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I
wonder if you remember the old
television show Columbo. It was one of my favorites. The part
that I recall best was after he presumably had finished talking to a lady. He
would walk out, but then turn around and say, “Just one more thing, ma’am.”
Well, this is my “just one more thing” part to My Mom’s Always Hot! Actually, there’s more than “one more thing”
that I need to talk about before closing.
You’ve
been reading about Melonheads throughout this book. I said a little bit about
this fantastic, devoted group of young people earlier, just mentioning briefly
the gist of what one of the #1 Melonheads, Angela Hinkley, had to say at Jay’s
funeral. While I was writing this book, I asked her to try to remember some
specifics of her words on July 6, 1992, for me to include here. Here’s what she
wrote to me recently:
Twenty-five years
ago when “Mama” Young asked me to reflect on what it meant to be a Melonhead, I
was honored and also a little worried.
Would I be able to accurately and justly express what an amazing and
wonderful part of my life this was? Could I ever completely explain the
phenomenon that was Velvet Melon?
On July 6, 1992, I
recall standing in front of one of the largest crowds I’d ever seen. This was
Jay’s crowd, Velvet Melon’s crowd. I remember thinking, “Jay would know what to
say to all these people.” He always knew what to say, sing, or play. He would
entertain them, make them all smile. I distinctly recall looking over my
shoulder into the casket where my friend lay, and at that moment I felt the
most amazing peace come over me. Jay was there, once again handling his crowd.
My words then seemed to flow honestly, naturally, and completely.
I was able to
express that being a Melonhead was more than being a band groupie. It was more
than being friends who gathered to hear music. Being a Melonhead meant you were
part of a family of believers. We believed in Velvet Melon . . . we believed in
their incredible talent . . . and we believed that our friendship and community
made a real difference.
We each lived our
own lives, but as Melonheads we relished that special time to dance, laugh,
sing, and share together. As our lives evolved and grew, Velvet Melon was there
marking each milestone with music and friendship. Even when VM moved away (NYC
and Nashville) to pursue their dream, new Melonheads emerged from every corner
of the country.
Whether someone
had been a Melonhead for ten minutes or ten years, there was always an
immediate sense of understanding, love, and acceptance. Acceptance . . . we all
accepted one another just as we were. There was no test to pass, no obstacle
course to complete. The only requirement was joining in and enjoying the music!
There were senior
Melonheads, junior Melonheads, and even Baby Corey Melonhead! Sweet Gary Powell
was a quadriplegic Melonhead. Tim Weekley was a minister Melonhead. Melonheads
were teachers, lawyers, physicians, photographers, and just about any other
walk of life imaginable. We were all so different . . . and yet so much the
same.
I don’t recall how
I met any one fellow Melonhead. We just gathered together and let the music of
Velvet Melon weave the beautiful tapestry of friendship.
You
noticed that Angela mentioned senior Melonheads. That’s what Frank and I were,
and we were at every gig that we could work in. I did lots of “chair dancing,”
that is just moving to the music in my chair, enjoying every minute, drinking
coffee to keep me awake. Occasionally, one of the young Melonheads would grab
me and take me to the floor to dance. It was always fun to be taking part with
all those youngsters, but I was more comfortable when Frank and I decided to
dance to a slow song, one that allowed cuddling.
I remember only
one specific dance with a Melonhead. Soon after Jay died, when we were still
trying to go to the gigs, a new guy playing bass. Andy, one of two Melonheads
who have been like sons to us (the other one being Jim Mills), took my hand so
that I could dance with him to “New York Minute.” I remember crying on his
shoulder the whole time, and I’ll bet he was shedding tears, too.
Even
after twenty-five years, I sometimes yearn for a Sunday-evening gig at Coconut
Bay in Pensacola. That’s where we felt the most at home, the place where a waitress
would meet me at the door and say, “I’m making a fresh pot of coffee,” knowing
that I’d welcome that first cup. We were Melonheads! We were always welcomed
with open arms, while Jay was alive and also after he died. These young people—who
are now in their forties, fifties, and even sixties— will always have a special
place in our hearts.
The
next “one more thing” that I want to discuss concerns my handling of grief.
I’ll tell you ahead of time that I’ve already mentioned much of my working
through grief; however, I have planned all along to gather my thoughts together
here in one place—“Afterthoughts.” I hope that this chapter will help other
bereaved parents as they’re working their way through grief if they happen upon
my book.
I’m
a reader. I’ve always been a reader, seldom leaving home even for a little
while without a book; I read before I go to sleep; I read while we’re
traveling. So it was not unusual for me to go almost immediately to books for
help with my grieving. I wanted to read what other parents did when their
children died. When I called my friend Martha Dickson, who worked in our church
library, to ask for help, she assured me that she’d find books for me. And
that’s just what she did. She had them stacked on a counter in the library at
First Baptist Church, and I took them home, immediately beginning to devour
them. Some of them I read more than once.
I’m
listing a few books that I read early on and even later so that if you are a
bereaved parent, you might read them; or if you know someone who needs help
with grief, you can suggest them. They were so meaningful to me:
·
Andrew,
You Died Too Soon, by Corinne Chilstrom
·
Lament for
a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff
·
Cries from
the Heart, by Margaret B. Spiess
·
Streams in
the Desert, by Lettie B. Cowman
I read many more books, but through
the years, I’ve lost either the books or the titles.
Even now, I collect
books about grief. One that I discovered recently is A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows Through Loss, by Gerald L. Sittser.
So many people who write about grief suggest this book for anyone grieving. I
have read parts of it and don’t hesitate to mention it to those who need it
even though I haven’t read it from cover to cover. Another recent discovery, a
book that a friend whose son was murdered and who was given this book as a sympathy
gift, is Tear Soup: A Recipe for Healing
after Loss, by Pat Schwiebert and Chuck DeKlyen, illustrated by Taylor
Bills. It looks like a children’s book, but it’s excellent for anyone who has
suffered loss. I’ve read it several times; in fact, I just took about fifteen
minutes to reread it this afternoon. I wish I had discovered it when I was in
the throes of grief. This book really speaks to my heart now, and it certainly
would have spoken to my heart in 1992.
As you already
know, I have used writing to get me through my grief. I began by writing
letters to friends to tell them about Jay’s death . . . friends here in the
United States and also in Europe. Since all mail was “snail” in 1992, hearing
back from my friends took a while; however, when their letters came, all of us
were so happy to hear from them. More tears, but that was fine.
For the first
ten years or so after Jay died, I didn’t do a lot of writing about him. I was
too busy teaching school and then traveling in my job with a textbook company
after I retired from teaching. After we moved to New Mexico, though, I found
various outlets for writing about my boy, the main one being Facebook. Many of
you who are reading this book have followed me as I write on Jay’s birthday,
February 10, and on his death day, July 2. You are so faithful to read my
posts, most of which are in Chapter 4 of this book, and to write your memories
about Jay in the comment section of my posts. You’ll never know how much your
“likes,” “loves,” and comments mean to Frank and me. I stay in tears on both of
those days, but they’re good tears. Thank you for remembering.
At the end of
August 1992, I read in our weekly church bulletin that a “Grief Group” would
begin on Sunday nights in October. The leader would be Vick Vickery, a
gentleman in our church who knew about grief: his son, one of my former
students, had committed suicide many years ago. Vick led a group of about
fifteen of us through the grief process, letting us talk about the ones whom we
had lost. We listened attentively to each other, many times crying
uncontrollably, with no one telling us that it would be all right, that we
needed to get over the death, that we shouldn’t cry. We all understood. Frank
went with me although he didn’t feel that he needed the group. We all handle
grief in different ways.
When our class
was over in December, Vick announced that we’d have another “Grief Group,”
beginning in January. We all wanted to know who would lead it because he had
already announced that he wouldn’t be our leader. He said with a little smile,
“Sandy’s going to teach it.” What? Me
lead a group about grief? How could I do that? I was still grieving. But I
did it, and leading that group was one of the best activities to help me work
through my grief. A person always gets more out of something if he or she is in
charge. I had to study! I had to be prepared. I am forever indebted to our
church for offering this course, to Vick for leading us, and to him for
designating me the next leader.
We moved to Cerrillos,
New Mexico, in 2003, and in the fall, I read an article by Ann Landers that
would forever change our lives. In 2007 I wrote a piece about the activity that
I found out about, posted it on my blog (http://www.foreveryoung279.com), and
mentioned it to a writing friend in Colorado. I’ll never know exactly how she
found about The Compassionate Friends’ publication We Need Not Walk Alone—For Bereaved Families and the People Who Care
About Them, Following the Death of a Child. But soon after I called her
attention to my piece, she wrote to see if it could be published in the
magazine. I was elated and honored: I was a published author . . . for the
second time. My piece appeared in the Autumn 2008 edition:
Keeping Jay’s
Light Shining
~By Sandy Young
When our son, Jay, died on July 2, 1992, our lives changed
forever. The Lord and our “compassionate friends” brought us through our
immediate grief, so when people began to mention the international group called
The Compassionate Friends, we didn’t feel we had a need to go to their
meetings, though we knew that such groups brought relief to parents whose
children had died. At that time, I had no idea that TCF would eventually touch
my life in a very meaningful way.
A few
years later, after we had moved to Cerrillos, New Mexico, I happened upon an
article that would begin a love affair with TCF, even though we would never be
official members. The article told of an event sponsored by The Compassionate
Friends, an event that would become a joyous part of our holidays. Since I’ve
never heard anyone else mention this activity, I’m not sure just how many
people who should know about it—parents who have experienced their worst
nightmare, the death of a child—are aware of something that could give them
great pleasure during the holidays, which have the possibility of causing much
sadness because they miss their children so much more at these special moments.
On the
evening of the second Sunday in December, at 7:00 local time, bereaved parents around
the globe light a candle to remember their children so that “their light may
always shine.” People gather in stadiums (Albuquerque), in event centers (Hobbs),
or at the homes of those involved in The Compassionate Friends (Los Alamos).
These celebrations for departed children are large gatherings where parents and
grandparents bring pictures of their loved ones and light a candle in their
memory. Music and readings are usually a part of the program, which lasts for
an hour. What a wonderful way to remember our children in an understanding
atmosphere! Just imagine the wave of candlelight around the world!
Our
“celebration” is a bit different because it’s held in our home with friends and
family gathered to introduce Jay to those who never knew him and in remembrance
for those of us who knew him well. This year on December 9, we will invite
neighbors in for our fourth celebration of Jay. Here’s what will happen:
Our home
will be decorated for Christmas, and as our friends arrive— some having come in
other years, some coming for the first time—they’ll feel the festive holiday
atmosphere. Since Jay was an uproariously funny, life-loving rock musician, be
assured that we’ll be having a good time. Our daughter, Wendy, my husband,
Frank, and I will tell funny stories about Jay, some of which most parents
wouldn’t find amusing. We might tell about the time that he had almost 500 fans
of Velvet Melon (his band) in and out of our house one night while Frank and I
were in Europe taking care of other people’s kids. He had proof of the numbers
because he charged a dollar a head, as he called it. For years afterward, young
people around the town told us of how our house rocked that night. Our
insurance agent paced in front of his house all night, just knowing that the
next minute would bring a call telling him of someone having drowned in our
pool. No call came. Or Wendy might tell about the time she and Jay hiked down to
the floor of the Grand Canyon. Only she can make us feel the agony that she
felt as she hiked up slowly behind Jay, who had run most of the way out of the
canyon carrying the only water that they had between them. He was in big
trouble by the time his big sister made it back up to civilization! I usually
try to read a poem or a section from a book of his friends’ remembrances of
him; however, the old mom has a little difficulty even after so long, so Wendy finishes
for me.
Wendy is a
photographer, and her favorite subject was Jay; therefore, we always have
photos and/or videos. We can count on whatever she comes up with to be
entertaining, funny, and sometimes poignant. At our celebration, we make sure
there’s lots of laughter because that’s what Jay would want. Telling stories
about Jay and poring over pictures and videos of him have been our way of
getting through our grief. Stories and pictures have also been the vehicle for
introducing our friends here in New Mexico to our boy. No one out here knew him
except Wendy, Frank, Wendy’s daughter Corey (who remembers him, too, only
through stories and pictures), and me. And we certainly don’t want to deprive
our friends of knowing a young man (he was 24 when he died) whom they surely
would have loved!
The celebration
lasts no more than an hour, usually less, so as soon as we finish, we head for
the table. Guests never come to our house without being fed, and the second
Sunday in December is no exception. We don’t have an elaborate dinner, just
sandwiches and Christmas cookies.
The Young
Family will be indebted forever to The Compassionate Friends for introducing us
to this wonderful way of keeping Jay’s light shining and of ushering in the
Christmas season, truly the most joyous season of the year.v
Sandy, a retired English teacher and sales rep/consultant for a
publishing company, lives with her husband, Frank, in Cerrillos, New Mexico,
very near her daughter and her family.
For
ten years, this celebration has been instrumental in getting us through our
grief. It has also helped other parents who have lost children or
grandchildren: Connie and Stuart Rosenberg (daughter Shana), Mary McFadin
(daughter Sherry), and Gay Block (grandson Owen). None of us knew each other’s
children and grandchildren before the Candle Lighting, but we do now.
You may
be wondering how long grief lasts. It’s different for everyone. I know of a
lady who didn’t leave her home until at least a year after her daughter died,
grieving the whole time. And there are others who bounce back quickly. I had to
go back to work a little over a month after Jay died, and, as you probably
remember from my earlier writing, I did all right most of the time; however,
attending Velvet Melon gigs without Jay on the stage was almost impossible. After
three or four of the evenings with those young people who loved Jay so much, I
had to quit going. Being there was just too much for me. For several years
after Jay died, I couldn’t watch those beautiful videos that Jack Canavan
masterminded. I can watch them now, but I usually shed some tears.
A
few days after Jay died, I went to the door to find my sweet hairdresser, Cindy
Waldrop, standing there. She didn’t come in; she just handed me a little
publication from her church and left. I almost didn’t read it because I didn’t
usually read the leaflets from her denomination. But since Cindy gave it to me,
I read it.
I’m
forever grateful to her and happy that I read it. I wish I still had the
booklet so that I could tell you the name of the article in which I found a
line that affected me so deeply in working my way through my grief. Here’s the
gist of the line: On the day that you awaken and don’t think of your deceased
loved one before you have another thought, you’re on your way to healing. I never forgot the line, and it popped
into my mind in full force one day in early December. Sometime during second
period that day, I realized that I hadn’t thought of Jay yet that morning. Did
that mean that my grief was gone? Absolutely not. It just meant, to me, that I
would survive.
And
I have survived. I’ll remind you of what I said to friends at the funeral home
on July 5, 1992, when they said that they didn’t know how I would get through this
, meaning Jay’s death. My reply then, and I believe it today, was, “I’m calling it a lesson in prepositions. I’ll never get over it; but I will get through it with the help of God,
friends, and family.”
All three have helped me
through these twenty-five years, the main one being God. He made sure that I
found every book that I needed; He led me in my writing; He let me find the
Worldwide Candle Lighting; He always had his strong arms around me. And He
still does.
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