Meagan Lyons

Journalism Fall 2000

It was a Friday afternoon and like most people in Dallas at that time, I was stuck in rush hour traffic. I sat there relishing the maxed out air conditioning my car was providing as a barrier against the mid-summer heat of Texas. Today I was anxious to get home. My left foot tapped incessantly against the floor board of my semi-new Honda. All this excitement was the result of my boyfriend’s arrival from Austin. It had been a month since I had seen him and I wanted to beat him to my house. Finally, I took the final turn into my alley and headed for the straight away to the garage.

When I open the back door and flew into the house, all thoughts of my boyfriend’s arrival disappeared from my mind at lightening speed. My parents were standing by the door, awkwardly, as if they didn’t quite know what to do with their bodies. I could tell they had been watching for me, waiting until I pulled into the garage. I took one look at their faces and knew immediately, before the words even left my mother’s lips, "Honey, Dann’s gone". That’s as much as she got out before engulfing me into a lung crushing hug.

After a few moments of shock on both our parts she told me the details of how my great-grandmother had quietly taken a her last breath earlier that afternoon. I couldn’t form any words because my chest felt as if someone very large was sitting on top of it. I remember shedding few tears as my mother repeated, "She had a long, full life and it was just her time," not only for me but for herself and my father as well. We all knew, it had been coming and of one thing we were all certain, it had been "her time".

Elizabeth Taylor (she always said she had the name first) was born in 1905. Her mother died when she was very young and she was raised by her alcoholic father. To escape an unhealthy home life, she married young to a Irish boy who had been adopted by a family in Florida. They went on to spend a long, full life together building a family which today includes 3 sons, 1 daughter, 13 grandchildren, 19 great-grandchildren, and 1 great-great-grandchild.

My mother remembers the summers she spent with Dann and Grandpops down in Florida. The crabbing, the fans blowing throughout the old house on Post street, the walks down to the dime store for ice cream in the afternoons. Everyone has their memories of this magical place. Mine are solely based on the stories I’ve heard and the little 5’ by 7’ sewn picture of the house on Post street that now resides in the entry way to my grandmother’s home.

When Dann passed away I realized something for the first time. Even though I had known her only the last 20 years while she had lived in Dallas with my grandmother, she would now be taken home to Florida to be placed next to her husband who had been laid to rest 15 years earlier. Florida had been her home and it was where my family would now gather for the first time without our "Fat Daniel" gluing us together.

Early Wednesday morning, my mother and I got up and placed our bags by the back door. We were meeting my aunt, uncle, and two cousins at the DFW airport and would be flying out at 11:00am. As we got ready, I silently wished that my father was going with us, but it was not his way.

He had done his grieving in private, in his own unique and special way as he usually did. He is not a man who puts much importance on ceremony. His eulogy to Dann had been a tape of songs that he had put together in honor and remembrance of her life. Songs such as "Danny Boy" and "In My Life" by the Beatles would be heard numerous times over the next few days. Today when I hear these songs, I fight to hold back tears, remembering the love I had shared with Dann.

At the airport, we met up with the rest of the family. My grandmother had flown out with the body days earlier. For a group headed on the trip we were about to take, we were all in relatively good spirits. On the flight to Houston, we occupied the worst seats on the plane at the very back because our tickets had been bought on such short notice. By the time we arrived, my nerves were shot from the terrifying flight.

There we switched planes and joined up with my other two aunts, uncle, and cousin. We all flew together from Houston to Jacksonville, Dann’s hometown. I sat up front with my mother. During the flight the stewardess brought her a Bloody Mary compliments of my uncle. Today was her birthday. In all the last minute planning many had forgotten, including her almost. It upset me that what should have been her day was now tainted with such sadness.

When we arrived in Jacksonville it was late. We went to the baggage claim where the last of our Atkinson clan from Arizona met us. We all traveled to the hotel in a train of rental cars. The Holiday Inn had been turned into Grand Central Station by the time we arrived, for we were only one-fourth of the entire family. There were the Taylor’s from Washington, the Taylor’s from Chicago, and the home town Taylor’s from Florida. Not to mention Aunt Dixie (I’m not sure what the actual relation is) and her group from Nashville. We had all come together in the Florida heat to celebrate the life of the head of our family.

All night I migrated back and forth from room to room, saying hello to distant relatives I had not seen in ten years. Dann’s four children, my grandmother and her three brothers, were quieter than the others, their shock and grief best shared between one another. I saw babies that I’d heard had been born but never had a chance to meet, including Emily, the newest edition to our clan. Emily was the only one of us Dann never got to see. I’m not sure if anyone else realized this, but the thought lodged in the back of my mind and I reminded myself how lucky I was to have what memories I did.

The next day we went to the beach and did some sightseeing in a small town by the coast. Going to the beach created a tug-of-war within my mind. I was having so much fun with my family at this beautiful place, but wasn’t I supposed to be sad, crying and grieving in a dark room?

As the day wore and I battled with my guilt, I arrived at a point where it all just seemed to make sense. I was in the water, clutched to my mom for fear of the sea creatures I was sure were just under my feet. We turned and saw a school of dolphins leaping out of the water. As we all watched in silence at the beautiful gift nature had shared with us, I thought of Dann and thanked her for this day. This is how she would have wanted it. My guilt dissolved away in the salt water off the Florida coast.

The day was perfect. Everywhere we went we would run into another sect of the family. We all gathered to have a picnic under the park awning as the late afternoon storms rolled in. Generations of Taylor’s, many especially in my generation, who had only met one another once or twice in the past. From the older group, there were stories from their childhood’s spent together on this beach.

As we ate, like only our family can, and reminisced I felt a sort of peace. Maybe it was the beach or maybe one another, but it was one of those moments you know you'll never forget because it could only happen once. Looking around the tables, I realized how lucky we all were to have one another. Even if we only spoke once every couple of years, we all knew that if one of ever needed anything there would always be a familial hand reaching out to help.

We all went to bed early that night, the energy sucked from us by the sun. The next day would be the hardest, the funeral. There wasn’t to be a church service, just a graveside mass of sorts. When we arrived the next morning I was taken aback at the beauty of this place. It was an old cemetery, small and covered in Spanish moss hanging from the numerous native trees throughout. As we walked toward the group I looked down and realized the ground here was sand.

Ten yards into the cemetery my mom stopped me and pointed to the grave stone facing the walkway. On it two names I didn’t recognize, with the exception of the last name, Storm. This was Dann’s maiden name and as my mom soon explained these were the graves of my great-great-grandparents. Behind them was one lone headstone that I was told was that of Dann’s grandmother whom had died in the early part of the twentieth century. The connection that I felt here in this sandy place was something I had never experienced. It was my history, my family. I felt tears come for people that I had never known, but I held them back for fear of not being able to explain my feelings to all those around me.

This endeavor was short lived as I neared the group and saw the casket covered in beautiful pink flowers and babies breath. Suddenly I had tunnel vision and I didn’t even feel the tears running down my face until my mother put her arm around me. "It looks beautiful" she said and we turned to join our part of the family.

We all talked about the weather, the flowers, and the day at the beach. When everyone had arrived we gathered around the coffin and listened to the priest speak. Dann had been a Catholic, even more devout towards the end. This elderly priest had been her priest when she lived in Jacksonville. He shared some passages, recited the Our Father, and spoke of her faith and love throughout life. He then welcomed my Uncle Gook (really a great-uncle) up to read the eulogy he had written.

Uncle Gook was a published author and an artist with words. He read a eulogy that was a patchwork quilt of memories. Many of the older generations laughed and smiled at the scenes portrayed. Occasionally he would say something that had occurred in my short time with Dann and I too would join in the feeling.

While his eulogy made me smile, it also made me sad because I realized there had been so much, an entire life, that I had not seen or knew much about. Dann was 73 when I was born and rarely did it occur to me the lifetime she had lived before I knew her. This was sad for me because I would have liked to talk to her more about her experiences, and now I would have to learn about them from others. But when I looked at my 2 year old cousin I felt lucky to have had the time I did. As my uncle read on I began to hear less and less. I lowered my head, closed my eyes and provided my own eulogy:

The Christmas she taught us all to make ornaments, the hot summer day my cousin and I learned to make homemade spaghetti sauce, the hours upon hours she spent brushing my hair ‘til I fell asleep, the afghan she had made for each of us(mine was pastels), the calming effect she had on my dog when she would pet her, the calming effect she had on me when I was upset, her African violets, the nights she would let me sleep in her bed with her and we’d stay up watching TV, the hummingbirds outside her window (they stopped coming when she died), and the Christmas morning she spent at my house when she cried because she said I reminded her so much of herself as a child.

These were my memories, what I had shared with Dann and what I shared with her that day in the hot Florida sun.

That afternoon we made our final stop in Jacksonville. We drove across town through neighborhood after neighborhood until we pulled up in front of a run down, huge white home. The paint was peeling, the sidewalk was cracked and many of the screens needed repair, but even so I recognized it immediately. I looked up at the street sign that read "Post St." It was her house. Where my grandmother had been raised and where my mother had spent many a summer with her siblings.

We got out and walked around, trying to get a better look. The adults would say, "That’s the room we stayed in with the big fan" or "I remember that window". Their own memories all slightly different as they tried to piece the images of childhood summers together. I myself had no real memories, only a feeling of being at a very special place. I hated to pull away from the curb because I wasn’t sure if I would ever make it back here again and if so if the house would still be here. The drive back the hotel was quiet, everyone realizing that it was over. This was our good-bye.

The next morning we flew out back to our respective corners of the world. We knew we’d see one another again, but probably not all together. It had been perfect. At some points sad, but overall a celebration of a long life full of love and happiness.

Today I go home and feel an even stronger connection to Dann. Not long after Dann died, my parents moved in with my grandmother so she wouldn’t have to live alone. I now claim the room that I had shared with Dann as a child. The walls are a different color and the furniture is mine now, but the window with the hummingbird feeder is the same. I wake up every morning and look out the same window she did for the last thirty years of her life. Next to the window is a picture of Dann. It smiles at me every morning and helps me to hold onto the memories I will always cherish.