Matriarch

A week ago tonight, my great aunt Lillian passed away at age 94. She was the oldest of my grandmother's remaining siblings. At one time, they numbered eight, but now there are only 3 left. The first to go was Laurence, who died on the day of my dad's 10th birthday party. He committed suicide in the home he shared with his wife, Sally, across the street from my grandparents' home. At that time, all of the siblings lived in the same area. As they grew up and married, their parents gave them parcels of the land that had belonged entirely to them when they first settled in the area. So by the time I was born, there were still six of them living right there in that one neighborhood. Hugo, the eldest, had moved with his second wife to Galveston, but we still saw him frequently.

Robert and Rachel lived next door to my grandparents; on the other side was Aunt Beber's house (her real name was Vivian, but we didn't call her that). Behind those homes, on the opposite side of the block, my uncle Lee Roy and his wife Doris and my uncle Donald and his wife Betty (and their kids) lived in homes they'd built. In between all of the homes stood the homestead, where Mom and Pop had lived. The home was, for all of my lifetime, occupied by my Aunt Lillian.

Now that she is gone, the home stands empty and it is left to the three remaining siblings to decide its fate. Much sentimentality and emotion surrounds this decision, and my grandmother is caught in the middle of a few somewhat heated arguments of the kids and grandkids. I'm hoping she can just slough all of that off and just really make the best decision for her and her two brothers, because they are all that matter in this. After all, it was their childhood home.

The funeral was the most celebratory I've ever attended. The music was inspirational, and included a song written and performed by one of my second cousins. The preaching was dynamic and exciting. The storytelling was heartwrenching at times, hilarious at others. I learned that my aunt hired the first black woman ever to work at County Memorial Hospital, where I was born. I learned that she used to write checks for people to be able to get medical treatment when they came in with no money and no insurance. I learned that she had left her husband behind to be a missionary in Mexico City for 3 years, and that he had divorced her while she was gone; and later I learned that my grandmother had always been angry at her for that.

She was buried in the old town cemetery, which is not where most of my relatives from that area are buried. Her parents, her brother Laurence, and her sister Vivian are all buried there, and apparently my grandparents and Donald & Betty have plots there as well. It's a beautiful cemetery, on the banks of a creek, with plenty of mosquitos to keep the graveside services short.

I didn't get a chance to go through the house, but my grandmother was telling everyone to go through and take whatever they wanted. It was kind of a sad free-for-all in some ways, although hopefully people took things that really mean something to them.

If they sell the house, it will be the first time that anyone that's not family has ever lived in it. My great-grandfather built it himself. I think it might just be time to tear it down.