Belle

Diary of some sort, I guess. Beware, it's a long one. Sorry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I'm back, again, returning from Texas to my too-empty house and
hysterical Beagle who hasn't seen me in eleven days. I've unpacked both
my carry-on and bright red luggage - the one with multicolored Shiva
stickers all over it so I can recognize it among all the other bright
red luggage - and I'm tempted to have a beer but have thought better of
it. Tomorrow is Sunday and I'm going in to my office to alleviate the
certain hell of Monday. My job is such that being absent is firmly
punished, even when I have a good reason.

And a good reason it was, since my aunt died on New Year's Eve. My
sister called at 4:30 in the morning, on her way to the hospital, and
said it didn't look good. I got up, booked a ticket, and was leaving
for work to put things in order when she called again with the bad
news. The utter unfairness of it all has kept me reeling. I can fly
halfway across this huge country in two hours but I still missed my
aunt's death. I'm looking for some sliver of grace to relieve the guilt
I feel for not being there, while knowing I didn't want to be. I have
pictures of my aunt - fat and jolly and dressed in lime green - and
they don't jibe with my sister's descriptions of my aunt with a tube
down her throat, her hands strapped to the bed and nurses clucking
their tongues. They tied her down because even half-dead, she kept
fighting, trying to pull the sundry tubes out. That is the most
miserable thing of all, I think, because I can't reconcile my aunt's
ability to do such a thing with her actually dying. Though, if you knew
my aunt, I guess it makes sense. She shot my father in the foot and
once dragged a woman by the hair through her kitchen, over a chair, and
onto the front porch. My aunt wasn't a menace but very, very
hot-tempered. She was the quintessential red head.

I flew down and my sister and Chris - the ex - picked me up. Chris
flew down before me so I could take care of things around the house. I
admire him for this. He easily could've excused himself due to our
separation, but my aunt was his friend and, besides, he's never been
one for excuses. We drove to the house in my sister's little beater of
a car, and in the back of my mind, I kept thinking, "We need to go to
the hospital and visit her." I'm still thinking that, which is why I
understand the funeral home's requirement that my uncle sign a release
for my aunt's cremation. Apparently they've had grieving family members
return, demanding the process be reversed. Quite frankly, I understand
this, but only in America would you have to sign a release to
circumvent the obvious. Or maybe not. Grief is a strange thing, but
appears to be one of the few things we all have in common.

I arrived in Texas knowing I would deliver the eulogy, so I'd spent
the night before writing it. I gave it a tune-up once I reached my
aunt's house, but that first writing?how can I describe it? I knew the
chapel would be full - and it was - and I also knew a lot of people
would be speaking. My aunt worked for a law firm the past twenty-two
years, and God knows lawyers love to speak. So here's what I came up
with:

I think the hardest thing about putting together mere words to describe
Belle Griffith is that I'm having trouble believing I have to do it at
all. A friend of mine once described Belle as a "force of nature," and
I - as do all of you who knew Belle - know exactly what my friend
meant. I have watched Belle threaten a bunch of drunks with a tire
iron, make entire movie theaters erupt in laughter at the most
inappropriate times, and stop a ferry on the Mississippi River until
those of us with less energy caught up. I've gone with Belle in search
of the best chocolate cake in Houston, the best crab cakes in New
Orleans, and the best cream puffs in San Diego (which, much to Belle's
complete disgust, we never found). I've seen Belle throw a frozen pot
roast across two rooms, save cats from the pound, and - when I was a
kid - chase bogeymen from under my bed and out of my closet.

For thirty-five years Belle has been a force in my life. She still is.
That's probably what makes writing about her so difficult, because even
if tried, I couldn't tell you all of the stories I have about Belle. I
know many of you feel the same. She was - and always will be - a
driving force in our lives. And for such a "force of nature," she asked
for very little in return. At my cousin's wedding in November, Belle's
son and husband were toasted as being "pure at heart." I agreed, but I
need to add that Belle also belongs in that category. She was a woman
who didn't forget she shared the world with everybody else. Belle
plowed through life making herself happy, and in her wake we all
benefited. I hope she knew this was a greater gift than anything
involving money or wrapped in a package. In fact, I'm sure she did
know, because she told me so on one of those drunken summer nights on
her back porch, with nothing between her guests and the mosquitoes but
our screams of laughter and a cheap citronella candle. She said, "I
just feel that if you can make things right, you should, because
otherwise what are we doing here?" A good, solid philosophy, I think,
for one of the least selfish people I've ever had the privilege of
knowing.

Belle was born a bon vivant. She liked the good life, as well as the
funny and the absurd. She took it all in stride. I found a plaque in
her office - one of you probably gave it to her - that says, "Take time
to stop and EAT the flowers." How appropriate for someone like Belle,
who not only loved a good culinary adventure but also did take the time
to stop and take in what this life has to offer. Considering her
childhood and illnesses and the multitude of hurdles that we all face,
she could have become bitter or alone or sad. Instead she became Belle,
and I'm pretty sure that if we could figure out how she did it, we'd
all be millionaires. Belle created her surroundings as she saw fit, and
she had a knack for looking around her and saying, "What can we do with
this mess?" This is a trait she shared with her sister, Barbara. Both
Belle and Barbara have plucked me from the depths so many times that I
do, in fact, owe them my life. I would not be here speaking today if it
weren't for their efforts, even if they didn't always realize how much
they were working together.

This knack of Belle's, her ability to solve problems and dilemmas, is
probably why she loved her job. Those of you from Fulbright &;amp;
Jaworski should know just how much Belle appreciated the chance to make
things happen, to grow and learn, and to be a part of your team. When I
was a teenager and would spend the summer with Belle, Tim, and Kris, I
would pick Belle up from work downtown. Often she'd be worn out and
tired like we all are after a day's work, but she also seemed satisfied
and happy about what she was doing, and she spoke of you highly.
Considering how much time Belle spent with your firm, I thought you
should know that.

In my life I have been blessed with a lot of friends. I have my friend
Nola, who couldn't be here today, and obviously my friend Chris, who
found a family in Belle. There are my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Ronnie and
sister, Tiffany, who seem to manage the whole unconditional love thing
unconditionally. And, across the airwaves, or at airport terminals in
the dead of night, or in cheesy birthday cards, there was Belle. I'll
miss that. I will miss that for the rest of my life.

Belle told me once that she planned on living forever. She was very
smug about it. She wanted to see what happened in this world, how
things turned out, if she was right in the end. This is where we come
in, because even if we are not all bon vivants, we do go on. I hope
everyone here picks up Belle's torch and continues on with it. I hope
everyone does it gladly.

Today, I am sad, but also I'm grateful. I would like to thank my
sister, Tiffany, who has picked up so much where Belle had to leave
off. I know you've been following Belle's example and will be the
person you want to be. I'm grateful that Belle's family is in good
health, and I'm grateful for Belle's son's recent marriage to a
remarkable woman, Lauren. Belle loved you both very much, and your
wedding gave those of us who don't live here a chance to see and be
with Belle one last time.

To Belle, wherever you are, I can say this: I really wish you were here
to help me write this. We love you, in case you were wondering. The
world was and is a better place with you in it, and I promise to keep
up that search for the best chocolate cake, and to have as many good
meals in your honor as I can.

What happened after I delivered the eulogy was one of those beautiful,
fascinating, and utterly melancholy events that any of us should be so
lucky to witness. I sat down, and speaker after speaker stood at the
podium, all of them with prepared statements, each playing off what had
already been said and more. All those memories, the minute detail of
their stories?the complete lack of confusion regarding my aunt's life,
what she'd done, why she'd done it. It wasn't a broken record, the same
sentiments expressed over and over, but rather a group of people
defining a life, or trying to. My aunt's life is hard to define, not
only because she was atypical but because her consistency defied
convention. I meant what I said - that my aunt could have become bitter
or alone or sad - but also I wish I'd mentioned the absurdity of my
aunt succumbing to frailty. I need to remember my aunt as fat, jolly,
and dressed in lime green, not only because that's what she would want
but because that was her.

I've spent the last several days going through my aunt's house with my
sister. We threw away the detritus of a life, and left what might
someday be needed. All in all, we loaded around sixty trash bags on the
curb. We donated ten boxes of food that my uncle promised he had no
need for, and we dropped off sixteen bags of clothes at a homeless
shelter. We sifted through my aunt's jewelry, and pressed flowers into
books written by my aunt's favorite author to give to her friends (the
author is Ellen Gilchrist, in case you're wondering). We found a
conservatively-guessed total of two-thousand photographs, spanning
thirty years, and put them into albums. We washed my aunt's son's baby
quilt and sealed it in a plastic bag. I gathered up the Limoges boxes
I'd given my aunt, and my sister made her peace with turning over my
aunt's emerald ring to our cousin's new wife. I mailed family
photographs back to my aunt in Colorado, along with hand-stitched
linens and jewelry belonging to my great-grandmother. My sister pulled
disgustingly dilapidated pillows belonging to our grandfather from the
closet, and we laughed and laughed as they went into a trash bag (he
was not, my recently deceased aunt would confirm, a very nice man).
Towards the end, we got to walking up to each other, a broken cup or
dirty rubber band in our hands, and saying, "Hey, Belle told me before
she died that she wanted you to have this." At one point I laughed
until I had to run to the bathroom to pee, and I thought, "Surely this
what she would have wanted. Isn't it?"

I hope so. Yesterday, my sister, my cousin and his wife, and my uncle
drove 800 miles roundtrip to spread half of my aunt's ashes in the Frio
River, located in West Texas and fairly close to San Antonio (remember
the Alamo?). My aunt loved going there, renting some crappy cabin by
the water and floating through the mild rapids on an inner tube. It's
the first - and only - place that my aunt and I ever fought. I was too
young to remember what our argument was about. I was a teenager at the
time, so it must have been something ridiculous. At any rate, my aunt's
son - my cousin - poured her ashes into the clear water, setting off a
milky cloud that promised to spread across the entire basin. It didn't.
The cloud quickly dissipated, revealing the heavier components of the
cremation resting on the algae-covered rocks at the bottom. I stood on
the riverbank for a few seconds, and laughed to myself. I laughed
because there is an absurdity in ritual, and because I was
uncomfortable, and because we'd driven illegally onto private property
to reach that part of the river. I laughed because my aunt had seen
enough in her life to drive her into hysteria, but she resisted, so I
became hysterical for her. She deserved that, I think.

So. We still have half of my aunt's ashes. They'll be dispersed on the
Mississippi River outside of New Orleans. Right now the ashes are
wrapped in a blue velveteen bag, sitting on top of the VCR of my aunt's
house in Houston. My aunt loved New Orleans; she once said it's the
only place she would live besides Houston. Her favorite restaurant in
the Big Easy was The Court of Two Sisters. She and my mother would eat
there when they were young and silly and rich on their secretary
paychecks. They ate without fear of the future, with no thought of the
clouds they would become in familiar waters emptying into the Gulf of
Mexico - my mother figuratively, and my aunt literally.

And I'm wondering if I'm so fearless, because my aunt was, and in a
certain respect so was my mother. Is there a lesson here, in this grief
that has already overcome me and left me laughing and crying like an
idiot? Or will I just fade back into my regular old life, waking and
sleeping melding together until I forget all the efforts that brought
me here, right now, in the first place? I will try, but I just don't
know. Really, I don't.