For Beanie

I first met her at my sister's wedding in 1968. That's her in the brown dress she selected to fit with the color scheme of the fall wedding, and to compliment her strawberry blond hair. As far as the glasses are concerned let me just say that they were sort of "in style" in the 60's and 70's, which a perusal of any high school year book of the day will show. No one would ever mistake her for a fashion mavin, especially in contrast to my always perfect Mom, standing there in her green dress, whimsy of a hat perched atop her fashionable big hair, and the "oh yes we did wear them" white gloves. Mother poses perfectly for the camera, a practiced smile on the the sweet face I inherited from her, along with her great legs and a youthful appearance. Beanie, whose real name I barely remember as Edwina, pulls her husband Tommy to her and tries to tug her son into the same group hug she would have preferred over the formal picture. 

I remember standing there watching them with the critical eye of youthful arrogance, fueled by my mother's disapproval and disappointment in her elder daughter's choice. Ronnie, my sister's husband now these 42 years, had just returned from VietNam where he had vowed to my sister that if he came back alive she had no choice but to marry him. She was reluctant for reasons totally unrelated to his station in life, but because of their age difference and the fact that she had been his teacher for his senior English in high school, her first year out of college. No one from his family had attended college and neither his parent's dreams or means included higher education for their children. He was a miner's child and literally from the "other side of the tracks' in that small gossipy town where I was reared. 

I listened to all sides, my mother's concern over the what she saw as a dreadful social blunder, the determined pronouncement of love from this poor but honest young man, and my sister's tears as she tried to please everyone. In the end I told her to let nothing stand in the way of love. I am older and more jaded now, but I still  stand by that advice. So my Mother's chosen daughter, the one she could always manipulate and direct, made her first truly independent decision. I have to admit that after meeting the in-laws on the wedding day I too had a few second thoughts. 

My mother opened her home for the reception, a small beautiful venue, all gold and green and warm autumn day perfect. The happy bride and groom came in and cut the cake, we mulled around briefly with my sister's new family, and then the newlyeds, eager to be away from the awkwardness, went to change into their getaway clothes. I came through the dining room with a mission of some sort and found Beanie and her two daughters standing over the reception table stuffing chunks of wedding cake into their mouths with their still white gloved hands. Beanie looked up at me beaming, oblivious to the social gaff. "This sure is great cake," she said, slightly muffled as her mouth was a bit too full to speak.  

The years flew by, some slow, some fast. My sister settled into married life, a baby son arrived to be the joy of their hearts, my sister came to be my matron of honor in my own mother-orchestrated wedding disaster, but never in all those years did my parents embrace the man who made my sister happy. Mention of his family always washed across my mother's face like a shadow, a lingering distaste. When my sister and I spoke however she nearly always had a "Beanie" story to tell. They were hysterically funny, never boring, and a picture began to emerge of a woman who lived life with no apologies, but whose unabashed ignorance was as remarkable as her love for all those around her. One trip to Beaver Dam on the fourth of July we stopped to watch the hometown parade troop down main street. Among the horses and marching bands came a pickup truck with a rocking chair in the back. Sitting in the chair and waving at the crowd sat a little wrinkled lady with a baby on her lap. The hand painted banner on the side of the truck said "Beanie and little Bean". The crowd cheered wildly and when I turned to see the look on my sister's face it was one of love and delight.

On one visit my sister pushed me to "go to visit with Beanie". After my mother died in 1994 and Beanie's husband Tommy had also passed, my sister started going on daily visits to her mother in law. I saw no comfortable way out, so I got in the car for the short trip to her house. It looked exactly as one would imagine, the yard full of little wind spinning birds and flowers purchased at Walmart, a gazing ball, bird bath, concert dogs, cats, chickens and plastic flowers in hanging baskets. Inside sat Beanie on the flowered sofa but she rousted herself up to come hug my sister and me equally. For the hour I spent there she managed to make both of us feel like we were the most important people on earth. It was then I realized the most amazing and wonderful thing about this sweet lady. She saw everyone exactly the same. President or Mexican yard worker, the queen or the postman, we were all her welcomed guest. In sharp contrast to the agonizing chore of seeing my own mother in law, who spends most of our time complaining that I don't come often enough, I found myself reluctant to leave the busy little house. Over the years to follow I always made a trip to Beanies a must do when I went to Kentucky. She loved seeing pictures of my children and grandchildren as if they were her own. I honestly don't think she ever saw a flaw in anyone. She was the very definition of unconditional love.

My sister called me a few weeks ago to give me the news that Beanie was going into hospice care. She had not been doing well for the past month but had continued to reassure everyone that she would be "just fine" and begged them not to worry about her. When told about hospice, she had immediately asked if she could stay in her house, but her daughter insisted she come to stay with her just for a while. Beanie made her promise that when she got better she could go home. I asked my sister if she understood what hospice meant. "Yes," said Eleanor, "but Beanie has a unique ability to hold two opposing ideas in her mind at the same time and believe them both equally." 

Last night she slipped away peacefully in her sleep. Her last words to her children and grandchildren were simple. "Take care of each other and don't worry about me. I'll be fine." She had been concerned about how much trouble she was causing. She told her daughter last week, "Why don't you just take me to that dog place?" Everyone was briefly alarmed until they remembered that the local nursing home was called Dogwood Care Center. There are tears at her passing of course, I've shed more than a few this morning, but Beanie had a way of making even a desperate situation amusing. She also had left behind a legacy of one liners so filled with wisdom and humor that no one will be able to wallow in grief. I could write a book, but I'll leave you with one, my favorite. Several of the the ladies around her were talking about plastic surgery. "Well," says Beanie thoughtfully, "You can have a face lift, but you'll still be old, won't you." I laugh as I imagine her this beautiful Mother's Day morning with her true nature made manifest, smooth smiling face, a white robe, and of course, a shock of soft red hair flowing over her wings.