This is going to take a bit of back story.
When I was little we had a babysitter that we called Mrs. Hughes. Her name was Hazel and her husband was Charlie and they lived half a block walking distance from our house in San Gabriel. I was four years old when we moved to California and my baby brother Seth was just a few weeks old, and by the time he was about a year old he would cry every time he saw her because he knew that meant my parents were going somewhere.
My maternal grandparents lived back in Illinois and my paternal grandparents passed away before I was born, so Mrs. Hughes became kind of like my grandmother. To me it seemed like she spent an awful lot of time at our house, and to my baby brother it must have seemed like an eternity. She became like more of a family member than a babysitter. She would take care of us at night if my parents went out, and pretty soon she would be in the house after I came home from school doing the ironing or the dishes if my mom had appointments or shopping to do. The smell of ironing (that hot metal-on-cotton smell) still reminds me of her. She also baked a lot of banana bread. If I see bananas in the bowl becoming overripe, I think of Mrs. Hughes.
Mrs. Hughes taught me how to iron handkerchiefs and pillow cases (my personal chore) and how to embroider tea towels. She taught us kids how to play card games with strange names to the ears of a child who was used to "Go Fish" or "Crazy Eights" (like "Bikini", "Spit", and her favorite, "Canasta"), and then she thoroughly enjoyed playing with us, even when we grew old enough to start beating her. She was very competitive for and old lady. She loved the Dodgers and Roller Derby and if she was over at night while my parents were gone and the Roller Derby was on, she would tune in and watch. She loved those Thunderbirds. Mrs. Hughes was no wimp.
Mrs. Hughes always wore support stockings with the ropey-looking black seam up the back of the leg, and those chunky-heeled lace-up shoes that old ladies always seemed to wear back in those days. I rarely saw her wearing anything other than a flowery button-up house dress and a full-body kitchen apron with pockets. She carried a carpet-bag and always brought us suckers (either See's suckers or something smaller and slightly inferior called Dum-Dums). She wore glasses which always slid down her nose, and a hairnet. When I was little I thought her middle was made of concrete, because when you gave her a hug the corset she wore made her seem solid as a rock around the midriff.
Our relationship with Mrs. Hughes continued all through my growing up years, even when we moved to Goleta for three years. When my mom was in the hospital for surgery, my dad brought Mrs. Hughes up for a week or so to take care of us. By the time we moved back to San Gabriel, we were older, especially my older sister Sarah who could drive by then. She became Mrs. Hughes' chauffeur of sorts, because Mrs. Hughes didn't drive, and we were closer in proximity than her family for taking her to doctor's appointments or for running errands. Pretty soon my older brother Scott was taking her places too, and then as each of them grew up and moved out, it became my turn.
Taking Mrs. Hughes on an errand was an experience that made your insides crawl, especially for a teenager. I remember driving her to Perveller's Drug Store to pick up a few things, and being mortified when she asked the cute guy behind the counter to help her find the Kaopectate. As much as I loved Mrs. Hughes, my teenage priorities didn't align with being her taxi service, and I soon came to dread her frequent phone calls.
One afternoon before I turned 18, Mrs. Hughes called me for a ride to her doctor. She hadn't been feeling well lately, and he told her to come in. I had been asleep on the couch when her phone call woke me up. I told her no, I couldn't take her because I was taking a nap. She said that was okay, she would call someone else. She called back a few minutes later to tell me that she had found a ride and wouldn't need me. I said goodbye and hung up the phone and that was that. I felt slightly annoyed, and slightly guilty, but not enough to keep me from continuing my nap.
Mrs. Hughes was having heart problems and the doctor admitted her to the hospital. Over the next couple of days, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years, and was looking forward to telling Mrs. Hughes all about it when she got home. She had been telling me that he wasn't good enough for me and there were "other fish in the sea", so I knew she would be interested in hearing all about it. My birthday came and went, and maybe in my teenage selfishness I couldn't see what other people saw, because when Mrs. Hughes had a heart attack and passed away without ever coming home, it hit me as quite a surprise.
A couple of days after my birthday I received a birthday card in the mail from Mrs. Hughes. It was postmarked the day she died, so when it arrived she was already gone. Here she had been like a grandma to me, and had even been thinking of me in the hospital, and I couldn't even get up off of the couch and take her to the doctor. My last words to her had been that I wouldn't help her. It was pretty shattering, but I brushed it off. We attended her funeral and went to her graveside for her burial. I was kind of bewildered at the way I had treated her, and I didn't really want to think about it.
Fast-forward to the 1990's. Over the years I had collected my past failures and screw-ups and sins and built them up like little logs in a Jenga tower. I was under siege from spiritual warfare of major proportions and I was drowning in self-loathing. I was haunted by the idea that I should go to Mrs. Hughes' gravesite to talk to her and ask her for forgiveness. I was in counseling at the time, and was told that my notion was actually a helpful tool he thought could help break the log jam of unforgiveness in my life. I decided to give it a try and planned on the nearest holiday, Memorial Day, to make the pilgrimage.
The day came and I was sure I had made a mistake in judgement. It seemed the silliest idea ever. I was doing the dishes, very slowly - putting off the inevitable as long as possible - and listening to a Wynan's Brothers' tape. The song that was playing was "Every Day The Same" - a song about heaven.
"Every day the same
I'm going
To the city of the place
Called Heaven"
I eventually finished the dishes and, with much prodding from Don, left for Rose Hills cemetery. I had no idea where her plot was, and was hoping there would be someone there who could tell me. I stopped at the local grocery store first and went to their floral section to buy some roses - for some reason the only color they had was white. I bought the white roses and a small card and was off. On the way there, I prayed that I could have some privacy while I was doing what I intended to do. If there were people around, no way - I couldn't bring myself to talk to a grave marker all by myself like some nutter. I got off the 605 freeway, wound around to the cemetery entrance and pulled into the left-hand lane to turn up the drive, when directly across from me turning right into the same drive was the Channel 7 Eyewitness News Van. So much for my desire for privacy. Why had I picked Memorial Day?
I parked in the tiny parking lot at the Welcome Center and walked up a grassy incline to a small set-up with a few tables where people were waiting in a short line to talk to some Rose Hills associates. I got in line and when it was my turn I told the lady who I was looking for and the approximate date of her death. She picked up the phone in front of her and called in the information, wrote some instructions down on a cemetery map, and handed me the directions. I felt kind of numb, and must have looked like I was totally lost. I took the directions and made my way back to where my car was parked. I had to wait at a curb for a few cars to pass before I could get to mine, and as I waited a large, old, four-door Chevy with the windows rolled down pulled up and waited in the car line right in front of me. While I hovered there mulling over my strange task at hand, I heard music playing from the stereo inside the Chevy. I stood and listened, stunned.
"Every day the same
I'm going
To the city of the place
Called Heaven"
Do angels drive low-riders? I wanted to lean over and peek in the window to check the guy for wings. He eventually drove away and I moved in a dreamlike state to my car. There was no turning back now.
I followed the map and drove to the outlined location one more signal down Workman Mill Road, across to a stretch of the cemetery that continued below the hill. The narrow road continued around between expansive patches of green lawn, and I parked right at the edge of a grassy area and sat there, giving myself a pep talk. All I could remember from the day of her funeral was being outside the chapel after the service, and standing at the graveside, at a curve in a road with a few trees sparsely placed. I remembered that her plot was close-ish to the road, but that was it. I wasn't even sure if my memory was correct. I finally got out of the car and approached the area outlined on the map, wishing there was an "X" to mark the spot, when I spotted the trees and the curve in the road just as I had remembered them. I walked back and forth, up and down the aisles of grave markers in earnest, reading names and searching for hers. I couldn't find her name anywhere and started to get discouraged. I was sure that I had moved too far away from the road, and wondered if maybe she wasn't here after all. It was when I turned to head back to the car and leave that I found her.
Thankfully I was alone just as I had prayed. Her plot was right next to her beloved Charlie's. I sat down on the grass and brushed some leaves off her marker. It had her name written and dates of birth and death, and some inscription about always taking care of others. It wasn't hard to start talking to her; actually it was much easier than I thought. I sat cross-legged on the grass and told her everything - how sorry I was, how horrible I felt, how I wished I had been there for her. I thanked her for the birthday card. I told her about my husband and family, and that I wished she could meet them. I told her TONS of stuff. It felt like a few minutes, but it was really hours. I remembered there being a picture of Jesus in the hallway of her house - that famous portrait in brown tones of an Anglo-European Jesus with a sad face and long brown hair. I told her that I hoped that meant I would see her someday, too. I talked to her like she was there, but I knew she really wasn't. I cried a lot, too.
When I felt emotionally tired and like I couldn't cry another tear, I went to my car and got a magazine. I knew I should go home but I didn't want to leave. I sat under a nearby tree and read the magazine from cover to cover. It was a nice day and there was a cool breeze, and I was still pretty much all by myself so I didn't feel a need to hurry. Don told me to take as much time as I needed, and I was grateful for the opportunity to take total advantage of his generous offer.
Eventually I finished my magazine and felt the need to get back home. I got my white roses from the car and placed them on her marker. I was walking slowly back to my car when a light breeze kicked up and blew a white envelope across my path. It was the size of a greeting card and it tumbled end-to-end in a cartwheel for a few feet before it stopped. I hadn't seen it on the grass before. Curiosity got the better of me and I went and picked it up. On the outside was written "Grandma Hazel" in cursive.
Now, my mama taught me not to open other people's mail, but this was too much to resist. It was as if the card had tumbled from out of "nowhere", because it hadn't been near the marker that I could see and nobody had brought it while I was there. I opened the envelope and a Mother's Day card was inside. I opened it (again, sorry Mom) and saw the inside and back of the card covered in handwriting.
The writer wrote about how she was 17 and wished she had known Grandma Hazel and Grandpa Charlie, because everyone said how wonderful they were. She even mentioned wishing she could have played cards with Grandma Hazel. She said what a character everyone said Grandma was, and even though she didn't get to meet her, she wanted Grandma to know that she loved her. It was signed "Jenny".
I was dumbstruck. Again. With awe and reverence I placed the card back on Mrs. Hughes' marker next to my flowers. I got in my car and drove away, feeling amazingly blessed for having known Mrs. Hughes when her granddaughter hadn't even had the chance. Her granddaughter Jenny was the same age I had been when Mrs. Hughes died. It was too much to take in all at once.
I thought about my visit to Rose Hills almost constantly the week after that. The kids were relatively little at the time (Amanda was about 10 or 11). We had recently moved into my father-in-law's house, and still had a lot of things stored in the garage. The kids asked me if they could go out to the garage and each bring in a box of their toys to play with, and I said okay. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed when Amanda returned a few minutes later, carrying a large box. She brought it to me and said, "I think these things are yours."
I opened the box flaps and looked inside. On top of the contents was a large manila envelope filled with old papers and letters. There was a letter my dad had written to me when I was 15 and away at camp, and a letter Mrs. Hughes had written to me that same summer. But the one that was the most remarkable of all was an envelope with the postmark dated two days after my birthday, 1974. It was the birthday card from Mrs. Hughes.
I still keep it in my nightstand beside my bed.
That week was the beginning of the healing of many emotional scars. It was as if the first Jenga peg had been removed, and over the next few years the rest would be pulled one by one until the tower collapsed and the stronghold was broken. I realized that week that if God wanted to make the effort to touch someone like me, sending songs about Jesus playing from a Chevy stereo and messages from a granddaughter I'd never met who didn't know the impact her words would have on me, then I needed to give Him my baggage and trust Him. I guess he knows I'm a drama queen, and would appreciate the theatrics. But isn't He just so cool?
