Memorial

Those of you who guessed that the garage door opener needed new batteries, pat yourselves on the back.  My first reaction to things not working the way they're supposed to, most especially things Jerry would have dealt with (which covers most mechanical and electrical things in the house and garage), is still to panic.  Then occasionally I figure it out when I try to stop panicking and breathe.  A few days after Jerry died, I couldn't get the garage door to move at all... after the panicking part, I thought about it and checked one of the many unidentified light switches in the kitchen near the back door of the house, and sure enough, one that turns the power to the garage on and off had been flipped the wrong way.  A piece of tape my father placed over it is still there, so it doesn't accidentally get turned off again.

So: the weekend.  As I've said, it was all just what I could have wanted.  The singing at Lookout seemed to me to be as strong as it's been any time I've been there (what they did with 30b on Sunday, when I led it with Reba and Rod and got through it better than I expected, I'll never forget).  Aside from that, there was the love that was there, the reminders of Jerry, the people who care so much for and about him and spoke about him in the memorial lesson or outside of it, the people who had no words but gave a hug or a pat on the arm, the typical and unforgettable hospitality and fellowship and warmth of the people who are there at Lookout Mountain every year - the realization that so many people there missed Jerry too and were hurting too, and cared about my pain and distress.  The knowledge that seeing his son and daughter there in the hollow square in Pine Grove Church would have made Jerry so happy and proud.

It was a weekend of laughter, even, at times.  Some moments where we did things we always did (sadly, that does include making catty remarks about some people's outfits or hairstyles.  Although in the hairstyle department, I might be the winner for Most In Need of Intervention this past weekend.  Thanks to the wake-up call in some photographs posted on line since Saturday, I now have an urgent appointment for a haircut tomorrow afternoon!).  I was even finding myself forgetting sometimes that everything was different, in a fundamental, wrong way, because most of the time, at Sacred Harp singings, Jerry and I would not have been sitting together, so the fact that he wasn't beside me wasn't unusual.  I spent most of Saturday's session and all of Sunday's in the tenor, and far back enough that the fact that I couldn't see Jerry wouldn't have necessarily meant that he wasn't there, because he'd have been up towards or on the front.  (When I sat in the alto Saturday afternoon, I did find myself looking for him, though.)

It was also very much a weekend of tears.  I wanted to lead his Sunday song, but I wanted to make sure I got it before someone else did, so I called it on Saturday, and had Seamus and Erin come up to sing it with me.  My hand often shakes when I lead (it shakes naturally anyway - essential tremor), but I certainly didn't foresee my entire body starting to tremble not long into the song.  Perhaps, as Karen has pointed out, that kept me from breaking down and sobbing, which I had been afraid of doing.  I did end up crying before it was over.

Certain songs seem to trigger tears. 499 always does now.  We sang it for Jerry as he lay at home dying, and that time it triggered one of the worst crying episodes I've ever had in my life.  Now it brings tears too - so far, even when I thought I was going to get through it, I haven't.  47b usually does it too (memories of weeping, hand in hand with Betty, backstage at the Words and Music of Cold Mountain concert when the battle scene was shown on a screen); yesterday the leaders only did two verses, and I didn't have time for it to sink in and make me cry.

Bud announcing the memorial before we broke for lunch on Sunday made me cry too.  It was the first time I'd heard him say Jerry's name since Jerry died.

The actual memorial on Sunday was another time of tears.  The people who got up and spoke for Jerry, each in his or her own way, moved me so much with their memories and their affection and love and esteem for him.  And then David led Jerry's Sunday song again, starting it off fast, with both hands, the way Jerry liked to pattern his leading after Barrett Ashley and other traditional singers, and I started crying so hard I couldn't see anymore.

I am so, so grateful for all of this.

(And I suppose I should point out, for those of you who are not familiar with Sacred Harp singing, that what I'm referring to can be explored here - and that these numbers I keep referring to are the page numbers in the Sacred Harp tunebook on which the songs are located, and "t" after the number means it's the top piece of the two located on a page with two songs on it, and "b," as you'd guess, means it's on the bottom.  77t is "The Child of Grace," and as I've no doubt said elsewhere or at least made clear, I think, in what I've written, it was Jerry's favorite song, the main one people associate with him.  I've posted this already, but I'll post a link to it again: so far my favorite footage of Jerry leading 77t, at Lookout Mountain in 1999.)

Seamus, Erin and I scattered Jerry's ashes up on the hill overlooking Pine Grove Church on Saturday after the singing.  Bud suggested the spot, saying it was always where "the little feller with the beard" had parked his car and then come walking down to the church; and from there he could look out over the church and the singings.  It rained Saturday night; when Lynne and I parked the rental car there Sunday morning, the ashes had been washed away, mingled with the earth of Alabama.