Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

Amy Lee died last month. On Leap Day no less. Amy was small of stature, but a giant matriarch of our community. Fierce, with a wit and fire like the arc of a lightning bolt. “Hell hath no fury” – indeed. She had been known to mother her family, tend to her garden, recite Voltaire, care for a dying man and stand pant seam to pant seam with farmers protesting a corporate powerline, all within the course of a day. Where, you may ask, does that put the rest of us?

   

On my mother’s death bed, mom grabbed my collar and pulled me in close. “Promise me.” She whispered. “You will look after Amy.” I promised that I would keep an eye on her lifelong friend and my godmother. My mother died two hours later.

   There is really no other way to parse it, other than to say that death is a damnable thing. It brings an end to all that lives and in my experience is rarely a pretty thing. It has been said that “death is a part of life.” But I don’t believe that one should be remembered by their death. Instead, they should be defined by their life and how they lived it. I can attest to the fact that my godmother, Amy, lived her life to the fullest. She did not die at the age of ninety-four.  No, she lived her life fully until the age of ninety-four.

   At my best calculation, I shared some two-hundred and thirteen Thursdays with my friend Amy. Never missed one in just over four years. I don’t say this to brag, because every single one of those Thursdays were special days in my life. I began my visits under the guise of filling her bird feeders that hung and stood outside of her living room windows. She of course was on to me and knew that I was just checking up on her. I admitted to that, but pointed out that her bird feeders still needed filling once a week, a chore she was physically unable to do. After filling her feeders we would always have coffee and visit for some time. These visits began with both of us on opposite sides of her windows, because the pandemic was in full swing and times were strange. Most communication at that time was more pantomime than speaking, and since she was fairly deaf and I have a speech impediment, there were several hilarious misunderstandings that had to be worked out through something just short of an interpretive dance. As the pandemic waned, we took to sitting next to each other on the sofa and watching the birds while we drank our coffee.  Our conversations covered so many topics over the years; from how the cardinals feed early and late in the day, to theology, politics, poetry, canoeing, memories of our families and of our losses and regrets in life. And toward the end of her life, we talked of her funeral. Amy was a Christian and she had pre-planned the entire funeral and insisted on certain songs and scripture passages drawn from the King James version of the Christian bible. The minister was charged with delivering a sermon that would revolve around the book of Mathew-21. More commonly referred to as the “money changers!” passage. She wanted the Beatles song, Let It Be. It would be sung beautifully on the day of the funeral by her friend Lyn and there was not a dry eye in the house.

   She chose Let It Be over a song by Kris Kristofferson – Me and Bobby McGee. I said, “Why not both?” Amy responded by saying that, “The funeral would get too long, and nobody likes a long funeral.”

   We spent some time talking about Me and Bobby McGee and I had told her that I always liked the line; “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” Amy’s eyes lit up as she raised her index finger thoughtfully and said, “There’s another line in that song that I think is even more powerful.” The verse I had forgotten as it is often lost in the instrumental bridge of the song. Amy tilted her head back, rocked gently side to side and sang it in her alto voice; “Oh, how I’d trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday!” I clapped and then she clapped and then we sang it together once again and laughed and laughed.

   The last time I saw Amy was on a Thursday. Leap Day. I fed her birds as usual, and went in to say goodbye. She was lying in bed and there was a hospice nurse and a friend of hers nearby. Amy and I talked for some time, but she was very tired. In parting, I told her that her birds were fed and that I loved her. As I walked down her sidewalk I wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my coat, and thought of how I could possibly trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday.

   Two hours later, I received word that Amy had died, drifting peacefully away in her sleep.