Lessons from Obituaries: Guest Post from Mom (Angela Silverthorne)

Mom's back!!

Several weeks ago, I asked Mom to write a post explaining how she uses the obituaries to find character names (because I've always found it fascinating). I had to twist her arm a bit, okay a lot, but here it is. Enjoy.

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Mom/Nana with Sydney
(Granddaughter #8)
Kate Gresis: Photographer


Obit Primer Reader and More . . .

It’s awkward when your children notice oddities about you that aren’t oddities at all. And then you have to give an explanation to all their whys. And explain what seems strange to some is perfectly normal to others. Then they ask you to blog about it, adding insult to injury. But, I ain’t too proud!

I admit it. I read the obituary column daily. It’s as natural for me as flipping over the newspaper and reading it back to front, the same way I do magazines. The only reading materials I don’t approach this way are books. (Thought I’d head off some dang fool that would inadvertently ask about this one, giving that hawked expression people get when they want to prove you to be slightly off.)

As a child, my Papa would pull me up in his lap every morning and we’d read the newspaper, back to front, ending with the obituary column. This was my daily reading lesson. I only had to read the headlines, but I struggled with foreign names and countries. Papa helped and pushed. I knew if I balked or whined a little, he would excuse me and move on.

The obituaries were always near the front of the paper and undoubtedly my favorite column. As soon as he turned the page to the obits, he announced, “Well, let’s see who died today. That way I’ll know which hadyah (hellraiser) I’ve got to deal with at work!” Then he’d let out a hearty laugh.

I didn’t understand it, but it always sounded upbeat, not morbid at all. After I read the deceased name, I would always pause, waiting for Papa to share something about their life. We lived in a small town in Georgia and Papa knew everyone. Most of the time he started with something positive, “Poor Mae, she tried, but couldn’t win for losing. Had three husbands and not one of them counted for chicken shit.” Then he would apologize for spilling out a bad word, reminding me he wasn’t being discourteous to the dead.

That’s when he’d remind me how the truth can hurt. One day I read off the name Emmitt Grundy. This time, there wasn’t one pause. “Damn fool finally died. The saints rejoice!” Then Papa grabbed the paper out of my small hands, pulled it up close to his spectacles and growled, “Half crazy, hadyah! The batard!”

My eyes were huge, hanging on everything he said—and believe me, when an Acadian-French gets riled up, you better listen close. English vowels and consonants don’t have a chance to come out in any natural linguistic inflection. Rather, his first language erupted in guttural tones, and flailing arms.

By now, I had been expelled from his lap, and he was pacing the floor. I never knew what the ruckus was about, and it didn’t matter. To me, the world had opened up into a giant movie screen, and I had a front row seat!

Years later I asked him about his reaction. He repeated the same thing, this time in English, “Half crazy, hellraiser! The Dog!” But that’s as far as he would elaborate on Emmitt, except to say the sorry SOB was in hell.

The obits were my primer reader, but looking back they became more. When I began writing, character’s names flowed from an arsenal of saints and hooligans taken straight from the obituary column. Names of people I never knew were resurrected into a new life of experiences. Emmitt has had at least three other lives to his credit. And Quillie, from Depression Cookies, claimed another life years after her passing.

During the 15 years I volunteered with Hospice, patient names, personalities and life stories became interwoven into a lot of my writing. In some ways, it makes me feel as if I’ve given them another chance, another round at another life.

So . . . always remember “good men must die, but death cannot kill their names.” (author unknown)

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What are some of your favorite character names (from books or movies)?

Mine: Daisy Fay (Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man) and Katniss Everdeen (Hunger Games). Worst: Renesmee (Breaking Dawn).

Letter Writing Continues

This month, I'm participating in A Month of Letters Challenge. I've written a letter each postal day in February, and I'm loving it. To be completely fair, I write a few letters a month normally and send thank you notes for even the smallest gestures.

Maybe it's because I move so much and am always separated from friends and loved ones. It's easy for me to think of someone I want to write to. I even mailed my daughter her birthday card instead of just handing it to her this year. She was impressed, no small feat with two tweens in the house.

My plan is to continue through March, probably because when I sat down and wrote my list of letter recipients, I had way too many for just February.

Now I just need to find some fun stationery. I was disappointed when I went to Target looking for some. Totally weak selection. I guess letter writing really is dying. I just hope I don't show up to Target one day to find the book section sized down or, gasp, gone.

It's not too late to join in. You don't even have to officially sign up. Just start writing letters. I bet you'll be surprised by the number of people you want to send a letter to and how much they will appreciate it.

This challenge got me thinking... who I would love to get a letter from? Although I would love to receive letters from many people, it was loved ones who are no longer with me that came to mind. I sure wish I could hear from my grandmother (Maezelle) and Great Aunt Mary (my first daughter is named after her). I'd like them to tell me how I'm doing and what they would have done differently.

If you could receive a letter from anyone, who would it be?

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Tonight is my middle daughter's 10 year old slumber party, so I had to share a picture of her (and the cupcakes we spent much of last night making).

Her birthday thank you notes are already bought. She can sit down with me and write letters tomorrow.

A Family Steeped in Creative Arts: Tub-Full Tuesday

I am blessed to come from a family of storytellers, writers, and readers. My maternal grandmother lined an entire room with books. My mom told bedtime stories to us as children from her imagination. They both taught us the love of reading and writing. But creative energy comes from Dad's side, too. My dad's oldest nephew, Marty Silverthorne, is a multi-published poet.

When my husband and I got married, I asked Marty to read an original poem made for us. No pressure! I promise to share that piece at a later date. I've been married sixteen years and moved many times, so I have to dig out the dust-covered wedding memories box!

I asked Marty how he started writing poetry. His response, "I fell in love with the music of poetry. I have always loved music. When I discovered poetry, it was a music I could write. It was a way to let memories shine. I love the old stories and come from a long line of storytellers, good and bad."

I am so thankful for generations of creativity... it truly fills my tub. I'm sharing one of Marty's poems today. Enjoy!

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Handiwork

He extends his arm, bent at the elbow,
fingers drawn, like he is reaching
for or giving away something.
He is speaking with his hands
like his father before him.

Everything I got, I got with these hands.
I quit the ninth grade and went
to work at Ed Moore’s Pure Oil.
He was a nasty bastard and I quit
working for him before I  killed him.
I drove my two-tone Ford home,
crying all the way to your mama
stretched out on the bed by the box fan
bloated with you, Boy.
She helped me bring myself together;
I went out and got a job before sunset.
That’s the longest I’ve ever been unemployed.
These hands have scraped to make a living;
all I’ve got I built with these hands.
Times ain’t always been this good but it
looks like they’re going backwards again.
With your mama’s help and the Lord above,
I’ll pull this plow as long as there’s land to bust.

His empty hands brim with sunshine,
outstretched arms appear weary now,
palms full of sunlight and waiting.

©2010 by Marty Silverthorne

Marty Silverthorne holds degrees from St. Andrews Presbyterian College and East Carolina University. He has published four chapbooks “Dry Skin Messiah,” “Pot Liquor Promises,” "No Welfare, No Pension Plan,” and “Rewinding at 40.”  Marty’s poetry has been published in many literary journals including Tar River Poetry, North Carolina Literary Review, St. Andrews Review, and Pembroke to name a few. Marty currently works as a Clinical Addiction Specialist in Greenville, North Carolina.

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I, too, love music, and I love the idea of poetry as music. Is poetry music to you?