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It's been a Nora McInerny-forward week here at Too Many Tabs, for which I have zero regrets.
That woman is my spirit animal.
Her podcast episode from a couple of weeks ago (10/11/22 - Bad Vibes Only) made me realize that MORE Than Ever.
Nora mentioned her childhood diaries, pawing through Nostalgia -- and her voice cracked with tears as she read a poem she wrote after the death of her grandpa in 1992, when she was only nine years old.
I choked up, too. I remember, like Nora, the details of my Pappaw's death - it was similar to Nora's experience, though my Pappaw Carl had a heart attack rather than a stroke. It was also quick, and unexpected. I too remember what I wore - not to the funeral, but that weekend I remember wearing those ankle length tights with lace at the bottom. They were popular. We were in some venue for brunch with family members and it was the first time I took an elevator on my own.
It was terrifying. I was fifteen.
Like Nora, I wrote a poem to create a box for my sadness. The funeral was traumatic. The sound my mother made when the casket was closing haunts me to this day. The cemetery was familiar - Pappaw would rest next to his late son, my uncle Ross, who died in 1986 from AIDS.
A year later, my Pappaw's mom Wanda (my Grandma Wandy) would join him in the Family Row at age 93. She outlived her own son. Even though they got divorced in the 1980's, my Mammaw would get there, too - in September of 2019, just before the pandemic. She was nearly 95. The women in my family nearly live forever.
My Mammaw's death was even more traumatic for me. I'll save that post for another day.
When reflecting on Nora's podcast episode, I recalled a book Mammaw gave me in 1988 - Clowns Can Cry (and other stories) by Rachel A. Christy. It was published in 1984 by a small press in Bloomington, Indiana - The Little Red Wagon Press. She must have found it at a local (to her) book signing, or maybe she knew the author. An inscription in the front pages reads:
To - Amber,
I hope you enjoy these stories.
Maybe someday you will write some of your own.
Rachel A. Christy
8-30-88
I haven't been able to find any information about Mrs. Christy, but according to her dedication, her work was for her grandchildren, because of their "insistence that Grammy write more."
I think that's beautiful.
Clowns Can Cry, the 6th story of 8 in this collection, had me sobbing this morning. The story ends with a little boy, the son of circus clowns. He is diagnosed with - I kid you not, Nora - a brain tumor. He has to miss his first performance in the circus, as he is nearing the end. He encourages his parents to go ahead and put on their show - he doesn't want the children in the audience to be disappointed.
Little Dumbo asks his mother, "Are there clowns in heaven?"
The last line of the story (get me more kleenex) talks about the laughter of the other children.
"...they did not know that behind the painted mask was proof that clowns can cry."
My poem for Carl Edward Burch
Cemetery
Stone after stone stands
Death replacing life
On that hill where you lay.
The wind stirs souls -
Chilling and comforting me,
Where I stand.
Remembering.
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