Goodbye to the last of the ladies from 'The Honey Farm'

Shortly after the end of the game last night, the phone rang. I looked at the clock: Little hand at the eight, big hand almost on the nine -- 8:45 PM -- almost no one that I know calls after eight. I got that uneasy feeling, that foreboding that comes with the inkling that something is not right.

It was my father. His whisper of a voice was raspy and broken; his breathing more labored than normal.

"I can't talk long, son." It was his way of letting me know the subject was about to get uncomfortable. "Just wanted to let you know before you found out from someone other than family... (he clears his throat) ... Christine passed away a couple hours ago. Thought you should know."

A pleasant goodbye followed and he was gone. I think I listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before I realized it.

Christine was the last of the great aunts from THE HONEY FARM.

Okay, I must admit, that requires some explanation. When my grandfather was alive and I was much younger, he'd tell me the story that he got my Nana from 'the honey farm'. For years, that explanation remained sufficient in my head: Nana lived on a farm where they raised honeybees. It was only when I was dating my first girlfriend that Pappy told me the real story. Smiling at 'my girl' as he looked at us both, he said, "She's pretty enough she could have come from the honey farm." Of course, when my girlfriend asked about the honey farm, he touched her cheek, smiled and said with a wink, "That's where I got his grandmother. She was one of six sisters and they were all 'sweet honeys' and pretty as wildflowers. Of course, I picked the best one."

Thus, I learned the real meaning of 'The Honey Farm'.

Every one of the sisters was like having another grandmother. They all adopted Erma's (my grandmother's) grandkids when she passed in July 1994. Christine was mad at all of them for passing before her, so she said "the least she could do to get back at them was to steal their grandkids."

I guess you can tell from that little story that she was a spitfire of a woman, even at 86.

I hadn't heard much from Christine in recent months because she'd been ill and, honestly, with my schedule, I didn't get out to Altoona, PA very often. (That's where the Honey Farm was and Christine was the only one of her sisters to remain in the area.) Last I saw her was at a gathering in early fall and she had to admit she forced herself to get there... family always comes first.

It took me a little while to get through to Christine's daughter, Barbara. When I inquired, evidently Christine's been in / out of the hospital for kidney and liver related issues (e.g., there is no real donor program when you're that old), and her body had reached the point where enough was enough. Her daughter told me she was looking poorly since Thurs night, very ash-yellow in color, but had tired of the hospitals and asked to be left alone. I was told her exact words were, "One more doctor comes at me to poke or prod and I'll remove his privates through his mouth!" I can imagine her kids, wanting to argue, but dutifully saying, "Yes, ma'am" and then arranging to accommodate her need for comfort. Her hard Pennsylvania-German accent would make anyone listen.

Yeah, she was a spitfire.

I've no doubt, that from that point forward, she was lying there with someone always at her side. After much talking, hugging, cheek patting and kissing over the past two days, she eventually passed, peacefully, very late in the afternoon on Sunday. I had to smile when Barb mentioned the kissing. Christine always wore a very red lipstick and made sure to leave 'her mark' when she kissed you. When Barb told me that, when close to the end, her mother carried on a bit about the farm and her sisters, she broke down and cried. Never quite sure how to handle such things, I said to her that evidently Christine was making one last visit through her favorite memories before taking her last breath.

I don't think we're wired to accept death...
...not really.

Who in their right mind and health would be able to choose the day of their death? We all know it's coming, but we resist the idea of it and it hits us like a ton of bricks when someone is gone. Even someone of advanced years has a desire to continue living on, and Christine was no different. She had dreams yet to fulfill, dreams she shared with her daughter in those quiet moments before her death.

"Remember good times," she told her daughter somewhere in the course of discussing her life.

So, in her honor, I do. Actually, it's easy. With Christine, all the times were good. I remember huge family get-togethers with all the extended family there at my grandparents home, which was a good six-acre spread crawling with relatives.

My first memory of Christine is rather comical. It happened at one of the dinners my grandfather used to pull together. No special event -- he just felt like taking everyone out to dinner. Therefore, in a room full of relatives, I had somehow graduated from the kiddy table to one of the adult tables. No, I was far from adult, but the kiddy table had overflowed with grandkids, so I felt special being moved to sit with adults. On my best behavior, I sat next to mom and across from Christine. When she ordered her meal, I heard in disbelief as the waitress took her order.

"I'll have the crap cakes," she bellowed in that booming accent of hers.

I looked incredulously at my mother.

"Mom!" I said a bit too loudly. "Why is Christine ordering crap cakes? That's yucky!"

Everyone at the table had a good laugh at my expense as my mother quietly smiled and leaned down to whisper in my ear, "Not crap cakes... CRAB cakes."

I have to admit, when Christine shared a forkful of her crab cakes with me, from that moment on, they became one of my favorite sea foods.

I am sure the ladies of The Honey Farm will have a wonderful reunion.

Edit: A poignant memory...

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Copyright © 2008 Landen Michaels / STRESSEDwriter