THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 26, 1994 TAG: 9406240227
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: John Pruitt
DATELINE: 940626 LENGTH: Medium
Maybe I should say something like I was saddened by the event that brought us together, but uplifted by the reunion of so many family members and longtime friends that I see too rarely.
{REST} Aunt Mary certainly wouldn't mind our saying we had a good time. Indeed, I can just hear her scold my brother for declaring, ``I hate to say I had a good time at a funeral, but it's certainly been a good day.''
She was rock-solid in her beliefs and was as certain of a place in heaven as I am that today is Sunday. ``Now, Roland,'' I'm sure she'd say to my brother, ``don't you fret one bit about me. I'm in a better place.''
Aunt Mary was 73. Her 74th birthday fell on the day before her burial, beside my Uncle Norris, on Tangier Island, and she died 11 months to the day of her youngest daughter's death from heart ailments.
Before dieting, sickness and grief claimed all but a covering for her bones, Aunt Mary was short and rotund - the way I remember her as her four daughters, our other cousins and I were growing up.
She took seriously biblical admonitions against pride, never adorning herself with makeup or jewelry. Still, she was always attractive, sometimes wearing her hair in a bun behind her head, and always having that just-ironed look in even everyday dresses.
She never attended a movie, having no desire for such worldly entertainment, and her reading consisted of the Bible and study courses of scripture.
She still began every day with Bible reading and prayer, just as she did when we were children.
And she never mailed a letter or greeting card without enclosing a gospel tract. At her funeral, one of the ministers asked everyone who'd ever gotten a tract from Aunt Mary to raise their hands. If there was a person she'd missed, I couldn't tell.
Aunt Mary somehow got the notion that fast music would put us on the skids to hell. Slow, solemn songs were more her style. She had a beautiful voice, which she used only on hymns. I close my eyes and see her play the piano and hear the rich harmony of her singing with her daughters - except Elva, the one who died recently.
As a child, Elva was as off-key as any singer I ever heard. But the last time I visited Aunt Mary, she told me how Elva had sung for her before dying, ``I Know Whom I Have Believed.'' I just wouldn't believe how beautifully Elva had sung, my Aunt said.
I don't know if it was beautiful only in the ears of a mother or if Elva miraculously could carry a tune. Aunt Mary said it was a gift of God.
In all the singing that was so much a part of our childhood, Aunt Mary offered stern warnings that it was not for show but to the glory of God.
I have to confess, though, that on the rare occasions we kids were at Aunt Mary's house while she was on an errand, my cousin Ann would practice up-tempo gospel songs and even play and sing ``The Tennessee Waltz''! We were sworn to secrecy, lest Ann be confined to the house and yard and we visiting kids be sent on our way. We kept a lookout as if we'd been doing something dreadful.
Wednesday, as my cousin Kathleen and I sat in Aunt Mary's kitchen, the place oozed memories - of going out on a high tide in my uncle's boat and having to ``mud lark'' back home because we got caught by low tide; of playing ``guessing colors'' and having Elva constantly change her choice; of the excitement of Christmas, in the days before new toys and clothes were just everyday things.
More than anything else, though, we talked of how simply Aunt Mary lived and how a faith some people might find peculiarly simple sustained her.
by CNB