Our family bid farewell to another one of its elders, Virginia Comer, this week. Aunt Virginia was my uncle Harolds second wife, and a woman we treasured in our family in the late years of Uncle Harolds life. She had also lost a spouse, so it was a natural rejoining of two souls in the wake of their losses. She seemed to take on Comer characteristics with ease: lots of laughter, love of food (and a wonderful cook!), and a tenderness with all of us nieces/nephews and grandchildren. Of course Uncle Harold adored her, as he had Aunt Rose. It was so sweet to see their little romance bud. I remember Daddy telling the story of how Uncle Harold told of meeting her. She had invited him over to see her clock for some reason (did he love clocks? I dont know); and when he got there and she gestured toward it, he said, I didnt come here to see your CLOCK. I came here to see YOU! It wasnt long before they were planning to get married. The laughter reverberated through the family for a long time about that, another moment in Uncle Harolds stories on himself. My mother always said, Those Comer men ... They have always had a way with women. A good way! Soldiers in uniform, farmers in the field, golfers and fishermen. Outdoorsmen for sure. Storytellers and storymakers, every one. But its the Comer women we really want to celebrate today, as we remember Aunt Virginia. Such sweet repose, such willing service, such love for all her family and friends. Handy in the garden, her yard was always beautiful, full of flowers, vegetables, and several cats (to my memory). And her bountiful meals were legendary: bowls and platters full of homegrown peas, greens, corn, squash, pork roast or some other tender meat, cornbread laced with butter and sizzled in her iron skillet, and of course desserts. My children were blessed to know her in their early years, and I will work hard to keep her memory alive. We were able to visit them several times in the late 90s and early aught-years, when Uncle Harold would call and say, Jane, corns coming in, or, Blueberries are ripe, and my mother would load up buckets, sunscreen, hats, and whoever was at the house and wed go for the day. Wed pick blueberries in the cool of the morning, then go swing in their big wooden swing under the oak tree, while Uncle Harold cooked on the grill or sat and talked to Daddy about old times. I remember them talking about working for the Man, an old saying about having to work under someone elses supervision. Something they strove not to have to do. Finally the women inside would holler that dinner was ready, and wed pile around their long table with benches for seats. Uncle Harolds blessing and stories and Aunt Virginias meal would last a long time through the noon hour, and eventually wed pull ourselves up, help with dishes, and head out the door. Full, content, sleepy, and ready to put up blueberries in the freezer, to keep and enjoy all year. Much the way we enjoy our memories now. May their memories always be blessed, and our lives enriched because of theirs. In peace.
Posted on: Fri, 01 Aug 2014 14:26:51 +0000
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