Come September—a Different Kind of Memoir

A NOTE TO CHILDREN

Long time ago, folks used to say
“Children should be seen, not heard.”
That meant that youngsters—boys and girls
Would utter not a word
Until they were asked a question!
Then they’d answer pure and sweet,
And never pout, or move about,
Or stamp their little feet!

Today, it’s rather different
Children clamor for their space
And pay no attention to what’s said
By adults who are in the place
In which they are standing
Or sitting, or slumping in their chairs!
Or--chewing gum so madly,
The sound brings one to tears!!

Now, God did not intend
That children should be seen, not heard;
He wants to hear their questions,
Know their feelings, trust their words.

For children have quite much to say:
And adults should surely listen
When their speech and actions show
That they, too, have a mission--
To learn, to love, even to teach--
To be the best that they can be,
To make the world a better place
For themselves, for you, for me!

So children, be what God intends
Don’t clamor for your space,
Polite behavior still means much
In this world and in this place.
Try hard to pay attention
To things said or done for good,
And say a please and thank you
Whenever you know you should!

“Good morning” or “good evening”
When people pass your way
May help someone who feels alone
To have a better day.
But best of all, politeness will make YOU feel so good
You’ll wonder why you waited--
You’ll feel you’re understood!
God bless you,!

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord, the venerable Reverend Dr. Holyfield Copher intoned, closing the funeral service. His black bowler glistened in the light rain. Gertrude Haynes Johnson, my wife of 33 years was dead. “Oh God,” I groaned, falling to my knees on the soggy green carpet. “It should have been me. I’m 90 years old and ready to die, but Truda—only 69—It’s too soon, too soon! It should have been me!”

As people headed for their cars, the saxophonist played the grand old rag When the Saints Go Marching In. I could almost hear Gertrude’s off-key soprano shrilling the words: Lord, I want to be in that number when the saints go marching’ in!

“You will be in that number, dear,” I whispered to her silent ears. My mind raced back to the day she had died. Bertram,” she had called from the bathroom. Her voice was raspy, soft. Bert—help me! I’d shoved open the bathroom door and found her sitting, her neck limp, sweat rolling down her face.

It’ll be all right Truda, I’d said. My heart was a relentless drumbeat as I lifted her and placed her on the bed. Just lie still, honey, I’m calling an ambulance. Her eyes opened just a little. They were dull yellow, not Truda’s eyes. No hospital, she’d said. No hospital. And then nothing—forever!

Now, as the funeral director helped me into the family car, a soft touch on my shoulder brought me back to the present. Before I could turn to acknowledge it, an unfamiliar voice said, “I’m Neesha, Pops.”

Neesha? It was Tanecia, Gertrude’s youngest granddaughter. The last time I’d seen her she was ten years old, but I recognized her still. She was her grandma all over. Same yellow-toned skin and high cheekbones, same tight-lipped half smile. Same oak colored hair, only hers fell loosely to her shoulder. Truda’s had been short and kinky.

“I’m sorry, Pops,” she murmured. “Real sorry.” She slipped a piece of paper into my pocket and was gone.

A deep hurt about Neesha had raged inside Gertrude. Neesha—she’d have to be about 27 now—had run away when she was 14, and about a year later, her mother, Pansy, Gertrude’s only daughter, hanged herself. Gertrude had blamed Neesha. I’d tried to remind her of Pansy’s instability long before Neesha’s folly, but she’d always said, No, it was Neesha. Broke her mother’s heart, she did.

After the service, a few folks came by. I didn’t feel much like company, but Gertrude would have liked showing off our blessed condo, as she’d called it. When they left, I told Gertrude all about the funeral.…And Neesha came, Truda. I don’t know where she came from--didn’t say, but she gave me her ‘phone number. Should I call her?