The line to the funeral home stretched down a long sidewalk to the driveway and inside there were more lines, weaving through rooms, people waiting to tell his family what he had meant to them.
We only have one life to live and he’d lived his well.
Was he perfect?
No human is.
But he was loved and loved back.
He smiled and laughed and made days better.
He made my days better when I saw him at council meetings or fire department events.
He made my dad laugh and shake his head often when they were in school together and afterwards.
Sometimes when you read someone has died you feel a twinge of sadness and you mourn briefly and gently because you knew of them but didn’t know them. Other times you read someone has died and you look down to see who just kicked you in the chest. You realize that ache right there in the center of your heart is your spirit cringing in shock and grief.
Tears rising from somewhere deep in your soul and they come suddenly, without warning.
That’s how I’ve felt before and how I felt last week when I read about the sudden passing of Wayne Felter, a friend of my dad’s and the cornerstone of the community I used to work in.
We’d stand outside council meetings during executive sessions, him and I, and Dave, the publisher of the weekly newspaper, the man who later became my boss. Wayne would tell stories about pretty much everything and Dave would often stop him and remind him I was there, young and a female. I guess Dave was trying to protect me from Wayne’s more salty tales, but few of them were inappropriate.
Many times the story would end with “you ask your dad about that. That’s a true story.”
And I would ask Dad and he would say “it’s true … for the most part” and wink at me.
I never made it to talk to his family that day, due to a hot and tired toddler squirming in my arms and the long, winding lines.
I’m not sure what I would have said if I had reached them. I didn’t know them well enough to offer much more than a brief condolence and to be honest I was feeling selfish.
I glanced only once at the casket, only briefly from a distance and saw him motionless there. In those few seconds I knew that wasn’t how I wanted to remember him. I wanted to remember his smile, the twinkle in his eye when he was about to say something inappropriate for the moment or tease me, and his laugh when he’d succeeded in making someone else laugh.
As my dad said, Wayne made people who met him feel like they were worth talking to. He would seek people out simply to say “hello” and that made them feel special. There aren’t many people who do that anymore.
Today many people are distracted, uninterested and thinking about what they’re going to say next when someone is talking to them.
They listen to speak but don’t listen to really hear.
Wayne listened and heard and usually found a way to laugh at what he’d heard.
I will have to remind myself now when I visit Wyalusing that he’s not around anymore.
At least not physically.
The people of his tiny community will still see him, though.
Anyone who knew him, even only a little, will still see him.
They’ll see him when someone is sliding down frozen streets when they were supposed to be cindering or when someone is making a joke although others think the moment calls for seriousness.
They’ll see him when someone is laughing with a waitress or joking with the customers at the local diner.
They’ll see him in his children and his grandchildren.
And they will see him when someone stops and listens – really listens – making a person feel they are worth being listened to.
I totally pulled the grandma-wouldn’t-want-you-to-do that card this week.
Totally.
Little Miss is in a mean phase.
At least I hope it’s a phase.
When she wants to sit somewhere her brother is sitting she shoves him until he moves. When she wants what her brother has she takes it. When she wants to play with his Legos she tries to shove him out of the way so she can stand at his Lego table.
She doesn’t do this with other children. Only her brother.
He’s eight years older than her. She doesn’t care. The age gap doesn’t intimidate her.
She is a bully.
I’ve been reading articles and wracking my brain how to teach her not to be mean. So far it’s been time outs and long talks asking her how she’d feel if her brother was mean to her instead.
But the other night I changed my strategy, one my own mother has been grooming me for since I was born.
I used mother guilt.
I knew it would all be worth it one day.
My son was hugging me at bedtime, laying across me, and his sister didn’t want him to hug me so she stuck her toes in his armpits and pushed hard with her foot, trying to dislodge him.
That’s when brilliance struck. I felt very proud of myself when I said: “Oh my, this would make Grandma so sad. She thinks you are just the sweetest little girl and if she saw you being mean to your brother she would be so disappointed and so sad.”
She continued to push but was watching me and I could tell she was thinking.
“She would. She says you’re so sweet and your brother loves you…she’d just be upset.”
“Grandma? She’d be upset?” She asked. Her legs weren’t pushing as hard now. “With me?”
“Sad, yes,” I said. “Not mad, but very disappointed and sad.”
She took her toes out of his armpits and lowered her legs.
“Oh my! Grandma would be upset at me! She’d be sad!”
She turned to her brother.
“Grandma is upset at me! She sad!”
The mother guilt was getting a little out of hand so I reassured her Grandma would be happy now because she had stopped being mean to her brother.
“Oh. Okay.” She said, hesitantly relieved.
I’m quite pleased my tactic worked.
For now.
I may not be as happy when the therapy bills start coming in though.
However, none of my therapy bills were related to my mom’s superior mom guilt so I think it will be okay.
Today is the day I showcase ten photos from the previous month as part of the 10 on 10 Lifestyle blog circle.
June was a month of discoveries and for me I discovered, or shall I say, finally admitted I am never going to have a photography business. Eight years of rejection is enough. We are told to keep pushing forward on our dreams but sometimes I think we have to know when one dream is dead and gone. That dream I had apparently was not God’s plan for me, at least not while I live where I am living now.
I have gone over and over in my head, trying to find the correct formula to make this business a success, but none of it has worked. Friends have assured me it’s not me or my photography, but even with price reductions no one would hire me. And without clients there is no budget for advertising so it’s a real catch 22.
I have even considered maybe I need to change my style, how I edit and what I shoot, but know that changing who I am to fit someone else’s view isn’t healthy for me over all. At that point one has to ask themselves if the dream has become an idol above all else. In my case, it’s possible that has been happening so laying it down is what needs to happen at this time.
In between the sadness of finally giving up on photographing clients, there has been fun with the children-water hose fights and pool time at their grandparents and simply exploring in general.
Be sure to follow the circle around by visiting Lauren Cypher next!
