I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted. The last three weeks have been a whirlwind
for good, bad and sad reasons. Ideally,
I would create three posts for three weeks – all full of witty creativity and
insights – but I can’t really do that this time. I am going to just type and get it out
there. Because that is what my soul just
needs to do.
August 12-16 I was traveling with Heifer. I visited a region called Puno. We were in the city of Puno on the shores of
Lake Titicaca. I was there with a
co-worker and the purpose of our visit was multifaceted: Attend a Pass on the Gift Ceremony, meet with
local project holders and project partners, and for me to begin my research on
the impact of Heifer Peru’s work with women.
Immediately following my trip, I created a blog post about my experience
at the Pass on the Gift ceremony. Because
the trip was almost entirely Heifer related, I am waiting on permission from
Heifer International to share more of my experiences there. It may be posted on the Heifer blog if I’m
lucky and I will share it with you all that way. I can
say though, that it was a great trip. It
allowed me to see Heifer’s active work for the first time in Peru. (For
those of you who aren’t completely familiar with my work here and where I am,
Heifer’s main office in Peru is located in Lima. The actual “field work” where we provide
training and deliver animals and other inputs is located in the more remote,
rural regions of the country. So I work
in an office, but will often visit the field to see, evaluate and monitor
projects.)
I gave a presentation – in butchered Spanish – to a group of
campesinas. I shared my experiences in
Nepal and compared the two countries and the challenges that women face in each
– there are many similarities. The women
seemed to soak it up and appreciate
it. And I very much appreciated what
felt like my first small success/accomplishment with my work here. It was good for all of us.
The trip to Puno was a very good chance for me to connect
more closely with Heifer’s work here in a personal way. And I needed it. I posted earlier about the stages of culture
shock and how I’ve been feeling. Seeing
the face of poverty up close provides one with a good swift kick in the
gut. When an old man walks up to you
with tears in his eyes and says “Don’t forget us”….. you never will.
Once I returned from Puno I was more fired up about being
here. I returned on Thursday and went to
work for half a day on Friday. The
weekend was great. My boys and I (thanks
to Bryan’s exploring) found the San Isidro market. It is between our house and the ocean and
just a short walk away. What a great
find! HERE we can buy fresh fruits and
veggies, bread, paper goods, cereal, flowers….lots of stuff that is way
overpriced at the nearest grocery store.
Good to know.
So then back to work on Monday. All is good.
Then I get an email from my mom on Tuesday telling me that she
“hasn’t heard anything about Frances but I’ll let you know if there are any
changes.” What? This is totally news to me. I knew Frances was in the hospital recovering
from surgery, but what is this about?
Why the need for an update? So,
of course the panic sets in.
Frances Hardin Byrd is the mother of my Dad’s best friend,
Paul Byrd. If you know me and my family
you’ve heard me refer to the Byrds all my life.
Paul and his wife Jane were there when I was born and Jane boasts that
she was the first to see me. Paul and
Jane have five kids. They named their
firstborn son Thomas Edward after my Dad.
*Here is where I need an editor. I have no idea how to explain in words the
meaning and importance of the Byrd family in my life. After the sentence “Paul and Jane have five
kids” I could go on for years.*
I’m digressing….
So Frances Byrd is special – to say the least. As far as I have ever known, she is my
grandmother. I’ve spent every Christmas
Eve, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and a thousand other southern nights at
her home with her and her husband, former Justice Conley F. Byrd. They lived at 2711 Byrd Road in Redfield,
Arkansas. My hometown. It
wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I learned that I wasn’t actually a “real”
cousin – whatever that means. They Byrd
family was and is my family.
Back to Tuesday, the
email from mom, and my panic:
Apparently, Frances’ body had just had enough. A few weeks ago she fell and broke her hip
and was hospitalized. One of her sisters
had passed away on the day of Frances’ surgery.
During her recovery after the surgery in the hospital, her kidneys and
lungs just started shutting down. She
suffered from emphysema and diabetes but was a damn tough woman and you would
have never known, usually, that she was even sick. But, the last year has been harder on her body
and her mind. But in the back of my mind,
and perhaps all of her grandchildren, she was invincible. All she had to do was get over this one more
road bump and she’d be back in her chair by the window.
But not this time. Frances
passed away on August 22 in the early morning hours. She was 85.
Her children had had some warning and she was surrounded by love until
the very end.
My mom sent me a text saying “Frances has passed” at 8:36am
on Wednesday morning.
This is where I take a
break from typing to regain my composure and dry the tears that seem to
constantly be on the surface these days…..
By noon on the same day – thanks to my wonderful,
resourceful husband and through the speed and graciousness of the Heifer
headquarters F&A staff - Davis and I had tickets to Arkansas on bereavement
leave. We departed Lima at 12:15am on
Thursday morning. My mom picked us up at
the airport and we drove straight to Redfield to 2711 Byrd Road – where I
stayed for almost three solid days.
Frances also had 3 other children, 17 grandchildren and 15
great-grandchildren. Her obituary is here. Something
to notice when you read it (and if you don’t read it then I’ll point it out for
you) – is that my parents were listed as honorary children and my sister, Bryan
and I were listed as honorary grandchildren. I had the honor of speaking at her funeral
alongside some of her other grandchildren and children.
Deep breaths.
You see, I could write a novel about those three days in her
home and all the memories I have with her and her family. Actually, novels HAVE been written about Frances’
family, her sisters and brother and her own parent’s legacy. I could write about all the stories that were
told, the raw emotion her husband expressed as he grieved the loss of his wife
of 63 years, the laughter that was shared when reflecting on some of her pranks,
the many reflections on how it was such the typical “grandma’s house” like how
her candy basket stayed full and no one ever saw her fill it, the dozens and
dozens of people that walked through the doors to offer condolences, and the
angst that we all felt as we realized
that when we left for our own homes at the end of the weekend, that the place
would never ever be the same again. That
this was the last time we would see it just that way. With her nick-knacks everywhere, her letters
and papers she stacked everywhere, the thousands of pictures she kept in albums
full of her family and friends, the books, the smell…so much. It is impossible to describe. She was one of the greatest women that I’ve
ever known. She was “green” before green
was cool. She was a writer, a teacher, a
farmer, a lawyer when her husband was sick, a campaign manager, a newspaper
editor, a chemist, a champion free-throw shooter, a fierce competitor, mean
checker play – a mother, wife, sister, friend and more. What she was best at (and this is according
to me – one blaring theme of the weekend is that everyone had a different
reason for Frances being special) was making every single person that knew her
feel like they were special to her for their own special reason. That you and her had a special bond like no
other. That you were #1 in her eyes no
matter what.
Ms. Frances. I
believe that in a person’s life they can count, usually on just one hand, the
number of people in their lives that will love them no matter what. Like hard core love, through thick and thin. When you make mistakes, they don’t care. For me, Frances was one of those
people.
When I spoke at the funeral, I read a letter to her that I wrote
a few days after she died. It was buried
with her in her coffin, along with a plastic Easter egg with one Peruvian Sole
(coin) inside of it. She hid the same plastic
eggs every year. Each with a dime inside. Davis put a bag of turnip seeds in her coffin
from him and his Papaw. She loved my Dad’s
turnip greens. I also spoke on behalf of
my father at the funeral. He is
currently in Alaska and couldn’t make it home.
His absence was very weird.
Everyone kept expecting him to be in the back room somewhere drinking
coffee and telling stories. At first, he
didn’t have anything he wanted to share at the funeral, but he changed his mind
at the last minute and sent it to me. Here is what I said on his behalf:
“Now that I can think better, I DO have something you can
say for me about Frances. From Tom Tom,
from Alaska: Frances had the house and home
where I could go and visit. Where I
could jump off this fast spinning world we live in and just REST. A place where I could go and listen to her
describe the people I would have loved to have met. People like Alf Hardin, Walter Wolfe, Slick
Caw’ze, Orvel Clark and XL Carter. I
could listen to her describe the farms that washed away and the people that
made things keep going. The timing in
her speech, that only she had, that went with the stories she told was like a
gift, like her.”
It was one of the most moving and intimate services I’ve
ever attended. No one gave a sermon to
save souls – it was just a few people who told their favorite Frances story or
special memory of her. It was
beautiful. So many people were there. She would have loved it. Family and friends – that was what was most
important to Frances. And afterwards,
everyone went to her home and ate. Just
like always. Just like she would have
wanted.
SO. I am now back in
Peru. Getting a dose of my family and friends in
Arkansas was a surreal experience. It
was a great feeling to be in Redfield albeit for a crappy reason. Bittersweet.
Everyone kept saying that – that they wished I wasn’t there but they
were glad I was there. I felt like I was
in some movie, like Fried Green Tomatoes or Steel Magnolias. It felt like a dream. And now I’m back and I still feel like I’m in
a dream. I got back to my house in Lima
in the wee hours of Wednesday morning and was completely exhausted all
day. Today, Thursday, is a national
holiday in Peru and we are home again. I’m
still dazed, still kinda confused, and still wondering just how my world works
without Ms. Frances being at the end of 2711 Byrd Road when I get back home
next summer. I’ve ventured out once in
the last 24 hours – to the grocery store.
Turns out, life kept moving over the last week while mine seemed to
stand still.
 |
| 2711 Byrd Road. This is what home looks like to me. |
Ms. Frances hated it when I travelled. I’d be so happy to tell her where I was going
next and always surprised when she frowned and said “But WHY?” She did not want me to move to Peru!
So, Ms. Frances, I’m sorry that I wasn’t home when you
passed. I’m sorry that I chose to travel
far away from home and that it worried you.
And now you’re gone. You’re up there
with my Papaw and my other grandparents.
And while it is extremely hard for me to understand and trust, I know
that I’m going to be just fine in this country and on this adventure. And not because you’re looking down on me
from there. But because of what you
equipped me with when you were here. Thank you.
