Almost back

We're back in Tennessee, of course, Mom and I.

Billy's memorial service was a thing of joy and beauty -- I went in a pink linen button-down over a very pink T-shirt (hey, it's Florida) that cousin Diana adeptly ID'd as roja mexicana -- Mexican pink, a shade just short of fuchsia. And when the Dixieland band struck up a New Orleans slow-march version of "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" I almost lost it.

But there was wonderful time with aunts -- Liz, Annabel and Nadine -- and cousins (Mark brought Annabel, Robert brought Nadine, and Richard flew in to stand up for Irenne), and Lynda and Diane and Rick and their spouses and their children. . . . .

And Fred. Billy's sweet husband Fred. I was their ringbearer at, what, 3 years old?

We all trashed dinner suggestions after the service and scoured up wine and sent out for pizzas, took over a hotel lobby and sat and ate, drank, talked, laughed and embraced, probably as close to a genuine wake as Protestants can get.

I got Mom back north the next day, and funked a bit but wrote it off to just plain grief.

Stuff around the place in Tennessee went on, and me with it, not worrying about posting to the blog or taking pictures. And I worked through lots of stuff.

I was about ready to write again. Then last week Mom's caregiver, B.J., drove her out with five big file boxes of Dad's papers.

Everything. Financials, work-related stuff, letters from me to him and copies of his to me, birthday cards, old clippings. Some things I stopped reading and shredded or set aside. Some about family history I filed to send off to cousins. (Diane has already sent me, as "first cousin," I guess, our grandparents' wedding certificate to hold.)

There were some clippings, in an envelope marked "save" about how to deal with a gay child, and others about church services I'd played organ for, and notes about his search for my birth mother. The bulk is in a burn bag (with thanks to Lou for an appropriate incantation), but not without taking it all in, and processing.

I was about done with last week's document dump when B.J. brought Mom out today with one big box of correspondence between my parents, and some between their lawyers, and I think the rest of the letters each of Dad's siblings had sent him over 70 years, and all their letters and postcards to me when I was little.

One to Mom and Dad took me so far back to Billy:

"Freddy and I have been getting along very well. I'll bring him home for Christmas so you can meet him -- know you will think him as wonderful as I do. It was great to get your letter and hear how Johnny was coming along. Gee, it seems unbelievable that the little rascal has been here two years. . . ."

And then Billy to me: "Dear Johnny: It was such a nice surprise to see this package for Linda. The little dress is just darling. . . . . We think you have such excellent taste for little girls' clothes. [I did laugh; they knew first.] Linda can't say many words, but she remembers your visit and says 'Johnny' a lot."

And so I cried, and made piles: Those to burn now, and Mom and Dad's correspondence to burn later.

I'll write again in a bit.