Legacy
Her nickname was Bill, very befitting to a person with a sense of humor I think. She was my maternal grandmother, Willa Jean Smith. Aunt Bill, Granny Bill, Ms. Bill Smith, how can you not laugh? My Grandfather asked me once, “Do you know how hard it is to be a navy man and wear an I.D. bracelet that reads, “I love you, Bill”?” To this day I believe she did that purposely for a laugh. I think her eyes might have sparkled wickedly as the clerk asked her a second time if the name was right. My family believes strongly in the value of good humor, no matter the circumstance, and we don’t care who is watching or if it’s necessarily appropriate. My two uncles have been a constant source of pranks and laughs for as long as I can remember. No matter how old they are, they are brothers first, bickering, taunting, laughing, and teaming up on the rest of us. Our laughter only serves as fuel to their fire of slapstick comedy. More than one surly nurse has chastised us collectively for making too much noise in the hospital room of a family member. It wouldn’t be so bad except we tend to gather around the sick and wounded, and we don’t leave. We are a close-knit bunch, when one is down the others swarm. A steady stream of visitors follows the fallen ensuring proper care and taking note of anything that could later be used so invoke tears from fall-on-the-floor laughter.
There are eight grandchildren and for a long time my grandparents could not afford Christmas presents for us. Then one year we started getting money in our stockings. I’ve never seen them laugh so hard as when a $20 bill was put in everyone’s stocking accept the youngest granddaughter, who received $1. The tradition is that we all look in our stockings at the same time and one by one rattle off what we find. “Twenty dollars, twenty dollars, twenty dollars,” the voices rang out. Then my little cousin Amie, who was around seven years old at the time, said in a quiet pitiful voice, “One dowwar.” My grandfather snickered then we all laughed as he handed her a $20 dollar bill. It is one of our favorite things about additions to the family, the “stocking joke.” Over time, laughter has developed into our best defense against the trials of life. When my great aunt was diagnosed with cancer, we all sat around her, laughter billowing so loudly from her hospital room that we drew the attention of anyone who passed by. We laughed at the prospect of our prim Aunt Helen having no hair. She boasted that she would no longer need to try to stay on a diet and that no hair meant no more beauty shop, which in turn meant more money to spend shopping.
Bill never possessed good health. She was sick with one ailment or another for most of her life, though she never complained. She was a kind and gentle woman of strong faith in God who showered us with love and earnestly hoped we would learn something about life from her. She was fiercely protective of her family and was determined that we work at staying close to one another. We celebrated every birthday and any other major holiday, then threw in a few extra parties for good measure. For years she used an old office chair to get around in the kitchen. I remember being so jealous; rolling across the floor looked like so much fun to a 12 year old. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that she used it to keep from having to walk very much. Using an actual wheelchair would have made her look ill and that was not acceptable. We enjoyed many meals from that kitchen, prepared from that chair.
Four years ago, after an 8 week battle with her failing body, she was dying, at the age of 63. She was in a great deal of pain, though at the time we didn’t know it, no one did. We rallied around her hospital bed day and night. She was never alone. The nurses knew all of us, especially my uncles; they were the ringleaders of our incessant laughter. As her condition worsened, she struggled to remain focused and would frequently talk of her youth as if it were happening right then. To most, that would be sad, to us, it was material to use against her later. In our minds her condition was temporary, she had to get well. Every day the doctor would try to gauge any progress or decline by asking questions, her answers determining her state of mind. Some of the most frequent questions were about her children. What were their names? How many did she have? Most times she answered without faltering. One day, she was having a particularly hard time staying with us. We talked over her, around her, about her, not very much to her. The doctor came in and began his usual questioning. My uncles were quick to tell him that she wasn’t herself she was slipping today. The doctor smiled and said, “Ms. Smith, how many children do you have?” She didn’t answer. With a sigh, he touched her hand and asked, “Ms. Smith, how many children do you have?” “Two boys and a girl,” she answered with a hesitant tone. “Ms. Smith, what are your sons’ names?” We all waited, praying for an answer. In a moment of clarity, her blue eyes flashed with humor, she smirked and answered, “Dumb and Dumber”. Even the doctor laughed along with the rest of us. My uncles laughed for a moment then, as if suddenly realizing their role, glanced at one another then to my grandmother, which brought on a second wave of laughter as we enjoyed the joke finally being on them.
Less than week later she passed away. When she died, my family fell into a tailspin. We could not get a handle on the loss. We were not prepared for that. She was supposed to get better and come home. The holidays were coming and she needed to get started on the fudge and pecan pie in just a few weeks. I drove my mother and grandfather home from the hospital and as we walked toward the door of the house my grandfather stopped and just stood there. “I don’t want to go in there,” he said without looking at me. “I wish I could just start walking and never come home.” A moment of fear swept through me as I realized he was quite capable of doing just that. “You want me to lose you too?” I asked. With tear filled eyes he looked at me then put his arm around me and pulled me close to him. “No honey, I don’t, I just don’t know how I am supposed to go on with out her.” I didn’t even have time to answer as he nodded toward the door and we went inside. It was dark and the air was thick with grief and inexpressible pain. We avoided her kitchen and no one touched the chair, her chair. My mother made funeral arrangements, friends and family brought food, people visited, and our once laughing voices went silent.
There is one funeral home in their small town of Huntsville, Ar., and that day it was filled to capacity with people gathered outside. Two of the nurses who had cared for her were in attendance; her life had made an impact on them in eight short weeks. Her smile in the face of pain, her gentle spirit, and giving nature had all shone brighter than the fluorescent glow of the lights in her room. My brother, 25 at the time, spoke at her funeral. He delivered a spiritual message that spoke of God’s love for mankind, and His sacrifice that we might live. At the end of his speech he told the story of a woman who had looked death in the eye and chose to laugh. As he began to speak of our family, my uncles specifically, those who knew us well started to grin. The funeral home hummed with tender laughter through tears as he recapped “Dumb and Dumber” and we were reminded of our purpose. That night we shared every funny story about her that we could recall. We remembered in joy a life that had taught us how to live.
