(Note: I wrote this essay several years ago; a different version was published in a short-lived magazine. Still, I miss this woman. She would have had great insight into today's issus — MSC).
She was already old when I first met her, seventy-nine, to be exact.
Long past the days of flirting and summer dresses. Long past those sultry, sticky Arkansas nights and lovemaking enveloped by the smell of a Magnolia tree.
She'd lived through Selma, "the trouble" and King's march.
Al Jolson no longer topped the Hit Parade and Orivil Fabus hadn't been in office for years.
She was in the twilight of her life.
For her the days were sorter, the summers hotter, and the winters colder. She tired easily and couldn't recall things like she used to.
She had aged.
Time had taken once smooth skin and creased it with wisdom and worry. Her hair — years ago it was bobbed and black — was now pure white.
Thick glasses framed a pair of bright eyes which always seemed to be searching. They could look right through you, right into your soul.
Her hearing wasn't the best.
Once in a while you had to repeat what you had said. Other times, the hearing aid was turned off, on purpose; sometimes she just didn't want to hear what others had to say.
She had a small, bird-like quality about her. She was frail and would bruise easily.
But, she was also the family matriarch; the CEO.
Her word was law. On occasion, edicts were issued, and expected to be followed. There was little room for dissent.
She didn't worry much about fashion. For her, a night on the town was take-out from Long John Silvers and watching Jeopardy in front of the television.
All this of course, while wearing her favorite robe — the threadbare with the worn sleeves we tried to replace, once. She wouldn't have it. It may be old, but like her, it was comfortable.
Meeting her was an experience unto itself. If she knew you were coming, she would meet you at the door. She didn't move very quickly, though. She shuffled and you'd have to wait just a minute while she worked the knob.
However, once you entered her house you were no longer a stranger. In ten minutes she could find out more about you than a government agency could in a lifetime.
She didn't pry, she listened.
And, before long — after she had rustled you up something to eat from the myriad butter tubs stored in the Coopertone icebox with the duct tape on the freezer door — she would sit back in her chair, relax and gently, without you ever knowing it was happening, extract from you every ounce of information about you and your family.
You couldn't lie to her, either.
You might think you had, but you couldn't. She knew when you were telling her want she wanted to hear and not what you really thought.
We tried. Once.
We kept telling her the old Chevy parked in her garage would not run and was not worth trying to fix. The family didn't want her driving because of her eyesight.
Of course, no one knew she'd convinced a neighbor from across the street to come over daily and start the damn thing; just in case she needed it.
She always said exactly what was on her mind. She wasn't like some old people who knew they were old and wanted to die. She wasn't timid. If she didn't know she asked; always; it was a basic rule with her.
She liked living. And she like to laugh.
She was interested in everything. She'd spend hours watching people, animals, birds, anything. And she didn't just watch, she learned. She'd talk about any subject and she knew every person in the entire neighborhood and their life history.
When she couldn't get what she wanted from one source, she'd try another.
Some called her nosy. I called her curious.
Her body might have been old and a little out of date, but her mind was a high-speed Cray computer with terrabytes of memory.
Facts, family history, details from vacations and the price of gas in '32 were all cataloged, stored and available for instant recall at any point in time.
People were drawn to her. Animals, too.
Dogs became almost human-like under her guidance, and cats — even crusty olí Toms with battle scars and bad attitudes—paid her homage. They understood her and she, them.
She was wise, cranky and stubborn, and a staunch Democrat.
"FDR was our best president," she told me once. "Of course, I was also very fond of Mr. Truman (it was always Mr. Truman). She thought Kennedy was handsome and LBJ was mean-spirited.
She did not like Nixon.
---
Everything still interested her.
Books, ancient and musty smelling, were her friends. They surrounded her. Her small, modest home groaned under their weight.
Copies from the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette were stacked neatly by the cherry dining room table. She wasn't too happy when the Gazette folded. In fact, she almost canceled her subscription. But she had to have the paper for the obituaries because, as she said, "no one knows all the people I know."
Some would have called her a packrat. To us, she was historian; a child of the Depression who believed everything (read that literally) could be recycled.
If came into her possession, she kept it. Pamphlets by Norman Vincent Peal, the 1921 Directory of Little Rock, three different, complete sets of encyclopedias and a forest worth of newspaper clippings were shelved in each room of her small house.
In the hall, neatly stacked, was quite possibly every recipe Southern Living Magazine ever published.
That small house was filled with brick-a-brack from across the nation: the spoon collection -- one from every state -- adorned the south wall. Shells from the Hawaiian Islands, a gadget from Texas, and a old half-filled brandy bottle all had places of honor.
These were treasures.
Each had a memory attached. Each was a direct link to a past time. Each was a small part of her.
Pictures of the grandchildren fought for attention on top of her television. Every flat surface was covered: the curio cabinet, the dressers in both rooms, and any place that offered more than a few square inches of surface area.
Her furniture — like her — was tough, worn and comfortable.
There was the long, sturdy, green couch — her favorite. At one time a stately piece for any living room. Now it had seen better days
.
But she liked that couch, it, along with a few other belongings and the German Shepherd, Heidi Louise, had been uprooted when she moved from Little Rock back in the 70's.
That ol' green couch (which was about the size of a '58 Chrysler Imperial) was her favorite. On cold winter days, youíd find her there with her comforter, the television remote control and a ever-present cup of coffee.
The other couch — a smaller one with massive, wood feet and some seriously worn upholstery — was for company. It was the prettier of the two. There were also a few chairs and an old, faded oriental rug all squeezed into a space designed to hold much less.
The rest of the house was the same way.
A tall, dark walnut china cabinet, which she proudly told me had come down the Ohio on a flat barge, held pieces of her wedding china, a few other mismatched, ancient dishes and assorted knick-knacks. The entire collection was guarded by an old powder horn from a long-dead relative.
Standing in the center of that small room, it was easily to think you were either in the attic of the Smithsonian or at Aunt Mable's garage sale.
----
In Little Rock, they called her "Miz Sterling."
It wasnít her name. In fact, it was where she worked. For thirty-something years she managed the Piece Goods and Linens department of Sterling's Department Store.
She was the best marketing tool that store ever had.
Because it was located in what most folks considered the "colored" part of town Sterling's was frequented by large numbers of Little Rock's minorities.
But to her, everyone had the same color.
Whoever was in line first got waited on first. Didn't matter who you were or whether or not your last name was Rockerfeller.
"Miz Sterling" saw to it you were treated fair and honest.
People responded to her. And during a time when bigotry and hatred scorched the Arkansas countryside like a hot, August sun, she saw beyond color, judging each person by what was inside.
Once, when she was taking the bus home after getting off work, she found there weren't any seats left. The bus was full.
A black woman, setting with her son, recognized her.
Nudging the boy seated next to her, she said, "Quick, get up, that's Miz Sterling. You let her sit here."
She took the seat offered; greatful for the place to rest her feet and the compansion.
She was accepted by all.
-----
Some folks would call her a "Liberal."
I told her that once, and she asked me in her best, crotchety voice and waving her imperial index finger, "What does that mean?"
When I attempted to explain she said, somewhat curtly, "Oh, it means treatin' people like youíd want to be treated." End of discussion.
She could find something good in everyone she met.
A few years ago, some of her neighbors were raisin' cain about a family who live down the street. The young man was known to have smoked a little pot and had seen some trouble with the law.
She thought differently.
And when the neighborhood was ready to run him out of town on a rail, she hired him to do yard work and general repairs at her house.
"He's got children and a wife and just needs to make some honest money," she said.
He worked like a slave for her.
She was satisfied. And the rest of the neighborhood shut up.
----
Not long ago, she died.
She'd been sick for some time. There had been numerous family consultations and trips to the doctor. They did test after test.
But she knew her time was short.
Then, one day she suffered a massive stroke and never recovered.
She faded away, just like one of her old, black and white photographs. One afternoon the telephone rang — she was gone.
We buried her in Little Rock, on a bright, warm spring day, surrounded by the smell of flowers and newly mown grass.
I hated that day.
Some preacher (who said he'd known her all his life, but I'd never met him) began speaking.
In the distance, a train rumbled past, the rhythmic humming of its wheels providing a soundtrack for her service.
The gathered congregation wept silently. Each of us searching for something to fill the hole her death brought.
Finally, thankfully, the service was over.
Flowers were placed on her bronze-colored casket and final "good-byes" mouthed.
When everyone was finished we left her there. With her casket covered in a mountain of flowers, literally awash in color.
She would have liked that.
There was a stillness in that cemetery. Sure, it was old and many of the stones were worn by time, but underneath the huge oaks and maples, many slept.
The ceremony over, the crowd began to disperse. I started up the hill and then, turned. I guess, to tell myself that she was really gone.
And, amidst the sound of the train and a distant dog, two guys from the funeral home — wearing expensive, dark suits and looking very hot and uncomfortable — began to place her into the earth.
The circle had closed once again.
That train continued to rumble and Evelyn Lawbaugh rested again, next to her husband.
She was already old when I first met her, seventy-nine, to be exact.
Long past the days of flirting and summer dresses. Long past those sultry, sticky Arkansas nights and lovemaking enveloped by the smell of a Magnolia tree.
She'd lived through Selma, "the trouble" and King's march.
Al Jolson no longer topped the Hit Parade and Orivil Fabus hadn't been in office for years.
She was in the twilight of her life.
For her the days were sorter, the summers hotter, and the winters colder. She tired easily and couldn't recall things like she used to.
She had aged.
Time had taken once smooth skin and creased it with wisdom and worry. Her hair — years ago it was bobbed and black — was now pure white.
Thick glasses framed a pair of bright eyes which always seemed to be searching. They could look right through you, right into your soul.
Her hearing wasn't the best.
Once in a while you had to repeat what you had said. Other times, the hearing aid was turned off, on purpose; sometimes she just didn't want to hear what others had to say.
She had a small, bird-like quality about her. She was frail and would bruise easily.
But, she was also the family matriarch; the CEO.
Her word was law. On occasion, edicts were issued, and expected to be followed. There was little room for dissent.
She didn't worry much about fashion. For her, a night on the town was take-out from Long John Silvers and watching Jeopardy in front of the television.
All this of course, while wearing her favorite robe — the threadbare with the worn sleeves we tried to replace, once. She wouldn't have it. It may be old, but like her, it was comfortable.
Meeting her was an experience unto itself. If she knew you were coming, she would meet you at the door. She didn't move very quickly, though. She shuffled and you'd have to wait just a minute while she worked the knob.
However, once you entered her house you were no longer a stranger. In ten minutes she could find out more about you than a government agency could in a lifetime.
She didn't pry, she listened.
And, before long — after she had rustled you up something to eat from the myriad butter tubs stored in the Coopertone icebox with the duct tape on the freezer door — she would sit back in her chair, relax and gently, without you ever knowing it was happening, extract from you every ounce of information about you and your family.
You couldn't lie to her, either.
You might think you had, but you couldn't. She knew when you were telling her want she wanted to hear and not what you really thought.
We tried. Once.
We kept telling her the old Chevy parked in her garage would not run and was not worth trying to fix. The family didn't want her driving because of her eyesight.
Of course, no one knew she'd convinced a neighbor from across the street to come over daily and start the damn thing; just in case she needed it.
She always said exactly what was on her mind. She wasn't like some old people who knew they were old and wanted to die. She wasn't timid. If she didn't know she asked; always; it was a basic rule with her.
She liked living. And she like to laugh.
She was interested in everything. She'd spend hours watching people, animals, birds, anything. And she didn't just watch, she learned. She'd talk about any subject and she knew every person in the entire neighborhood and their life history.
When she couldn't get what she wanted from one source, she'd try another.
Some called her nosy. I called her curious.
Her body might have been old and a little out of date, but her mind was a high-speed Cray computer with terrabytes of memory.
Facts, family history, details from vacations and the price of gas in '32 were all cataloged, stored and available for instant recall at any point in time.
People were drawn to her. Animals, too.
Dogs became almost human-like under her guidance, and cats — even crusty olí Toms with battle scars and bad attitudes—paid her homage. They understood her and she, them.
She was wise, cranky and stubborn, and a staunch Democrat.
"FDR was our best president," she told me once. "Of course, I was also very fond of Mr. Truman (it was always Mr. Truman). She thought Kennedy was handsome and LBJ was mean-spirited.
She did not like Nixon.
---
Everything still interested her.
Books, ancient and musty smelling, were her friends. They surrounded her. Her small, modest home groaned under their weight.
Copies from the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette were stacked neatly by the cherry dining room table. She wasn't too happy when the Gazette folded. In fact, she almost canceled her subscription. But she had to have the paper for the obituaries because, as she said, "no one knows all the people I know."
Some would have called her a packrat. To us, she was historian; a child of the Depression who believed everything (read that literally) could be recycled.
If came into her possession, she kept it. Pamphlets by Norman Vincent Peal, the 1921 Directory of Little Rock, three different, complete sets of encyclopedias and a forest worth of newspaper clippings were shelved in each room of her small house.
In the hall, neatly stacked, was quite possibly every recipe Southern Living Magazine ever published.
That small house was filled with brick-a-brack from across the nation: the spoon collection -- one from every state -- adorned the south wall. Shells from the Hawaiian Islands, a gadget from Texas, and a old half-filled brandy bottle all had places of honor.
These were treasures.
Each had a memory attached. Each was a direct link to a past time. Each was a small part of her.
Pictures of the grandchildren fought for attention on top of her television. Every flat surface was covered: the curio cabinet, the dressers in both rooms, and any place that offered more than a few square inches of surface area.
Her furniture — like her — was tough, worn and comfortable.
There was the long, sturdy, green couch — her favorite. At one time a stately piece for any living room. Now it had seen better days
.
But she liked that couch, it, along with a few other belongings and the German Shepherd, Heidi Louise, had been uprooted when she moved from Little Rock back in the 70's.
That ol' green couch (which was about the size of a '58 Chrysler Imperial) was her favorite. On cold winter days, youíd find her there with her comforter, the television remote control and a ever-present cup of coffee.
The other couch — a smaller one with massive, wood feet and some seriously worn upholstery — was for company. It was the prettier of the two. There were also a few chairs and an old, faded oriental rug all squeezed into a space designed to hold much less.
The rest of the house was the same way.
A tall, dark walnut china cabinet, which she proudly told me had come down the Ohio on a flat barge, held pieces of her wedding china, a few other mismatched, ancient dishes and assorted knick-knacks. The entire collection was guarded by an old powder horn from a long-dead relative.
Standing in the center of that small room, it was easily to think you were either in the attic of the Smithsonian or at Aunt Mable's garage sale.
----
In Little Rock, they called her "Miz Sterling."
It wasnít her name. In fact, it was where she worked. For thirty-something years she managed the Piece Goods and Linens department of Sterling's Department Store.
She was the best marketing tool that store ever had.
Because it was located in what most folks considered the "colored" part of town Sterling's was frequented by large numbers of Little Rock's minorities.
But to her, everyone had the same color.
Whoever was in line first got waited on first. Didn't matter who you were or whether or not your last name was Rockerfeller.
"Miz Sterling" saw to it you were treated fair and honest.
People responded to her. And during a time when bigotry and hatred scorched the Arkansas countryside like a hot, August sun, she saw beyond color, judging each person by what was inside.
Once, when she was taking the bus home after getting off work, she found there weren't any seats left. The bus was full.
A black woman, setting with her son, recognized her.
Nudging the boy seated next to her, she said, "Quick, get up, that's Miz Sterling. You let her sit here."
She took the seat offered; greatful for the place to rest her feet and the compansion.
She was accepted by all.
-----
Some folks would call her a "Liberal."
I told her that once, and she asked me in her best, crotchety voice and waving her imperial index finger, "What does that mean?"
When I attempted to explain she said, somewhat curtly, "Oh, it means treatin' people like youíd want to be treated." End of discussion.
She could find something good in everyone she met.
A few years ago, some of her neighbors were raisin' cain about a family who live down the street. The young man was known to have smoked a little pot and had seen some trouble with the law.
She thought differently.
And when the neighborhood was ready to run him out of town on a rail, she hired him to do yard work and general repairs at her house.
"He's got children and a wife and just needs to make some honest money," she said.
He worked like a slave for her.
She was satisfied. And the rest of the neighborhood shut up.
----
Not long ago, she died.
She'd been sick for some time. There had been numerous family consultations and trips to the doctor. They did test after test.
But she knew her time was short.
Then, one day she suffered a massive stroke and never recovered.
She faded away, just like one of her old, black and white photographs. One afternoon the telephone rang — she was gone.
We buried her in Little Rock, on a bright, warm spring day, surrounded by the smell of flowers and newly mown grass.
I hated that day.
Some preacher (who said he'd known her all his life, but I'd never met him) began speaking.
In the distance, a train rumbled past, the rhythmic humming of its wheels providing a soundtrack for her service.
The gathered congregation wept silently. Each of us searching for something to fill the hole her death brought.
Finally, thankfully, the service was over.
Flowers were placed on her bronze-colored casket and final "good-byes" mouthed.
When everyone was finished we left her there. With her casket covered in a mountain of flowers, literally awash in color.
She would have liked that.
There was a stillness in that cemetery. Sure, it was old and many of the stones were worn by time, but underneath the huge oaks and maples, many slept.
The ceremony over, the crowd began to disperse. I started up the hill and then, turned. I guess, to tell myself that she was really gone.
And, amidst the sound of the train and a distant dog, two guys from the funeral home — wearing expensive, dark suits and looking very hot and uncomfortable — began to place her into the earth.
The circle had closed once again.
That train continued to rumble and Evelyn Lawbaugh rested again, next to her husband.
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