THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, January 5, 1997 TAG: 9701050163
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
DATELINE: EDENTON LENGTH: 57 lines
Over the span of a single life, thousands of people pass through the transom of our existence for a fleeting moment, never introduced, then gone, to be seen no more.
And then there are those rare folks whom we see only once, but flash like Roman candles, their flares of color briefly lighting a blue velvet sky. They are never forgotten.
So it was with Emma Bond, who died Wednesday at the age of 93.
I only met Miss Emma once, at Thanksgiving in 1994, at Edenton Colony, a cluster of Kill Devil Hills cottages where her family had vacationed for a half-century.
I had been invited to spend the holiday at the colony by Miss Emma's son and daughter-in-law, Bill and Jewel Bond. And upon meeting Miss Emma, memories of my grandmother immediately flooded forth.
Like my grandmother, Miss Emma had a marvelous Southern accent, one seemingly plucked from the blossoms of a magnolia tree. Miss Emma's speech was seasoned with the Eastern Carolina spice that turns house into ``hoose'' and about into ``aboot.'' With a gentle lilt in her voice, Miss Emma could make reading the grocery list sound like Keats.
That Thanksgiving, she and I talked about everything and nothing, swapping family stories and such, the things people seem to talk about most, come holidays. In the morning, she sipped Bloody Marys, and in the afternoon, after dinner, her customary cocktail.
She reveled in the joy brought by her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And occasionally, while telling a story, she reached over to pat my hand, the way grandmothers often do, in a show of gentle affection.
And Miss Emma, like most folks who are blessed with long lives, possessed the gift of uncompromising honesty. She called 'em like she saw 'em.
Like all grandmothers, she had the ability to work wonders in the kitchen. On that Thanksgiving, with loving hands, she concocted a dessert called charlotte russe, a frothy, fluffy cloud of rich cream and ladyfingers, the finest confection ever crafted by mortals.
Even at 93, she insisted on working alone. The dessert was her domain, and she crafted it with style.
I never saw Miss Emma after that Thanksgiving. I kept up with her comings and goings through Jewel and Bill, and promised myself that I would make the trip to Edenton to see her in her lovely home.
Sadly, that promise lies broken. Time sometimes does that to promises, no matter how ironclad they seem.
It seems somehow fitting, that in her last summer at the Edenton Colony, she was crowned its queen. But I choose not to think of her as some monarch. Queens may have faces that launch 1,000 ships. But monarchs also must do cruel things at times, like sending men and women to war.
Instead, when I think of Miss Emma, particularly on those postcard days at the Edenton Colony when the cloudless sky hangs baby blue, and the surf is emerald green, I will remember things like grace and gentle elegance, and a certain goodness.
Miss Emma, you see, was more noble than any queen.
Miss Emma was a lady.