There are worse things than death. But still we fight it tooth and coffin nail, no matter how much pain or sickness has eaten away at our very bones. We fight that inevitable sleep, like new babies not wanting to miss the next taste of sweet milk or bright flicker of light. We fight to keep our eyes open. We run mad into the night. We medicate and pray and curse until that old sleep finally wins.
And it always wins.
It was not always so desperately fought, that long sleep. Death was the bastard cousin nobody liked but welcomed anyway, for its visit was as natural as the sunset. It was as common as birthdays and Christmas and Winter. Less than a century ago, many a house here in the mountains had two front doors. One for good days, and the other that opened into a parlor for sittin’ up with the dead and the company that would surely come. Funeral doors, they were called, and they opened into a quaint room where folks could come and go as they pleased and look upon the dearly departed without having to set foot into the rest of the house and spoil their welcome.
In those somber old days, death visited so frequently that it had its own room.
And folks would sit up all night with the deceased and dance the flatfoot and sing hymns and drink ‘shine and wail and pray for good measure. They sat up all night to keep the cats and rats and vermin from creeping into the coffin. And sometimes they’d pay good money to get their pictures made with the deceased, for remembrance of good times and history, for both were fleeting in those days. It wasn’t unheard of for folks to take the dead and prop them up on the couch or the porch or wherever they were most comfortable and had their immortal pictures taken. And there are more than a few photos of regular caskets in regular living rooms in family albums and on mantles throughout these hills, even nowadays.
But in the olden times, they’d sometimes have to wait for days on end for family to receive word of the recently dead, and they were left to do their best to preserve the remains for viewing. They’d place cloths soaked in camphor and alcohol and even salt water upon the faces of the dead, to preserve a more natural color and assure a decent enough body for viewing.
Death is not beautiful to look at. But that’s only the physical side of that bastard cousin. We are more than these shells we walk around in, I promise you.
I have personally been privy to the witnessing of death itself, many times, both by circumstance and destiny. Death is not beautiful, as I said, despite those romantic scenes in black and white movies and the tragic parts of lovelorn novels. Death is dressed in plain clothes and agape mouths and the most astounding silence you can fancy. Death comes one of two ways: it either comes peaceful and serene, or it comes kicking and screaming. Most times, it is the former, thank our loving God and nature. But regardless of the final way, it is like that proverbial train wreck; we cannot help but look upon it despite its accursed plainness.
And you and I both know why.
Death is our most solemn and looming adversary, and yet our most sought after mystery. We hope beyond our grief to gain some knowledge from it, to see or hear or know something that Life has never told or shown us. That place beyond death is the only nirvana we have not yet been or have even seen pictures of, and yet it is the final place we will call home.
But I can tell you a few of death’s secrets, ones that I have witnessed with my own mortal eyes. And these are the truth.
Many folks on the verge of departing from this world see and even speak to those who have gone before them. I’ve seen them reach out with confident hands and happy smiles and let their fears dissipate into old remembrances and nuances of whispers from their Mama or Daddy or their dear ol’ Granny. I have seen the lights flicker—actually flicker and tremble with an electric energy I cannot see—at the very moment when a body lets go of its crowning breath.
I have felt the room grow crowded with nobody I could see and felt the brush of shoulders against mine when I was the only living soul with the departing. I have witnessed other flashes of light, whirls of flyspeck orbs of white in a spinning spiral, fleeting and sure, above the heads of the nearly gone.
But no, death is not beautiful. It robs the body of its rosy lips and bright eyes. It stiffens the jaw and stills the chest. It erases the lines of worry from the face and removes the person you knew from that still figure and sends them into that spiral of light. And you cannot go with them. Not today.
But I have been privy to witness many a dying, as I said. And each time it has been an odd sort of blessing, and while I don’t long to meet ol’ death, I know for certain that one day we shall meet in some trench that I was unable to escape. And I know beyond knowing that those lights will flicker and Granny and Daddy and the others will show up, and I’ll be happy to see them again, and they will pull me into that spiral of a white whirlwind and I’ll be away with them.
To where, I really can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen that place yet. But wherever that nirvana is, they are, and I will be also. But no, not today. I still have things to do. And so do you.
And I can’t say that I’ll go willingly when the time creeps upon me. After all, things are pretty good the way they are. I like it here. And yes, sometimes even pain becomes comfortable, especially when compared to the otherwhere. But I figure I was content, wherever I was, before I was born. And it’ll be the same when the long sleep comes.
Still, I don’t imagine I’ll just greet that cousin with open arms.
There are worse things than death. But I will likely still run mad into the night, even though I know for certain that in the waiting end, we are not alone. I’ll still fight that sleep, waiting for that sweet milk. And beyond my heavy eyes, I will remember the flickering lights and the rooms crowded with nobody I could see. And Granny will tell me that supper is waiting, and to hurry up and get on home. And I’ll be glad to go.
And I will not fear death. I will run free. I will find ol’ Death before he finds me!
Dec. 24, 2017: Death has always frightened me, but believing in God helps me cope with the harsh realities of life. The first death I experienced was that of my first cousin, Elizabeth Marie Trambley of Las Vegas, New Mexico. We rode our bicycles together, but it was her strong faith in the Blessed Virgin Mary that gave her the strength to fight childhood diabetes in the mid 60s. Litzie passed away two weeks before her 13th birthday, but I still remember her favorite color of pink splashed throughout the funeral service (pretty dress, flowers, and coffin). It broke my heart…. life only got worse for me. Some of the Martinez relatives from Mora, New Mexico are said to be witches….incest there too. (Las Vegas is only 30 miles to the south–Town of Witches.) As a Roman Catholic, I continue to be perplexed by witchcraft from God’s perspective. Granny Witchcraft is most likely similar to New Mexico Witchcraft, but hasn’t He warned us of such things? Believe me–I’ve tried to live a godly life but Satan seems to know my family quite well. I know there has been a curse on my life, so I’ve finally given up. (My Grandpa Pacheco tried to live a godly life too, but his prayers for a family that loved God died with him.) Scriptures: 1) ‘For I know the plans I have for you’, declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’. Jeremiah 29:11; and 2) Blessed are those who do His commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter through the gates into the city. But outside are dogs and sorcerers and sexually immoral and murderers and idolaters, and whoever loves and practices a lie. Rev. 22:14-15} Blessings in 2018, KATE
Very true. We all have an appointment with death.
I think the first death I remember was the husband of my stepfather’s sister. The body was in their living room, but I never went that far. At least I had a job to do, play with the youngest ‘baby girl.’ Many times I heard his extended family talk about going to sit with bodies of relatives & friends even later when most were in funeral homes not their own homes. Never happened in my maternal family, but it gave me a peaceful feeling that people had such strong feelings for the person that they would do this. Always felt blessed to be their when my mother died in the hospital and the last hospital visitor to be with my stepfather, closest aunt & mother-in-law. It did give me sorrow, but peace later.
When my mother was dying of cancer, she while sitting in the kitchen, would reach out as if someone was there. I knew the veil was thinning for her. I wish I had stayed with her when the time came for her to cross over. That I regret.
This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read and something I desperately needed to see today. Thank you for everything.
This takes me back.
Thank you so much for that. My mother just recently passed and I really needed to read this. Thank you one thousand times.
It was so beautifully written. I think what is lacking today is caring for our loved ones once they pass. Death has become so sterile so cold. I think we should go back to getting the body ready for burial and having a wake.
You amaze me. Just found you. I am in awe of what your writing can conjure up in a person.
Thank you, Ruth.
I am from Harlan, Kentucky and have heard the death traditions of never leaving the body alone for even a minute. My mom would reminisce of “The men sat up all night while my Daddy lay corpse”. Quarters were placed on the eyelids to assure that they stayed shut. Mirrors were always covered when someone passed. I have been an ICU and ER nurse for 29 years and have seen many peaceful deaths and many disturbing deaths. The feeling of the room is very specific. One of the expressions that has stuck with me and I sense strongly in patients and non-patients is I can always see when “Death is on him”, or her. Sometimes they won’t feel sick at the time. My maternal grandmother and maternal aunt had death premonitions and I (unfortunately) do as well. My paternal grandmother could look at a woman and tell if she was pregnant. She would say, “She is put”. This grandmother always spoke in tongues when she was off by herself. I love the rich traditions of our mountains and the blood that flows through our veins. Thank you for your writings.
I love what you have written here too, Tamara. We mountain folk just have it in us.
Absolutely excellent writing and I’m so grateful I found your blog!! I’m a Granny who has lived in the southwest all my life and so much of this essay brings back memorial memories for me. Many thanks!
Brings back memories of my granny’s death, like diamonds tucked away for a rainy day. Stella Jane Pierson…laid out in that big box in the front room, lookin’ all pale and serene in her lavender dress. My grandpa in his rocking chair, keenin’ by her side. My height and years were sadly lacking. I could not see what they were all peering at until a lady lifted me up so I could see what death looked like in Poor Valley, Virginia. A little girl’s first glimpse of the void.
“To where, I really can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen that place yet. But wherever that nirvana is, they are, and I will be also. But no, not today. I still have things to do. And so do you”………. faith
Thank you peace came with this. Memory of my grand parents that I hold so dear to my heart.
Beautiful . Thank You .
Keep writing! You touch us in places we don’t want to see but yearn to know.
Your writing is wonderful! Hope you are planning to turn your essays into a book. Best wishes
I believe death is a beginning, not an end. Death is physical, but we are not physical beings, we are spiritual beings. Nice post.
It is our tradition to leave out honey for sweet energy and water for the wandering thirst for seven days as the spirit travels between the realms. So many memories.
I too have been present when my parents “set up with the dead”. I was too small to understand what was going on but old enough to know it was serious business. Somber, sad and yes dark business. I contribute my avoidance of anything to do with the dead until my adult years to the early experiences with the rituals. I had an aunt who would attend every funeral at the local funeral home, whether she knew them or not , out of some morbid curiosity I presume. We talked about her as if she were a witch, amongst other reasons, for attending funerals of people she hadn’t ever known. She would just sit some where in the crowd as if she were a long lost cousin going through the ritual with the family, not saying a word, just being present in a very ghostly detached way. It gave us younger ones in the family something to talk about. Yep, she was a legend for sure, strange that one.
Thank you for your brilliance. It would be grand to meet you, to share some of my work with you. You touch the soul, you keep the old hill spirit alive and I appreciate it. I write about things military, but I too have written about demons, about death, about redemption or the search therefor. Maybe one day I will be fortunate enough to meet you. As it is I am pleased my sister first shared your work with me. Write on…
Loved your essay on death.
I always enjoy reading these precious stories . I am immediately transported back into a childhood of memories that I haven’t thought about in years. Thanks! Theresa
Thank you….thank you
funny about how we here in Appalachia take photos of the dead… my husband who is just over 50 took about 12 of his father who had passed unexpectedly. We weeped together when we packed up the camera. It was as if we hoped that we had captured the last of his life on film to hold on to later.
We do want to know the unknowable, don’t we? I would caution about our tendency to hold fast to the belief that we have time to live beyond today. In truth, to be fully alive is to know that today is all there is; should tomorrow become another today, then we may live in it also. But never presume to anticipate a time to come; you may lose your today.
As always, you have given me cause me to ponder. Thank you for that.