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"Grandma"
I thought I'd share a beautiful piece of writing with you. It's the eulogy that my son Bill delivered this past Thursday at the memorial service for my Mom. ...

I’d like to thank Rev. Appleton for being with us today and conducting this service.
My grandmother thought very highly of you and would be honored by your presence.
My family is grateful and we thank you.

Last Friday night, I was in Columbus GA with a group of traveling buddies for the
Georgia-Auburn game taking place the following afternoon. Now keep in mind, most
of the conversations this group of friends have revolve around football, grilling
meat, girls and football. But yet, I had the room hushed and captivated by the story
of a dashing, young American serviceman from the hills of Georgia, who stormed into
the mothercountry of Great Britain and managed to sweep a witty, intelligent and
classy Welsh girl off her feet and back to the states. There was the dangerous mission
with a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist in order to get back to Wales for the wedding.
A marriage license signed by no less than the Supreme Commander of Allied Forces
in Europe himself, Dwight D. Eisenhower. Then followed 64 years of marriage, in
which a successful life was built, producing a great family, and a lasting impact
on the community in which they lived. Whenever people hear this story, they marvel
at how it sounds like something straight out of Hollywood. And in this script, it’s
easy to see my grandfather playing the role of the hero. Indeed, he did. The country
boy who won the heart of the sophisticated British girl. I still marvel at the gumption
it must have taken my grandfather to approach a girl like Grandma, much less marry
her. I mean, Grandma was a catch. Grandma also had high standards for people. So,
it is a testament to the kind of man my grandfather is, that he was the love of
her life. He is one of the most honorable and noble men I have ever known and someone
I admire greatly.

But this Hollywood script had a co-star in my grandmother. As amazed as I am at
the lengths my grandfather went to, I have always been equally astounded by the
incredible strength my grandmother showed, at the age of 19, in leaving all she
had ever known, her family, Wales, the land of her fathers, to come to America and
start a new life. Imagine the courage an action like that takes. It wasn’t always
easy in those first days. Lord knows, there are enough stories about Grandma’s time
in Colbert to fill a book. A really funny book. But she persevered, remained strong,
and remained at my grandfather’s side. Certainly, this is a testament to the incredible
love that bound their relationship. But it also a tribute to the amazing strength
of my grandmother.

Quite simply, my grandmother is the strongest person I have ever known. Not just
the strongest woman. Sometimes, we fall into the trap of thinking our role models,
our heros, must look just like us and fit some preconceived stereotype of strength.
But, no, my grandmother was a powerhouse of strength and courage. She feared no
one and allowed nothing to stand in her way when pursuing what she knew to be right
and true. It is a quality I often search for when I am faced with a tough road I
know must be traveled. My grandmother was so strong, so fearless, she even had the
courage to send her older sister to her room. Mind you, that older sister was about
60 years old at the time. I remember when this story was being told to me over a
dinner table by Dad, Uncle Jon and Uncle Tim. They rolled with laughter as they
recalled Grandma sending Auntie Helen to her room after she found her walking outside
in the oppressive heat of a summer afternoon in Georgia. Sticking to her guns, after
all this years, Grandma replied, “Well, she was acting like a fool. Out there in
the heat like that.” And Auntie Helen was no shrinking violet either, mind you.

Grandma’s strength was on display for years as a columnist for the Athens Observer.
A lifelong love affair with the written word gave her the ability to express herself
with a clear and commanding voice. A fiercely independent woman, Grandma needed
no help in making her views known. A co-worker of my grandfather, taking issue with
some of the views expressed by my Grandmother in a column, asked my grandfather
if he reviewed and approved her columns before she submitted them. He replied, “when
the byline reads Mrs. William D. King then you’ll know I approved them beforehand.”
But we know the byline never said that. Instead, it always read Mollie Parry King.

One of the most extraordinary things about my grandmother was how she was not only
one of the strongest people I have ever known, but she was also one of the kindest
and most generous. It was in her blood. Her father, a butcher in Abergavenny, would
donate food to poor farmers in the surrounding hills. But did so with care not to
offend the dignity of those proud people by accepting whatever small token of payment
they offered. Understanding that they did not want charity. Then there was her mother.
By all accounts, Grandma was rivaled only by her mother in terms of generosity,
ability and dynamic spirit. That kindness was on display in one of Grandma’s favorite
stories about the time her mother called on the family doctor on behalf of a certain
young American soldier with a bad cough. She asked the doctor if he could provide
any of that cough medicine he had used for Grandma in the past. The doctor asked,
“is Mollie sick?” My great-grandmother replied, “Well, no, but there is this young
American with a dreadful smokers cough.” The doctor looked at her and said, “Mrs.
Parry, you know you can’t mother the world.” She replied, “Yes, but I can I have
a good try at it.” I think Grandma told that story because it was an example of
the kind of life she tried to lead. The task may be daunting, but that doesn’t mean
it’s not worth a fight. And a generous act is not simply a nice thing to do, but
the right thing to do.

One of the true joys of my childhood was coming to Athens every summer for a week
long vacation with Grandma and Papa. I knew I was in store for great food, romping
through the vegetable garden, watching Braves games with Papa, and fascinating stories
from Grandma’s rich world of experiences. She always made sure I got to tag along
with Papa on whatever he was doing and even taught me a thing or two about grammar.
Each night, before I would go to bed, she would turn out the light and say to me,
“Goodnight, God Bless, see you in the morning.”

But when I really got to know Grandma was when I moved to Athens over five years
ago to attend the university. My dorm freshman year was, at times, pure chaos. And
I think that might be a phrase the Red and Black, our student newspaper, used to
describe my hall in the article they wrote after a bizarre incident involving a
fire extinguisher. I was in a place with people who perhaps would not have always
met Grandma’s high standards for conduct. But at her house, I found an oasis of
calm in the midst of the storm that was freshman year. Grandma’s generosity was
on full display with her near magical ability to always have a meat pie ready for
whenever I came, an open offer to use the washer and drying machines anytime I liked
or to even stay the night, as I did when my dorm room, during finals no less, flooded,
which was thought previously impossible considering the room was on the second floor.
Never underestimate a clogged sink’s ability to make a mess.

But the real treat of all those visits was listening to Grandma. Her sharp and restless
intellect gave her a fount of topics on which she could be conversant. Sometimes
it was politics or news. Perhaps, though, the best times were those when she would
tell her stories from back in the days when wolves were still in Wales. Grandma
had a treasure trove of tales, some amusing, others serious. I learned family history,
but in that colorful way in which Grandma could bring to life a scene, even one
involving people I had never met. During my final visit with her, last Friday, she
told me a story of a family secret involving her great aunts. She learned the secret
through honest and open conversations she would have with her father, as he lay
in bed with cancer. Years later, talking about those conversations with her older
sister, would lead Auntie Helen to remark to Grandma, “I wish I had known our father
the way you did.” I am extremely grateful that I and many others knew Grandma the
way she knew her father. Our lives are richer for it and the history of our forefathers,
her history, carries on because of it.

I think one of the things we fear about dying is the question of our legacy. Will
anyone remember me when I am gone? Is the world any different from me being there?
In the case of Grandma, the answer is a simple one. My uncle and cousins and I like
to play trivia every Thursday night and this is the type of question that would
have us scribbling down the answer as fast as possible and betting the maximum number
of points. A resounding yes. We have her words, preserved in a lifetime of columns,
letters and journals. We can see the results of her deeds in not only the community
she affected but the proud family she raised. In each of us, I see some part of
her live on. I see her strength in the no-nonsense force that is my cousin Jennifer.
Not to mention her son Gabe. My Uncle Tim remarked to me the other day. “When Gabe
is in the room, you know.” I see Grandma in the quiet determination of my cousin
Missy. And I recognize her strength in the fierce competitive spirit that pushed
my cousin Caroline to the rarefied air of elite-level gymnastics. And Lord knows,
I see Grandma’s influence all over the strong woman I can already see developing
in my sister Olivia. Recently, my mother said to me, “Do you know that your sister
was the only person in her class that had read “Pride and Prejudice?” I wonder who
recommended that book.

In addition to her strength living on in all of us Kings, and certainly we could
use it right now, that spirit of generosity and kindness lingers on. I see it everytime
my Uncles Jon and Tim think nothing of coming out during the hottest possible day
in mid-August, throwing my furniture in the back of Uncle Tim’s truck and helping
me move for the 419th time in the last five years. I see it every Christmas, when
my sister and I inevitably get that amazing gift that we would have never known
even existed, except for Dad going that extra mile to find something meaningful
and special. I know in my own life, I will carry her with me forever and I will
think of her often. Perhaps when I have my daily cup of tea, or make her beef stew,
or read a good book, or hear a good story or simply just want to smile. I will carry
her always. “There will be times when all the things she said will fill our heads,
we won’t forget her.”

A fellow Welshman, Dylan Thomas, in perhaps his most famous poem, implored his father,
facing impending death, to “rage, rage against the dying light. Do not go gentle
into that good night.” Grandma’s life was so rich and full, she could hardly be
accused of ever letting up. But that good night is upon us now. For the past few
days, we have been devastated and shrouded by its darkness. But after the night
always comes the morning and with it a time to celebrate. Celebrate a battle well
fought, a job well done, a life well lived. To paraphrase something her father was
fond of saying, “There was no one better than you and you were a sight bit better
than most.” Goodnight Grandma. God Bless. See you in the morning.