Be a Compliment to Your Parents

I blogged yesterday about the neighbor across the street, and that I was going to make Mac & Cheese for the family. Well, I did. I didn't want, expect or need anything for it. I did it because it's what I felt I should do.

Today, I went shopping (more about that in a bit). When I got home, and after the girls got off the bus, I was sitting here at my computer catching up on some emails. Not long after the girls came in, the doorbell rang. When I answered it, it was the wife of the gentleman that had passed, and their older son.

As I opened the door, I was met with, not a just a smile, but a warm hug and words of thanks and appreciation. As we introduced ourselves (because, remember, aside from waving across the street and saying "good morning" as we passed one another, we were strangers), they continued to thank me. I was awed by their strength, their acceptance of what had happened, and their grace.

Their coming over made me feel so good, not because I need or wanted recognition, but because it opened a door, a dialogue. In some ways, this has made us more neighbors than we were previously. I won't deny that it made me feel good to know that they appreciated the thought, but that wasn't the most important thing. The important thing was that, in a moment when their world is upside down, they were given comfort.

When you do something like this, too, for someone you don't really know, you aren't always sure that it will be met with the intentions you had in doing it. Some people don't want anyone to interfere into their lives, don't want to open themselves up to sharing their grief or pain. It's not always easy to accept help, of any sort, with grace. Believe me, this is something I know all too well.

And yet, the compliments I received, I don't see them as compliments to me, as much as I see them as compliments to my parents. What I did, I did because it's how I was raised. I was raised to be caring and compassionate, to provide when I can, to do everything in my power to help ease suffering. Sometimes I don't do the things I feel I should because there's too much risk to it - picking up a hitchhiker, offering shelter to a stranger - and I always feel guilty. But I do what I can, and I try to make my parents proud.

I do these things, too, to teach my daughters the lessons I was taught. I strive to instill in them a sense of goodwill and responsibility towards those that need us, for whatever reason. I hope that, when they're grown and on their own, that I get a call someday saying, "Mom, you got the nicest compliment today...."

May The Circle Be Unbroken

Our neighbor across the street died last night. Lung cancer. Very sad.

I hadn't formally met the man; we've only been here since August, and in that time I have been swamped with health issues of my own. However, anytime he was outside on his porch, he smiled and waved, and I've said "good morning" to his two grown sons every day as I walk the kids to school.

When the police, firetruck and ambulance showed up last night, I knew something had happened. I suspected that he had passed away, but hoped that he was just in need of the hospital. Being the Southern girl that I am, when I saw all the other neighbors outside, I went and joined them. That's when I found out that he had, in fact, died.

We all stood about, talking, and generally just being there. We stayed out of the family's way, in front of our own yards instead of theirs, visible, though, letting them know we were there, and they were in our thoughts.

Of course, the first thing that popped into my mind when I found out what had happened was, "I need to go make macaroni and cheese casserole." A true testament to my heritage and background, the first thing that entered my mind was feeding the family. The first food that entered my mind was baked mac & cheese.

You see, where I come from, and from what I understand, in the rest of The South, food is what we do for the grieving. It's what I've always known. I'll never forget, I was back home when my Papa died (also of lung cancer), and as soon as he had been taken to the funeral home, people started showing up with casserole dishes, baskets of biscuits and buckets of fried chicken.

It's just The Southern Way, and more than any words, it conveys our sorrow, our solidarity, and our love. It's what Southern women have been doing for generations. It's what I feel the overwhelming need to do.

So off to the grocery I go - I need to pick up a toss away pan and some elbow noodles; I have some comfort to make.