She gave joy. She found joy.
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To the right of my laptop, I have a copy of Thomas Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes. Inside its front cover, there is a full-color sticker with the photo of an auburn-haired woman with big earrings, a quote from Henry Ward Beecher, and the words "Enjoy this book in loving memory of Freda 'Mimi' Wise. January 25, 1937 - January 27, 2008."
Freda's memorial service was this afternoon. To the left of the food buffet, there was a table with dozens of Freda's books - everything from Charles Dickens and Anthony Trollope to Alice Hoffman and Janet Evanovich - and her daughter ordered everyone present to choose a book and take it home. Two of the women I talked to afterwards had picked novels by Eudora Welty; another had chosen something by John Steinbeck, and two other women next to me had talked about one of Kaye Gibbons's novels while looking at another.
Freda loved music (before moving to Nashville, she'd been manager of the Fort Worth Youth Orchestra), and it was a running joke among her family members that they were tired of hearing her praises of First UU's music director. One of the children joked that "her other boyfriend was Willie Nelson," and the memorabilia table included both a pencil sketch of Willie and a much-cherished floppy gray hat that Willie had once borrowed from Freda during a concert. During the service, a trio performed Jason's Peace, My Heart and Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain."
The eulogies were given by her children and children-in-law. Her daughter, who has clearly inherited her mother's looks and confidence and blunt humor in full measure, began by declaring, "I want a photograph of y'all," and went right on to hold up her camera and snap a photo of each section of the congregation right from the pulpit. She then said, "I'm going to start by giving y'all a lecture" - which turned out to be about how Freda had made a point of giving her children an envelope several years ago that contained copies of key legal papers (will, power of attorney, etc.), instructions on where the originals were kept, safe deposit key, etc. - what all the children needed in order to perform her wishes when this week came. And she'd also included letters on how much she loved them, and this past Christmas she'd made "life books" of mementos she'd saved -- notes about her daughter's first baton twirling routine, things like that -- and given them to the children. There were funny anecdotes (such as on Freda's disappointment at never winning "that damn lottery"), quotations from the New Testament on being fair and generous and loving, and a reading of The Giving Tree. There was mention of an Egyptian myth in which, upon one's death, the gatekeeper of Paradise will demand from us answers to two questions, the first being "Did you give joy?" -- and the second, "Did you find joy?"
Freda's son introduced the benediction by saying, "Now momma will get the last word one more time": It was a recording of Freda reminiscing about the lullabies she'd sung to her children, and then singing them. Her warm, rich alto drawl filled the entire sanctuary.
At the beginning of the service, a friend sitting behind me had leaned forward and whispered, "I can't wait to read about this in your blog." I'd shaken my head: "I don't think I'm up for it."
After the service, I turned back to her and said, "You were right. I can't not write about this."
It feels worth noting that my friend had made a point of wearing bright red lipstick in Freda's honor. I'd chosen my red shawl instead of a black blazer for the same reason. Freda was a native of Mississippi, a graduate of Southern Miss (later earning an MSW in Texas), and lived most of her adult life in Texas and Tennessee. She was larger-than-life Southern in a fabulous way -- I remember her thanking me profusely for a thank-you note I'd written to her.
This morning was a choir retreat, and one of the songs we sight-read was Randi Driscoll's What Matters, written in memory of Matthew Shepard. [video] I was near tears during much of it, partly because the choral arrangement uses certain progressions and harmonies that automatically push my buttons (as one of the tenors observed, the song feels like it could come from Rent), and when those emotion-triggering riffs are paired with words like these...
So who cares whose arms I'm all wrapped up in,
who cares whose eyes I see myself in,
who cares who I dream of,
'cause in the end
it only matters that I was loved
and I am loved.
Freda's memorial service was this afternoon. To the left of the food buffet, there was a table with dozens of Freda's books - everything from Charles Dickens and Anthony Trollope to Alice Hoffman and Janet Evanovich - and her daughter ordered everyone present to choose a book and take it home. Two of the women I talked to afterwards had picked novels by Eudora Welty; another had chosen something by John Steinbeck, and two other women next to me had talked about one of Kaye Gibbons's novels while looking at another.
Freda loved music (before moving to Nashville, she'd been manager of the Fort Worth Youth Orchestra), and it was a running joke among her family members that they were tired of hearing her praises of First UU's music director. One of the children joked that "her other boyfriend was Willie Nelson," and the memorabilia table included both a pencil sketch of Willie and a much-cherished floppy gray hat that Willie had once borrowed from Freda during a concert. During the service, a trio performed Jason's Peace, My Heart and Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain."
The eulogies were given by her children and children-in-law. Her daughter, who has clearly inherited her mother's looks and confidence and blunt humor in full measure, began by declaring, "I want a photograph of y'all," and went right on to hold up her camera and snap a photo of each section of the congregation right from the pulpit. She then said, "I'm going to start by giving y'all a lecture" - which turned out to be about how Freda had made a point of giving her children an envelope several years ago that contained copies of key legal papers (will, power of attorney, etc.), instructions on where the originals were kept, safe deposit key, etc. - what all the children needed in order to perform her wishes when this week came. And she'd also included letters on how much she loved them, and this past Christmas she'd made "life books" of mementos she'd saved -- notes about her daughter's first baton twirling routine, things like that -- and given them to the children. There were funny anecdotes (such as on Freda's disappointment at never winning "that damn lottery"), quotations from the New Testament on being fair and generous and loving, and a reading of The Giving Tree. There was mention of an Egyptian myth in which, upon one's death, the gatekeeper of Paradise will demand from us answers to two questions, the first being "Did you give joy?" -- and the second, "Did you find joy?"
Freda's son introduced the benediction by saying, "Now momma will get the last word one more time": It was a recording of Freda reminiscing about the lullabies she'd sung to her children, and then singing them. Her warm, rich alto drawl filled the entire sanctuary.
At the beginning of the service, a friend sitting behind me had leaned forward and whispered, "I can't wait to read about this in your blog." I'd shaken my head: "I don't think I'm up for it."
After the service, I turned back to her and said, "You were right. I can't not write about this."
It feels worth noting that my friend had made a point of wearing bright red lipstick in Freda's honor. I'd chosen my red shawl instead of a black blazer for the same reason. Freda was a native of Mississippi, a graduate of Southern Miss (later earning an MSW in Texas), and lived most of her adult life in Texas and Tennessee. She was larger-than-life Southern in a fabulous way -- I remember her thanking me profusely for a thank-you note I'd written to her.
This morning was a choir retreat, and one of the songs we sight-read was Randi Driscoll's What Matters, written in memory of Matthew Shepard. [video] I was near tears during much of it, partly because the choral arrangement uses certain progressions and harmonies that automatically push my buttons (as one of the tenors observed, the song feels like it could come from Rent), and when those emotion-triggering riffs are paired with words like these...
So who cares whose arms I'm all wrapped up in,
who cares whose eyes I see myself in,
who cares who I dream of,
'cause in the end
it only matters that I was loved
and I am loved.
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