Shooting Stars

October, 9 2011 / Frankfort, Michigan

At the beginning of the summer I wrote a blog for Katrina Kelley Pranger, my aunt.  She was my wing man in the family and co-conspirator in everything that reeked of trouble.  October 9, 2011 would of been her 40th birthday and according to the news, a great morning to watch a meteor shower. Our family decided to celebrate by shelling up in a small Northern Michigan town on the water.  We ate carbs, went to a pumpkin festival, smoked pipes, visited an Alpaca farm (random eh?), rode bikes, drank some more and at one point I think we all cried.

Such heartbreak.

That same day my mother's client, a 79-going-on-29-year-old ball of fire named Mary Jones joined Katrina.  Between the two of them, Heaven must of lit up like the 4th of July.  Mary's body had failed within a weeks time and the shock of losing her sat with me, heavy.  It was like the dentist placed not just one, but several lead blankets on my chest.  In the Enneagram Personality test I'm classified in the Thinking Sphere, my response isn't emotional it's cerebral.  Hence, the lack of tears.  The shock.  Just 2 weeks prior I had spent the weekend with Mary.  My mother has been her full time companion for the last six years which means I am her surrogate grandchild.  Her 13 grandchildren call her GrandMere, I call her Mary.  

I couldn't cry and this frustration came out in these words the night before her funeral:

“I’m not going to die, I’m going home like a shooting star.” –Sojourner Truth

I want to grieve Mary.  I want to have a good cry and let it all out.  But I can’t.  How can I when it’s not my turn? Let her daughters weep first, then her sons and all of their spouses.  Let GranMere’s grandchildren pace in disbelief.  Let her twin pine for her best half.  Let my mother, and Krissy collect Mary’s belongings in disillusionment. Let them get here. 

Can you believe a single life has such an effect? It’s spectacular and devastating.  One snag in the tapestry and we are pulled with it.  We are woven together in a mess of textures and colors kept warm in the comfort of each other’s existence.

No more “Howdy-do’s” when I walk into her back door.  No more instructions on how to care for her precious dog affectionately named “Simey.” No more overeating at the Country Club only to return home and enjoy a late night fudgesicle pop while we admire Jimmy Fallon who, in Mary’s words, “Sure isn’t sexy but he’s so damn adorable!”

Could we ever forget Mary? Those lips? That laugh? And her insatiable demand for life to be lived in St. Johns attire?

It’s my turn. Tears now arrive and I am grieving because even as and outsider she made me feel as family.  Never forgotten, always included and consistently well fed.

When I asked her how much she missed her husband Wally she said, “Well, you know. I miss holding his hand.” You know what I’ll miss the most about Mary? Seeing that red Cadillac zipping around town with my mother at the helm and Mary (in her designer sunglasses) at her side.  It was like watching Thelma & Louise running errands with a purpose; Greg’s, Talbots, The Country Club, Burrit’s and then Potter’s.  I’ve never seen such pomp and circumstance executed with such stoicism and class. 

My friend Mary Jones just passed away. She was a few seasons away from her 80^th birthday.  

Actually, she didn’t pass away. That’s not her style.  She went home like a shooting star.  Just look up.