It's said that one of the toughest things about navigating middle age is dealing with the loss of aged loved ones.
In less than three years I lost loved ones young and old ... a niece; an uncle; a sister and my grandmother-in-law, who passed away a week apart last year; a stepmother. Now I've lost my dad, Ret. Army Sgt. Saul Palmer, who passed away June 25 at the ripe old age of 97.
It was 22 years ago that I lost my mother; 18 years ago that I lost my stepfather; a mere two months ago that my stepmother passed. No matter how old you are, the departure of that last parent can leave you with the eerie feeling that now there's no one left to keep you in check.
I was the youngest of a blended family of eight children. At the time they married, Dad was a widowed father of four half-German little girls; Mom was the divorced mother of a young son. They went on to have three children together. I came on the scene at Dad's last post, Fort Leonard Wood, Mo. We moved to nearby Rolla, Mo., when I was 2. My parents divorced when I was 6. As my sister said in her eulogy, Dad wasn't always the kind, gentle soul that his neighbors, pastor and fellow churchgoers in Rolla knew him to be. But to forgive is divine, as the saying goes. And although not everyone affected by his behavior in the past forgave him, Dad was divinely forgiven.
My mother moved back to her hometown of Little Rock; eventually remarried and my stepfather became my father figure. Once they passed, Dad and I were able to eke out a father-daughter relationship ... one that might have been closer had I not lived five hours away; had I not been so busy with my career; had Dad embraced enough of the 21st century to get on the computer/Internet/social media.
Years after his military service, Dad remained every bit the soldier, a man made of stubborn stuff. Despite being prone to falls in his last years, he wouldn't consider using a wheelchair or motorized scooter. Despite his own frailty, he was determined to look after Mama Charlotte, my Alzheimer's-stricken stepmother. My husband Dre and I still laugh about how, during Dad's 90th-birthday weekend, one of the nephews got my father's keys and began to move his truck in an apparent attempt to accommodate parking visitors ... but without consulting Dad. Dad was in considerable neck pain from one of his falls, but when he heard the motor going, he rose up out of his easy chair and conscripted my former-Air Force-cadet husband, ordering Dre to accompany him outside. Dad kicked the poor nephew out of the truck and got onto him soundly for his transgression.
On June 29, sitting in the funeral home in Rolla, I read Dad's obituary -- a tribute written with meticulous attention to detail by Sibylle, my eldest sister, an administrative genius -- and listened to my second eldest sister, Sudi, reflect on him. And I marveled at the things that I, his youngest, who'd lived with him the least amount of time, was just learning.
A native of Ruston, La., Dad was a member of the "Greatest Generation," a career Army man, Sergeant First Class, whose parents' very names evoke thoughts of patriotism ... George and Martha. He was the last of a massive family of siblings; his identical twin, Uncle Paul, passed in November 2017. I knew he served in Germany during World War II; didn't know he had also served in the Korean Conflict. I knew he'd served as a chaplain's assistant and a drill instructor; I didn't know he was also head of the motor pool, a group of military vehicles. (It must have been his motor pool experience that led to one of Dad's several post-army gigs: driving for several auto dealerships, delivering and picking up new vehicles.) I'd been told he'd done some buttling for the chancellor of what is now the Missouri University of Science and Technology at Rolla; I didn't know he worked in maintenance. I know he enjoyed gardening and fishing; I didn't know that he enjoyed country music.
As is often the case at funerals, things seemed surreal at times. My husband, nephews and great-nephews carrying Dad's flag-draped coffin. The burial with full military honors including a rifle volley, the playing of "Taps," the careful folding of the flag by the military personnel, who then handed to my brother-in-law.
But, as is also often the case at funerals, we had a mini-family reunion. It was good to see everybody, several of us noted.
Actually, I do have one parent figure left ... Dear, my husband's mother. And it's always good to see her. I've already talked with Dre about the things I'd like for us to do with Dear when we can. Because time always goes so fast, and it's always so easy to run out of it. Because she deserves flowers while she lives. Because even at 57, it's not so bad still being someone's kid.
I've also resolved to get off my duff and visit family out of state more often. Because it shouldn't be funerals that fuel family reunions.
Email:
hwilliams@arkansasonline.com
Style on 07/14/2019