Friday, July 3, 1992
I slept fitfully from three to six or so;
Frank didn’t sleep at all. Our world had fallen apart; our son was gone. The
emptiness I felt when I awoke that morning with only one child is indescribable.
What was the reason for getting out of bed? I couldn’t think of a good one, but
I knew that I had to. For one thing, I needed to check on the kids who had
started out for Pensacola in the middle of the night. I dressed with no energy
and went downstairs to meet them.
How different from most meetings that I
had had with them in the past: tears instead of smiles, half-hearted attempts
at hugs, futile attempts at conversation, tear-streaked make-up. Why had I even
bothered to make myself presentable? Everyone would understand if I hadn’t even
tried. But I couldn’t do that to Jay or to myself. I had to attempt to look
good for my boy. I wouldn’t want him to be ashamed of me. I feel sure that
someone was there even at that early hour, the Hinkleys or the Bennetts or the
Youngs. I just don’t remember.
Around ten o’cloc Frank and I left alone to go to the funeral home
to make arrangements. How could this be happening? Just twenty-four hours ago,
we had been sitting at Cracker Barrel ordering a nutritious, delicious meal; it
would have tasted like sawdust now. I had felt so bad that Thursday morning
that I really didn’t want much to eat; however, the Lord works in our lives
even when we don’t know we need Him. For some reason, I ate heartily. What a
physical blessing!
As we turned in to Harper-Morris Funeral
Home, Frank commented, “This is backward. We shouldn’t be burying our son; he
should bury us.” We would say this over and over during the next year. Many
friends said the same thing to us during that weekend.
That evening, Bob and Deb took us to
Parisian because I wanted to buy Jay one last outfit. How I loved shopping for
him at that store! It was the favorite place for both of us. His special
saleslady waited on us, helped us pick out the clothes, and sent us the
sweetest card the next week. We found something suitable—shirt, pants, belt.
The outfit looked like something Jay would have picked out for dress clothes. I
was satisfied. It felt so strange to be out in the world without Jay in it,
though. Wendy went with us, too, and we all felt weird. People were going about
their lives as though nothing had happened. How could they do this? Jay was
dead; the world would never be the same again.
While we were shopping for clothes, we
sent Bob and Deb to buy earrings for Jay. He had to have new earrings to wear
for his final resting place. Bob, retired Army, was mortified, but he did his
shopping anyway. I remember crying in 1984 because he had one pierce in his
ear; now I was making sure that he had three earrings for his piercings.
Saturday, July 4, 1992
This morning, I couldn’t sleep past five
o’clock. I went downstairs, sat in the recliner, and wept until I thought I
would surely die of unhappiness. I didn’t see how I could live without Jay.
Sometimes I still think that. I decided that writing might help me at that
moment, so I went to the computer and wrote letters. To Jil, to Olga. That
first writing was therapeutic. I knew I would write many times during the
coming years, mainly about Jay.
This was the day of the first of many
articles about Jay. Someone from the News-Journal had called me on Friday to
get information for the article, and he did a good job with writing it. The
obituary was also in the paper. I think Angela wrote it for us. I sat, read,
wept.
Throughout the day, friends came, called,
sent flowers and plants. I have no definite recollections of the day except a
visit from Linda Rankin and a group from the Methodist church next door. To say
that we were grateful is an understatement.
One definite thing I remember is Bob’s
reminding me periodically that he needed to take the clothes to the funeral
home so that the undertaker could get Jay ready for Sunday. Probably
subconsciously, I didn’t want to send them because the preparation itself was
too final. Eventually, though, I went upstairs to iron the pants and shirt, turning
sweet Deb down about four times. She wanted to help me, but I wanted to iron
Jay’s clothes just one more time. I have no idea how many times in the past few
years that I heard a certain toned “Hey, Mom . . .” knowing instinctively that
Jay was going to ask me to iron something for him. I never minded; I loved to
do that one motherly thing for my boy. I wanted to do it just once more.
As I was standing there in a daze,
mindlessly pressing the pants that didn’t really need any attention, Tara came
up to talk to me. She rather offhandedly remarked, “You know, when my dad died
last year, we buried him in his cut-offs, t-shirt, and deck shoes and put a rag
in his hand because he was always cleaning something.” I immediately knew what
she was trying valiantly to communicate to me.
“This isn’t right, is it?” I asked.
“No.”
Hesitantly, I asked, “What do you think
he should wear?”
No hesitation on her part, “His denim
shirt, `jeans tight rolled, and Reeboks. Oh, and his Mexican belt.”
“That’s just what he had on the night
that he left for Chattanooga. I remember thinking how cute he looked, and
that’s exactly what he’ll wear for tomorrow.” What a relief! Several times
during the day I had thought about that outfit but had decided it was inappropriate.
When will I ever learn to do what I want to do and not to worry about what
other people will think? I asked her to check with Frank and the guys. She
brought word from them that they liked that outfit even better and that Todd
also added one of the new Velvet Melon t-shirts under the denim shirt. Now my
boy would be dressed right!
Frank wanted to take the guys to the gig
they were supposed to play that night just to get them away from the crowds for
a while. They would have none of it. Jay had planned to set off fireworks on the
Fourth of July, and that’s what they wanted to do. I guess they went over to
Alabama to make their purchase. Anyway, they had a big fireworks display right
in our backyard . . . for their friend Jay. One of the guys, maybe Mike, came
to me during the evening, put his arm around me, and announced that they would
do this for Jay each Fourth of July. They would call it the Jay Young Memorial
Blowout, and it would be sparkly and loud, just the way Jay would want it.
Sunday, July 5, 1992
Some things are fuzzy. I have vague recollections of trying
to watch the First Baptist Church service on TV, of losing consciousness and
Frank’s catching me before I hit the floor (remember that I was still having
twinges of the vertigo that had sent me home instead of to the mountains for a
camping trip), and of Jennifer Mann and Tom Jensen’s bringing me a cake. What a
special gift from former students!
Soon after
noon, I went upstairs to get ready to go to the funeral home. Channel 3 was
sending a reporter and cameraman out to interview us. I had never heard of
anyone else in Pensacola having this great honor. Jay was a very special young
man whose personality and heart touched hundreds of people in Pensacola,
including many who worked at the television station.
I can’t remember whether they came at two or three, but they
came. All of us were interviewed – Frank, Wendy, the guys in the band, me. I
believe they even interviewed Angela; however, that part was cut during the
editing. I was sorry about that because she deserved to be heard if anyone did.
I floated through, answering questions and making comments that I could never
have done without God’s help. Frank spoke, too. And so did Wendy. We all
sounded coherent, calm, composed. I’ll never fully understand how we did it,
but I’m grateful for the prayers of friends and the uplifting of the Lord.
The hours at the funeral home are indescribable. Years
before, Dana had bought Jay a saxophone. She had asked if she could place it
next to the casket. We had already decided that we would put several of his
instruments in that place because music was Jay. We certainly thought Dana’s
request reasonable; however, even though we had asked for that particular
instrument to be left outside the room so that she could do what she wanted to,
someone had already placed it with the other instruments. We quickly removed it
before Dana arrived. Just in time, I might add. Tara didn’t go to the funeral
home with us, so we avoided any unpleasantness that might have resulted if both
friends had arrived at the same time. Bless Dana’s heart . . . she still
considered herself the “girlfriend,” I fear, even though Jay was very much in
love with Tara at the time of his death. Dana put inside the casket a carnation
with a picture of her and Jay attached. Old fuddy duddy mama didn’t care for
the picture, though, because in it Jay had a beer in his hand. I didn’t want my
church friends to remember Jay that way. I casually slipped the picture into
Jay’s pocket, but I told Dana what I had done.
I remember walking around to see who had sent all the lovely
flowers. We had requested for donations to go to a Pensacola Junior College
scholarship in Jay’s memory, but many, many people had sent flowers. I was
glad; flowers just help the bereaved . . . or at least this bereaved. They were absolutely gorgeous. If only I had the
words to describe them! The blanket of flowers that I had ordered for the
casket (almost too late, I might add) were the prettiest I’d ever seen. For my
boy. They were bright and cheerful, and if he had been one to be impressed by
flowers, he would have loved them.
We had asked Oliver, one of Jay’s and our D.J. friends, to
bring a small stereo system to play music . . . Kenny G . . . in the background
softly. Jay would have probably preferred something loud and rocking, but we
really felt that soft sax music would be more appropriate. And besides, Jay
loved Kenny G. Suzy had told us a while back that once while the guys were
living in New York, Jay had spied Kenny G. walking on the other side of the
street. What did that crazy kid do? He hollered, “Hey, Kenny! Love ya, man!”
And Kenny’s response? “Love ya, too!”
For the next three hours or so, we greeted, hugged, laughed
with, cried with over five hundred friends. I’m sure that not only was this the
largest number of people ever assembled at Harper-Morris Funeral Home, but that
it was also the most eclectic group. Jay’s friends ran the gamut of people from
Pensacola to parts unknown. Since he had the innate ability to associate with
and to become real friends with folks from every age group and every walk of
life, our comforters were a “motley crew.” Most of his friends are also our
friends, but in addition, we had people there who were our friends aside from
his: co-workers, former students, church friends. And then there were Wendy and
Steve’s friends. I wish I had pictures of all of those people. Of course, I
have the guest book, and I can go back to that to get my mental picture, but
it’s not the same.
I neglected to mention earlier that Wendy’s catharsis during
the weekend had been the assembling of two beautiful collages of Jay’s life:
one from the beginning to the end, with lots of family pictures; the other of
the life of Jay and Velvet Melon, that one, too, with family because all of us
were involved in that aspect of Jay’s life. Actually, Melonheads from all over
had worked on the project, rummaging through years’ worth of pictures all day
Friday and Saturday. They chose the ones they felt should be included. During
the whole process, I had listened to laughter and tears as they talked about
their good friend. The activity was part of the healing they needed. They
fondly referred to our home as the “healing house,” and indeed it was . . . is. In the final analysis, Wendy, herself,
chose the pictures to be included because it was her project, her healing.
She stayed up all Saturday night working on it and didn’t get any sleep until
we got up on Sunday morning. Let’s face it, though. Part of the reason that she
didn’t go to bed was not because of the collages—she couldn’t find a bed! When
we got up, she crawled, exhausted, into our bed and slept for a couple of
hours. I’m afraid no one slept for very long at a time during that weekend. How
could we? Jay was dead. We were devastated.
Back to the funeral home. We took the collages with us so
that people could see them. I love the new custom of taking things of the
deceased to the funeral home. It helps us remember them alive, and that’s just
what we should do. Jay is, indeed, alive; in fact, as someone pointed out to us
immediately, he is more alive today than he ever was on earth. But that’s
another journal entirely. Someday I’ll get to that one. Probably I’ll need more
healing myself before I can attempt it.
That afternoon, we found roles reversed. I honestly believe
that we did more comforting than anyone else did. People just didn’t know what
to say, what to do. All we needed were hugs and reassurance. They gave that to
us. But we gave them something else, as our friends have told us since that
day. We weren’t aware of it at the time; it certainly wasn’t a conscious act on
our part. It’s just that we had experienced so much spiritually in the past two
days that we had something to share with our friends. We could honestly tell
them that God has a plan and that we don’t understand all of it. I kept telling
people that Frank and I had joined an exclusive club and that we didn’t want
them to be members—the club of parents of deceased children. No loss is so
devastating as the loss of a child. Of that, we are sure. Frank admonished them
to enjoy, appreciate, support, and love their children. We have always had the
comfort of knowing we did just that with Jay, and for that we have no sorrow.
The sorrow comes in part from knowing we can no longer fulfill these actions
with Jay. Wendy now receives all of them, not that she ever lacked them. She
welcomes them; however, she would tell you in a heartbeat that it was much
better to share them with Jay. The word Wendy
means “wanderer”; the name absolutely fits now that she no longer has her
brother-buddy. When a sibling dies, the other sibling has no way of replacing
him or her. Antigone understood.
At the visitation that evening, the line was all the way out
the door and around the block. My cousin Marilyn kept trying to keep me with my
family, but I couldn’t resist walking back in the line to greet those who loved
us and our boy so much that they would give up their Sunday afternoon to stand
in line just to hug us, tell us how much they loved us and Jay, and to try to
comfort us. We tried to be brave.
I haven’t mentioned how Jay looked. I don’t think I can
describe it. He was recognizable, but he certainly wasn’t my boy. All the life
was gone; only the shell was left. When Danny Hamilton came through the line,
he asked if he could take a picture of Jay. We told him it would be fine, but
in my heart, I said I never want to see
it. I much prefer the hundreds of pictures we have, pictures showing that beautiful personality that
continues to develop in the presence of the Lord. I firmly believe that he is
still growing – in talent, in personality, in love of God and with God.
What I started out to say is that his friends took care of
the way he looked. As they passed by the casket, they reached in and rearranged
his hair, the most important part of that physical existence of Jay. The hair
was his pride; they knew that. And even though the funeral directors had tried,
they had not arranged it right. With no life left in it, they had an impossible
job, but those kids knew what to do.
Other things happened, too. Todd took charge of his shirt.
Before I knew it, the denim shirt was opened, the t-shirt in full view; so much
“stuff” added that it reminded me of an old Anglo-Saxon burial in which the
retainers attempted to make their king as comfortable as they could in the
afterlife . . . not that I believe that necessary. Andy had put the lei that
Jay had requested from Hawaii (actually, what Jay told Andy was that he wanted
a good lei . . . take that how you will!) in the casket with his friend; Tara
laid a flower with her boyfriend; someone had made a clover bracelet and put it
on Jay’s wrist. (Mike added, on Monday, Jay’s trusty NY baseball cap that he
wore to cover his hair when he hadn’t had time to shower.) Jay looked much more
like himself and comfortable by the time that we left. Once more, his friends
had come through for him. And for us.
That evening, we all eagerly awaited the ten o’clock news to
see what the media had done with our story. It was beautiful. Just beautiful.
Very tastefully done and a wonderful tribute to our boy. He was the star. How I
hope he knew what was going on that evening!
I believe that thirteen people besides us slept at our house
that night.
Monday, July 6, 1992
The thirteen young people were scattered
all over our house, and Marilyn was in the downstairs guest room. Kids from
Pensacola, Biloxi, and Chattanooga had found a little space last night. I doubt
that they had slept long, wherever they had lain down.
The
funeral was at 10:00 a.m, but anyone arriving after 9:15 didn’t get a seat.
Many people stood in the back, around the walls, and in the foyer to the
funeral home. We heard that about eighty people were outside the building. Andy
counted 129 cars in the procession to the cemetery.
Some
people might object to a funeral that could easily be called a celebration, but
that’s exactly what Jay’s was. We wanted to celebrate the life of our boy, who
had touched so many lives and who would be missed tremendously for a long time.
Just to prove that Jay’s service was different and celebratory, here’s what one
of Wendy’s best friends said, “I’ve never attended a funeral before, so I don’t
have anything to compare with; but I think funerals after this one will be
quite a let-down.” My answer to her would be that any others certainly will not
be like Jay’s. Since Jay was not an ordinary young man, his funeral was not
ordinary. It was truly a celebration of his life!
We
asked several people to take part in the service. Roy Chewning, my cousin’s
ex-husband and a local pastor, was the first speaker. Since he was Jay’s
“uncle,” he had known Jay the longest. He spoke a little about Jay’s early
life, read and commented on Scripture, and had prayer. The thing I remember
most about Roy’s words was something
he began his comments with, “I didn’t really know Jay after he was
grown, but I heard one of his friends say before we came in that Jay had lived
more in 24 years than most people live in 75!” How true!
Then
Rick Gill, one of Jay’s Sunday School teachers, spoke. One funny incident that
he recollected was the time that he (Rick) spent two nights in Jay’s room
during a youth retreat at our house. He entered a new world—one with very
special posters. You can imagine the ones that were in that rocker’s room! He
also recalled for us that Jay was the third “Mr. Leprechaun” in his Sunday
School department—strictly a popularity honor on St. Patrick’s Day.
Next
came two of Jay’s best friends—#1 Melonheads Angela Hinkley and Andy Waltrip.
Andy had just landed a job at a hotel in Hawai’i when Jay died. As soon as he
heard about Jay, he headed back to Pensacola because, as he told us, “I didn’t
have a support group there. I needed to be with friends and family.” The
following is what Andy said at our boy’s funeral:
I was fortunate enough to call Jay Young
my friend, the same as all of you. You see, Jay knew everybody. Even if he
didn’t know you, he acted like he knew. Jay had a unique way of making people
feel comfortable around him. If you look up the word charisma in the dictionary, there will be a picture of Jay Young
right there next to it.
He had such a diverse group of people
that liked him. When we would be out on the road, he could, and would, talk to
a mechanic, a janitor, or a teacher. If we were in a restaurant, he instantly
became best friends with the waitress and sometimes the manager. When we were
in a bar, he could just as easily talk to an accountant, a drunk, and certainly
any pretty girl within ten feet.
Jay was where the fun was. He could make
the most mundane situation hilarious, and usually did. He loved life, and his
love was infectious! Everybody wanted to be around him. If you were a Melonhead
and knew Jay, you were “IN.” It was cool to say, “Yeah, I know Jay.”
I have this picture of getting to the
pearly gates, coming before St. Peter and saying, “I know Jay Young!” and him
saying, “Oh, well, then you’re cool. Come on in!” And Jay would be just inside
the gate to welcome me. I look forward to seeing him again up there. I love you, Mom and Pop.
Angela
talked about what it meant to be a Melonhead. Melonheads were a special group
of friends who tried to be at every gig. There were, and still are, Melonheads
all over the Southeast and even as far away as California. The requirement for
being a Melonhead? Just love the band, love their music (both the covers and
the originals), show up for gigs whenever possible, and love to dance to their
music. Pretty easy, huh? Neither Angela not I have any idea about the number of
these followers, but dozens appeared every time Velvet Melon performed.
All of the guys in the band then spoke, a
very emotional time for all of us, including them. During all of the tributes
to Jay, we were either doubling over with laughter or weeping. The whole service
was a catharsis for all. After the guys spoke, they sang. The first song they
sang was “Lights,” one of Jay’s originals; the second was “Let It Be.” Both
were so beautiful. I just wish I had the words to describe the guys’
performance. There was not a dry eye in the house.
The
next speaker was Tim Weekley, a young minister who was one of Jay’s best
friends. He was the official Velvet Melon chaplain. He is a man of God, and his
contribution was a masterpiece. Every person in attendance heard a message
straight from the Lord. We wanted the sermon to be one that young people would
remember, and we believe Tim succeeded in delivering it.
As
the pall bearers, all of them either current or former guys from Velvet Melon,
carried Jay’s casket out, we heard “When I Get Home,” by 4Him (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTBaisNU7S8). What a beautiful, meaningful song! It
is about a young person’s leaving this world too soon but with the comfort that
he and his friends will be together again when they all go Home. I’m forever
indebted to Steve Mansfield for suggesting this song to us.
At
the cemetery, our friend Jim Wilson spoke. His message was wonderful. I hope it
was something that he had used before and just modified for Jay. You see, all
of us had forgotten that we needed some thoughts graveside. I had called Jim
early the morning of the funeral to ask him to do the “honors.” God told me to
ask him, so he was the one meant to do it. His message was just what all of us
needed to hear. We even sang “Amazing Grace” right there at the graveside. It
was so moving to hear those young people singing a church hymn. Actually, I
doubt that I sang at all. I just absorbed the song, something to “ponder in my
heart.”
Just
before all of us left the cemetery, one of the guys in the band (I think it was
Todd Laws) slapped a Velvet Melon sticker on Jay’s casket. This mother’s heart
sang with that gesture!
One
last thing about the funeral and the visitation on Saturday, where more than
500 people signed the guest book. I always asked Jay how the gig the night
before went, and his standard reply after a good night was, “It was a good
crowd, Mom.” We were so glad that Jay had another “good crowd.” I feel certain
in my heart that Jay was watching those days and that he was truly happy with
the celebration.
We
were so touched by the generosity of all our friends and family. The flowers
and plants were absolutely beautiful. Our home looked like a florist’s shop.
They lasted a long time because Frank took such good care of them in his
greenhouse. In The Canterbury Tales,
Chaucer said that the Franklin’s house “snowed of meat and drink.” That was
true of ours as well. People began bringing food to us on Friday, and they
didn’t stop delivering for a week. Since we had hordes of hungry young people
here, we were very much grateful. Jubilee, a beach restaurant where Velvet
Melon played each Sunday night during the summer of 1991, sent a huge box of
fried chicken and enormous bowls of green salad and potato salad. The young
people devoured the food!
The
rest of the day was full of people. Some stayed into the night. Jim and Carol
Woods and their children had come in from south Florida on Saturday. Before
they left for home on Monday evening, Jim asked if he could talk to the young
people who were still there. Such a sweet talk . . . straight from his heart
about living life here and in the hereafter. Those “kids,” whom we saw mainly
in bars, sat there enthralled by Jim and his testimony. What joy! A revival
right in our family room with some of the people that we love best in the
world. Only Jay was missing . . . and I have a feeling that he knew exactly
what was going on and was saying to the Lord Jesus, “Cool! That’s so cool!”
Later
that evening, we—Frank and I—met in our bedroom for privacy with some special
people—Wendy, Todd, Gus, and Roz. We wanted Todd and Roz to tell us exactly what happened in our
boy’s life during his last twenty-four hours. As best we could tell, when Jay
and Todd left Nashville, they went immediately to Chattanooga, stopping along
the way to purchase beer, which I think they drank on the way, and Ephedrine,
an over-the-counter “stay awake” drug. Jay took some of the Ephedrine, as he
sometimes did when he was tired and sleepy but wanted to stay awake for
something important, like a gig. I had asked him many times not to take those
pills; however, he always assured me that he didn’t take them often and that
they wouldn’t hurt him. (Later, too late, I discovered that people with heart
problems should never take them. The warning is right there on the label. But
we didn’t know then that Jay had a heart problem.) Evidently, he didn’t eat
anything that night, but he did drink quite heavily at Yesterday’s, so much that
he threw up several times after leaving the club and then on the way home the
next day. Gus, after asking many questions of Todd and Roz, tentatively
concluded that Jay was probably dehydrated and that that condition aggravated
the heart problem considerably, to the extent that it killed him. Gus didn’t
know for sure at that time that Jay had a heart problem; rather he assumed that
something was wrong with his heart because of the suddenness of his death.
Would he have lived had he not been drinking, had he not been dehydrated? We’ll
never know. From the conclusions reached in the second autopsy, he had an
enlarged heart and a degenerated mitral valve. He might have had it from birth.
It might have been something that had developed through the years. It could
have killed him at any time. What we gather is that Jay had the same kind of
diseased heart that athletes who drop dead for apparently no reason have. “And
we’ll understand it better by and by.” That’s the comfort we have.
(I do need to introduce you to one of the
young people gathered in our bedroom on July 6. Gus Krucke was Wendy’s best
friend in high school and one of our favorite friends. We watched him grow up,
loving him all the time. In 1992, he was a doctor specializing in determining
the cause of death. He came to Pensacola to be with us [especially with Wendy]
in our time of need as soon as he heard about Jay. We valued his determination,
sent him the autopsy report when it came, and had him check to see if his
determination had been right. It had. Gus is another person to whom we are
forever indebted.)
(One more thing about July 6. Frank’s
mother’s birthday is July 6, and in order to give her something pleasant on the
day that her grandson would be buried, my precious brother-in-law Jim took Grandma
to a nice restaurant for lunch. She could celebrate her birthday, but she could
also ease the pain of losing her grandson. I’m sure they talked about Jay, and
I’ll bet both of them had memories that they shared. Grandma probably told Jim
about the wild ride that Jay took her on his go-cart. In The Jay Book, she said of the experience, “He went like the devil.
I had a good ride.” And Jim
probably told about the time that he convinced Jay that jalapenos were sweet
peppers, and Jay popped a whole one from a jar in his mouth. Poor Jay . . . we
thought he’s never get his mouth cooled or his eyes to quit dripping! Or maybe
he told about the time that we all went to New Orleans while Jim was visiting
us in Pensacola. Jay needed a nap. We needed for Jay to have a nap! Jim told
him that if he closed his eyes, he could check his eyelids for holes. Jay
closed his eyes, looking for holes, but instead he took a nap. All good
memories, and I hope Grandma and Jim shared them on July 6.)
The Healing Heart
(Written in 2017)
The days after the funeral were a jumble.
They were a jumble at the time, and now, twenty-five years later, they are even
more so. I’ll try my best to get some semblance of order.
Jay’s
funeral had been on Monday, and on Tuesday afternoon, we began the trip to
Biloxi, MS, to take Tara home. This was the first time that we had ever been
with Tara alone, except for my ten minutes with her while I was ironing Jay’s
burial clothes. All three of us needed our time together. We stopped in Mobile
for dinner at Wentzel’s and chatted away the whole time.
When
we returned home that evening, we found the Healing House still occupied by
lots of Jay’s friends. All of them got great comfort in being together,
swapping “war stories” about Jay. Lots of laughter and lots of tears, I’m sure.
I
remember that Jay’s friends were with us for several days; Frank remembers that
they were there for weeks. Somewhere in between is probably correct. In any
event, we loved having them with us, and believe me, we had enough food to feed
the proverbial army, so I wasn’t spending hours and hours in the kitchen.
Neither did I have to feed them only hot dogs the way I had done in the early
days of Velvet Melon.
I
can’t recall much during those days, but I do remember going to Cordova Mall to
a store where Jay had put some clothes on lay-a-way. I went to tell them to put
the items back on the shelves and explained briefly why Jay wouldn’t be in
again. The clerk wanted to know if I wanted Jay’s money back. No, I didn’t.
When I left, I went across the mall to a store where a friend worked. I just
needed to talk. When I told her about my visit to the clothing store, she said,
“Sandy, you must get over this.” I couldn’t believe my ears. She had two
children alive and well. How could she say this to me when Jay hadn’t been dead
more than a couple of weeks? But she didn’t understand. I had to try to make
myself believe this and to forgive her. I did both eventually. Many people
during this time hugged me and said, “I just don’t know what to say.” Actually,
all I needed was the hug. What we all need to learn from my friend’s words is
that if we haven’t traveled the grieving person’s road, it’s probably best not
to say anything. Just give a hug.
I
learned in the days after Jay died that one of the main things I needed from
friends was permission to talk about him. Most of them obliged, but even today
some aren’t comfortable when I talk about him. Frank had a friend who would
literally change the subject if he mentioned Jay. He’d change the subject to
what his son was doing. People react to death, especially the death of a child,
in different ways. Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents, so the
discussion of the children brings thoughts of “What if my child died?” and
adults have difficulty with the topic. Anyway, that’s the conclusion I’ve come
to.
One
person who would always talk to me was my sister-cousin JoAnn Gaines. I
remember one day thinking I just want to
crawl back in bed and die. I knew I couldn’t do that because I had Wendy
and Frank and Corey and needed to at least attempt to stay strong for them. I
called Jo that morning because I knew she’d make me laugh, and that’s just what
she did.
Every
afternoon for at least three weeks, Wendy, Frank, and I gathered at our dining
room table. We were there to open the mail. Every day, we received cards and
letters, all of them telling us how much they loved Jay. I’m sure you can
imagine the laughter and tears present during those times. Somewhere there’s a
box with all of them in it. Someday I’ll find it!
I’ll
tell you about one envelope that arrived. The return address was Danny
Hamilton’s. You may remember that Danny was Jay’s friend who took a photo of
Jay in the casket and that I said I never wanted to see it. Well, the three of
us were afraid that Danny had sent the photo to us. Here’s how the
“conversation” went that afternoon:
“You
open it.”
“No,
you open it.”
“Not
me. You open it.”
This
went on for several minutes. Someone opened it. In the envelope was a sweet
note from Danny and a photo of Jay outside the Melon Mobile, exhibiting Danny’s
art work. We all laughed and breathed a sigh of relief! Here’s the photo that
we found inside:
(Fast
forward to August 15, 2016, when we met with Danny for a few minutes between
trains in Los Angeles, where he lives. We had a wonderful time reminiscing
about his and Jay’s high school days. I just had to take the opportunity to ask
him about the casket photo and the people who had seen it. He enlightened us.
He never showed it to anyone;
however, before he could put it away where no one would ever see it, a friend
happened upon it lying on Danny’s desk. He asked Jay’s friend about it, and I
think Danny gave a short answer, all the while taking it away from the person.
After the explanation, the friend said something like, “That’s sick, Dan!”
Danny hid the photo, and no one, not even he, has seen it since. I like that
story!)
A
little more than a month after the funeral, school started. I would be going back
to my home away from home, Woodham High School, where I had taught English for
more than twenty years, where I knew virtually every faculty member, where I
knew that I’d be welcomed with open, loving arms. The first day back was
difficult, mainly because of all the hugs and kind words. I loved them, but
they brought tears. How did I handle this? I retreated from time to time to my
office, where I could weep and talk to God. He got me through.
I
was overjoyed to see 150 seventeen-year-olds that first day. I was back in my
element, and I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my grief. I had teaching to
do. Since most of my students had heard about Jay, they were on their best
behavior. I had taught some of their brothers and sisters and maybe even a
parent or two. My classroom had been my comfort zone for twenty-four years, and
it would continue to be.
I
do remember two specific times when I had a hard time, though. One time was in
the classroom, but I don’t remember specifics. A student said something that touched
a grief nerve, and I immediately left the room, tears already beginning to
come. As I left, I heard a dear student, Whitney Voeltz, say to the other
student something like, “How can you say that? Don’t you know that her son just
died?” I don’t remember the student who hurt my feelings, but I have never
forgotten Whitney!
Another
time that I remember tears starting was during my duty period not long after
school started. For some reason, we had a band playing out on the campus during
lunch. My duty station was just inside the back doors. They began playing a
song that Velvet Melon played, and the tears came. One of my students walked by
me just as I started to cry. She stopped immediately and gave me a great big
hug. Later that day, she slipped a note in my hand when she passed my room,
where I was standing during class change. Such a sweet note telling me how
sorry she was about Jay and how much she loved me. If only I had a good memory
and could tell you her name!
One
morning, I went in to tell Frank good-bye, leaned down to kiss him and heard
him say, “I wish I could get in my truck and drive off a cliff.” I realized
that he was at the bottom of his grief and that I couldn’t leave him. I hadn’t
heard him sound so despondent since Jay’s death. I immediately called Mrs. Love
at school and told her I needed a substitute and whoever could come would just
have to find something for my students to do. I didn’t have time to think about
being a teacher at that moment: I had to be a wife and comforter. Everyone in
my department came to my rescue.
I
talked Frank into getting dressed, and we left the house. What I can recall of
the day is that we roamed around the mall, went to a furniture store and wished
for money to make purchases, and ate lunch at Pizza Hut. We both needed a day
away from memories, just doing nothing in particular. If I recall, it was
Friday, and we had the weekend to get ourselves together to face yet another
week without Jay. Never an easy thing to do, but every time we had to face a new
day, we could feel the presence of Jesus going right along with us.
And
now, let me tell you about the next part of my book. For several years, I have
been writing about Jay. Almost everything I’ve written, I’ve posted on either
Facebook or my blog (http://www.foreveryoung279.blogspot.com) or sometimes both. As I mentioned
earlier, all parents have are memories, and I have wanted through the years to
preserve as many as I can.
And
so . . . the next part of this book will consist of pieces that I’ve written
and posted. I can’t imagine how I could have worked through my grief without
writing. I’m not a professional; I’m just a mother who uses her words to
preserve her son’s memory, the writing helping to heal her heart.
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