Three Hours and a Funeral

I
A wonderful Bell Buckle man I first met as "The Mayor" died in March. His family arranged a memorial mass at the Catholic cathedral in Nashville, where his father had played organ for years. My friend F and I drove up for the funeral, a lovely service in a beautiful building, with a fitting tribute paid by his eldest grandson, who read goodbye letters his cousins and he had written. Mr. Strobel was a congenial, smart, generous person, and his grandchildren were lucky to have known him, and to have known him so well.

II
Three hours later, F and I finally had lunch -- at her house in Bell Buckle. Why three hours? Because we stupidly decided to have hot chicken at Hattie B's, despite the long lunch-hour line and our previousl mixed experience. Some two hours later, after paying the parking twice (for a total of $25) and after paying another $20 for lunch, we left the restaurant, having never received our food. Why pay another ten bucks, we reasoned, to continue parking and waiting?

On the way home, an hour's drive, we made a promise: "If someone says 'hot chicken,' go somewhere else or shut the cluck up! Never ever ever again!"

After the Funeral Today

In the homily, A, a priest beloved by the deceased, said: "G made things. Out of any material at hand. All the time. Habitually." She added, "G could make something beautiful out of nothing."

At that moment, I was reminded of Lonnie Holley, folk artist and long-ago friend, and his compulsion to make things. Out of anything. All the time. Habitually.

But while he talked about his making, compulsively, in a spiritual or political context, G didn't. And while her husband went to church every Sunday, she stayed home. Despite the angels she created and sold and the angels she acquired from others to sell, she was, as A said, "On the fence about God."

A few years ago, when G and her husband went to Paris, where they liked to spend time, she sent me photos of their rented apartment, excited to share our mutual interest in folk art. Works by artists in her and my collection covered the white walls, and her favorite, a bent wire face, was Lonnie Holley's.

I sent her a photo of my own Holley wire sculpture, and on her return I showed it to her. She wanted to buy it, and I promised if I were ever ready, I'd let her know first. But I was never ready.

Today, as the community walked to the cemetery, preceded by a New Orleans style brass band, followed by her family, some of whom held their decorated umbrellas high in a celebratory funeral second line, I felt so many strands of my life converge that I felt a bit dizzy.

Now, I find myself wishing I had at least lent her the sculpture she loved as much as I.

Home?

Why is it that after spending most of my life living elsewhere I always immediately answer the question "Where are you from?" with "Birmingham"?

I haven't lived in Birmingham since 1988.

But.

I still say Birmingham.

It used to be that I bridled when admitting my home -- because of its reputation, well earned, as an equality backwater -- but it's still home.

So after a funeral in Birmingham yesterday afternoon, when someone asked, "Are you going home now?" I answered yes, thinking But I am already home.