The Headstones of Lost Prairie
Beneath the oaks on a hot summer day, the Deaconess is laid to rest
When the Deaconess passed away, there was cake in the room.
No one dared to eat it, though - they were waiting for the Angels to come and carry the Deaconess through the pearly gates. This was no hard task for the Angels, as the Deaconess was light and little, the most unassuming and unintimidating of all Deaconesses. Her voice was high and lonesome in its Bluegrass Sweetness, and her curly head was not of the Lioness, but of a Lamb. Now that curly head lay upon a linen pillowcase, and the sweet voice stilled.
The Angels arrived while the Preacher held her hand; the faithful prayed the Psalms, waiting until her last breath was cool -
then between muffled sobs, her family ate the cake and planned her funeral.
Immediately everyone called everyone to let everyone know the Deaconess had been called Home. And immediately after the tears, the question came -
What about The Dinner?
The Dinner is sacrosanct, a ritual that must not be denied, or else the world will surely end and we will all deserve it for not feeding the hungry Family of the Blessed Dead. After much phone-calling it was declared that the Church basement would be too hot for Funeral Dinner, and food should be taken to the Family’s lovely air-conditioned home. The traditional box of Fried Chicken and Rolls were forsworn, seeing as how everyone knew it would be too hot to eat hot food.
The idea that it was too hot for Fried Chicken at a Funeral was almost heresy, but this idea was at last blessed by the Preacher, who would buy the cold platters as a gift for the Family.
Much ado was made about the way that the family would be fed prior to The Dinner. Neighbors called neighbors to determine where and when the potlucks would be unleashed, a loving wave of pasta salads and banana puddings descending upon the Family in torrents of homemade condolences. But there would be no cold green pistachio gelatin salad this time…
that was the signature dish of the Deaconess, her own gift of love now missing.
Plans were made to have the memorial service in the most expedient way possible, as the heat of the Texas Summer has been oppressive this year. It was decided that the richly-decorated air conditioned confines of the Funeral Home were preferable to the old fashioned airiness of her little historic Church. Although this hurt her Preacher’s heart, he understood, for no one wants to see any of Deaconess’ sisters pass out from heat during the Visitation or Memorial Service. But there was one challenge greater than all the rest -
Graveside.
Graveside is the sacred moment of internment. Surrounded by monuments of loved ones gone before, the Family must make their peace with the Beloved Mortal Shell’s descent into Earth, casting flowers and clods of soil upon the casket to bid farewell. To do this, they must not die of Heat Stroke.
This requires careful planning. A flurry of decisions were made to keep the Graveside service short and sweet, then take the Family home to cold-cut trays and Fruit platters for an after-Funeral Dinner.
With all these plans in place, all that remained was to give the Remains back to the Earth.
The Memorial Service went off without a hitch, with the usual recorded songs and well intoned Obituary. Stories were told, tears were shed, then the Deaconess’ body was carried out to the Funeral Convoy to be escorted to Lost Prairie Cemetery.
And there I waited.
Texas takes on a certain color beneath the sun in mid-June. The dark green of Oaks overspreads the yellowing pastures, still verdant but baking to a more toasted tone. Small clouds wisped in the hazy air, the midday sky still blue above but fading to the horizons. Dark shadows dappled the sunlit expanses of headstones, ancient monuments leaning this way and that amid scraped mounds, curbs and watermelon plants. The chaos of the layout, the lanes crowded with concrete benches and Crepe Myrtles, all give a Western Gothic vibe to the tranquil surrounding.
The pickup trucks came roaring up, first one, then a train of them, bearing their mourners - men in boots and cowboy hats, women in flowing finery, and children in tow. Chattering quietly among themselves, the gathering of the Church Ladies commenced, the hugging of women who are responsible for the torch which was passed to them by the Deaconess.
I now am one of them. The responsibility weighs heavily upon me. Once I was merely the Preacher’s wife, a newcomer, an observer of the Rituals of Life and Death; but the Deaconess had initiated me in the Ways of the Church.
“Here is where my baby is buried”, the Deaconess showed me, that first time I came to the Cemetery with her. It was not our own Church Cemetery, but her ancestral one. “I never even got to hold his little hand.”
A Woman, fifty years beyond the loss, mourned the Son she never held… she wanted me to know. But wasn’t just one life, it was a History of a Community. She took me around through the cemetery, pointing out the mounded graves, scraped by descendants to keep weeds from growing there…
all except the Watermelons, left to grow long ago after a graveside Watermelon picnic, because Watermelons are never weeds.
Now the mounded graves are becoming scarcer, as most are covered in mown grass. Their descendants too have passed on to lie beneath the sandy loam of Lost Prairie. But I remember: I am witness to the changing of the guard, the keeper of the eternal flame of the Church Ladies; it is up to me to remember.
Beneath the billowing green Funeral tent, Funeral Home workers in pressed polyester suites passed ice water bottles among overheated attendants to chill thirsty spirits. A pink casket covered in carnations is carried by burly, bearded men; it takes me a moment before I recognise that one of those full-grown men is my son. A slender young woman hisses at me to sit down. “You are going to pass out from the heat - sit down!” I try to ignore her, but my Daughter is insistent. Then I remember how I fussed at the Deaconess to not overexert herself in the heat that long ago day, and I sit. But only for a moment;
The Preacher doffs his straw hat, and dusts a demin’d leg to quietly pray; then, as requested, we rise to sing ‘Precious Memories’…
and once more the Deaconess’ hand is in mine, leading me through the headstones of Lost Prairie.