Mary and I spent the last the six days in an around Pulaski, TN for
the somber occasion of spreading her Aunt Marge's ashes. Aunt Marge
died in November, but the whole family could not get together for a
memorial ceremony at the time. So they all decided to do it in July.

Aunt Marge was an extremely lovable and loving human being. She had a
way of making you feel like you were the most important person on the
planet, as her grandson Michael so eloquently stated in the eulogy
that he wrote for her. She had gentle and fair views of the world,
and you never entered or left her sight without getting a warm and
secure hug.

Whenever Mary and I visited her in Tennessee, she would love to hear
me play my hammer dulcimer. I would play it right outside the
backdoor of the farmhouse, overlooking the green pastures and the
rolling Tennessee hills that made up the five hundred acre farm.
Marge would come out, sit in a folding chair right next to me, close
her eyes and softly sway to the music. After every song, no matter
how badly I screwed it up, she would smile softly and say, “That
was just beautiful, darlin'.” Her favorites were a sweet little
waltz called The Gentle Maiden, The Music Box Dancer, and
Amazing Grace.

I wrote about Marge's death in this blogsite a while back in a post
call A Beautiful Way To Die. If you want to find out more about this
remarkable woman, go to it and read it.

Marge's ashes were spread by her kids, grandkids and great grandkids,
(along with Mary and me) under a spreading sycamore tree that borders
one of the back pastures of the farm. Uncle Hollis's ashes were also
spread there about fifteen years ago. (Aunt Marge and Uncle Hollis
used to picnic under that tree in their younger years.).

The day was sunny, blistering hot and humid as the pack of about
twenty of us trudged across the grasses and poison ivy of the pasture
to that sycamore, me carrying my dulcimer and its stand.

A few folks read prepared statements remembering Ma or Granny. The
two that moved me the most were the ones read by Mary and Marge's
oldest grandson, Andy.

Mary read an address written by Michael, another one of Marge's
grandsons, who could not be present for the ceremony. She read it
beautifully, even though she fretted about the pronunciation of the
name of the biblical people, the Colossians. (I gave her the correct
pronunciation the night before, and she practiced and practiced it,
wanting to get it perfect for Marge and for Mike...She did it
flawlessly.)

Now, Andy is a strong, powerful looking man with flowing blond hair,
rugged good looks and a deep, rich, baritone voice. He reminds me in
looks and temperment of Alan Jackson. His speech is slow and
deliberate. He manner is quiet and sure. He is a rock.

As he stood up and unfolded his lined paper filled with his words, a
hush fell on the crowd. As he spoke with a beautiful country
eloquence of his beloved Granny, his voice shook from time to time,
but, being the man that he is, he carried on and finished, bringing
the whole congregation to silent tears.

Then, as the ashes were being spread, it was my turn. I walked to my
dulcimer, wiped the tears from my eyes, and played The Gentle
Maiden. (I screwed it up, of course.) Next, came Amazing
Grace. When I finished Amazing Grace, two of Marge's kids
came up to me and said, “Please play Music Box Dancer. It
was mom's favorite.”

So, with tears running down my cheeks, I played that song just as
loudly and lively as I could. When I was finished, I couldn't even
see through my watery eyes, but I swear I felt a gentle hand
on my shoulder, and a familiar, reassuring voice whisper in my ear,
“Thank you! That was beautiful, Darlin'.”

I love you, Marge.