.

Now Rose and Fern watched, and listened carefully. And things got worse from burners left on overnight, to mail not ever taken out of the mailbox, to. . . . The more Rose and Fern talked the more they worried. They're own mother had withered away from Alzheimer's, and these signs were the same. So they pulled in closer and tried not to hover.

Then about 6 months later, one morning Rose stopped in before meeting a friend for breakfast, and found Lilly at the kitchen table sobbing. She had a bowl of cereal in front of her and was trying to eat her cereal with the spoon handle. "Lilly's what's wrong?" she said sitting beside her sister. "I don't know how to use this thing," she said. "What is it for?" "It's OK," said Rose, "Here" and she turned the spoon around. But then she knew, and so did Fern deep down that things were changing, and they would have to change as well.

Fern's husband had died two years before, and she lived in a small apartment. So she just moved in with Lilly, who didn't mind or ask why. She just took her in.

And with each month for the next couple of years, the two of them worked on saying good-bye to their beloved sister Lilly.

When Lilly couldn't remember the names of her lifelong friends and family - they held hands together sitting on the back steps, giving thanks for the time they had with Lilly.

Once Lilly couldn't read anymore, the letters a jumble instead of their usual prosaic sense, Fern and Rose started collecting up the books in the house, and giving them to people they knew Lilly would want to have them.

When Lilly forgot all the stories she had held inside herself- except the story of the morning glories. They said goodbye- and found themselves asking Lilly to tell it over and over again.

"We'll its really quite simple" she'd begin. "Remember Grandma Jean." "Yes" they'd both say. "Remember how she started the morning glories each year, in those small Mason jars." "Yes" they'd say again in unison. "We'll one year they grew with such vigor that they didn't want to travel outdoors, they started winding around her faucet handle, and the pitcher that held her cooking utensils, past her toaster, and up to her cabinets, and soon the flowers came, winding and spiraling through her kitchen. Over the icebox, and onto the pie safe, and into the vents of the cabinet and back out. "Remember?" Lilly would say. " Yes, they'd say. "I loved that summer." Said Lilly. "Me too." They'd say. And then she'd be gone again, adrift, vacant.

Soon the hospice nurse came. Fern and Rose would sit and tell each other the story of the morning glories once more because Lilly couldn't do it. Then one bright fall morning. Lilly died. People came from all around to say good-bye to the storyteller of facts, and it was as if Lilly was there in the room that day. Weaving and telling tales that make people surprised and shocked, open and alive. And the sisters said goodbye.

Now it has been years since those two said good-bye to their sister Lilly. Fern still lives in the Lilly's house. And by all accounts from the outside, Lilly's mark is gone. There is no Victory Garden or morning glories winding around posts, or mailboxes. But every June, those two sisters, take plump morning glory seeds, and push them to the bottom of paper cups filled with black dirt. They carefully position them in all the south facing windows. And let them grow. Inside. Cause in each room where the sun shines bright during the day, there are morning glory vines, twisted and turned, uplifted and blooming around bedpost, or faucet, lamp or chair. And there, if you look and listen, Lilly stills blooms, still resides. In the company of her sisters, each summer, Lilly comes alive.

Kaaren Anderson, Parish Co-Minister
November 2, 2008

Words of Invitation

by Parish Co-Minister Scott Tayler

Morning glories. No men. Molasses. And mail carriers.

It's always in the details. Woven fine through the little things. That's where they lived. That's where...and how...we find them again.

I'm always skeptical of those who ask, "What did they teach you?" It's an okay way to remember those who have died, but it takes us too far away from what was really them.

My grandfather does not exist apart from his cigarette, workbench or love of apple pie.

My dear friend CJ can't be understood apart from her red hair, perfect posture and regal dress.

So this morning friends, don't think too hard. Don't spend a lot of energy looking for deeper meanings. My advice to you is to let the little things lead... let them be the precious threads that lead you back.

His cigar.

Her laugh.

His terrible jokes.

Her commitment to girdles.

The way he smelled.

The way she cried.

The tie he loved.

The song she always asked you to sing before you tucked her into bed.

Little things. The details that made them ...them.

As you come forward this morning with your leaf, it is my deep hope that you carry those with you as well.

AND ONE MORE THING TOO....

I want to read you something before you all come up. It's by a writer William Loizeaux. He lost his daughter, Anna, just before her first birthday.

This is an entry from Loizeaux's published diary:

"Labor Day. Another holiday, another anniversary. It is two months since Anna's death. This afternoon we will have hot dogs and barbecued chicken with a group of friends, and that will be good, for it is with friends who new Anna, that we feel most comfortable. People who held her and know what that means, people who have children of their own, or babies that they allow - actually want - us to hold.

"What I want most is to be reminded of her. And to say what has happened. Without these friends, it would all be so much harder - their long listening over cups of coffee, their clear eyes rimming with red, this isn't easy for anyone, but thy hear it all and look straight back at us. This too, I must never forget."

Loizeaux's words remind us that we are here today, not simply to remember our loved ones, but to remember that we are among friends.

As he says, "Without these friends, it would all be so much harder - This too, I must never forget."

So whether you come up alone this morning or holding the hand of someone dear, please come forward with the awareness that you are among friends.

Please come forward as you are ready.

Words of Blessing

from the Poet, Elizabeth Roberts

When I die, if you need to weep

Cry for your brother or sister walking the street beside you,

And when you need me, put your arms around anyone and give them what you need to give me.

I want to leave you something,

Something better than words or sounds.

Look for me in the people I've known or loved

And if you cannot give me away

At least let me live in the gentleness and goodness of your eyes and not simply in the frozen memories of your mind.

You can love me most by letting hand touch hands

By letting bodies touch bodies

And by holding tight to children who so often need more than we can possibly see.

Love doesn't die, people do

So when all that's left of me is love

[be sure to] Give me away.