I once went to visit an elderly friend who was near death. She occasionally lapsed into sleep. As she came closer to the end, she woke from one of these small naps, looked at those of us surrounding her, and said, “I’m still here.”
Somehow, even at that inappropriate moment, I found that statement hilarious. (Thank goodness I didn’t laugh out loud!) Ernest T. Bass came to my mind. In the episode of The Andy Griffith Show in which Ernest T. is trying to “court” Charlene Darling prior to her marriage to Dud Walsh, he’s outside the house, throwing rocks through the window. They try talking to him through the broken window, then talk among themselves. I think it’s Andy who next hollers out the window, “Ernest T.?” Bass replies, “I’m still here!”
Dear Reader, I’m still here, also, though I check almost every morning to be sure.
One of the things I think about when I remember my aunt Fleetie Thomas is obituaries. She was born and raised in the Thomas Holler (now renamed “Black Fox Hollow”), right on the Union/Grainger County line. She and her husband moved to Knoxville early in their marriage. I never knew her husband, Lester B. “Jack” Thomas. He died when I was about three years old.
That left Fleetie a middle-aged widow, but she considered herself married until the day she died. She was so loyal to her deceased husband that she tried her best never to even shake a man’s hand in church.
My brother J. C. said he once told her something to the effect, “Fleetie, Jack is as dead as ----, and you’re a good-looking woman. There ain’t no reason for you to be by yourself for the rest of your life. It ain’t helping him or you one bit.”
Jack had worked for the railroad, and Fleetie struggled financially somewhat after his death. She supplemented whatever pension she might have received by babysitting. Usually every Friday night, during the time my half-brothers and sisters were young parents, Fleetie had a houseful of my cousins at her house while their parents had “date nights”. The cousins undoubtedly had great times with each other, but I have heard some of them say in later years that they hated going to Fleetie’s because there was nothing to do.
I was born late in my parents’ lives, and a lot of my relatives on both sides were well into middle or later age when I was growing up. I say I was born twenty years old because of that. I did love my father’s three sisters, and spent quite a lot of time talking with them on the phone and in person whenever I had the chance.
At this time of year I think of Fleetie. For several years, at least from the second grade, when school was out I would go spend a week with Fleetie. I loved being around her. She always made me her center of attention when I was at her house, at least when she wasn’t babysitting (she babysat one girl, probably her favorite, named Abby, and I was always jealous of the attention she showered on that girl). Fleetie always had grape Kool-Aid and hot dogs. Sometimes she made excellent soup. Fleetie would feed me on a tray in front of the TV, and would offer me everything in her house to eat.
In later years I would still go to Fleetie’s house, even when I was in college, for the occasional visit. I loved to stay the night with her on the night before Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving Day we would go to Aunt Duskie’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. I remember my sophomore year of college reading The Scarlet Letter for my American Literature class at Lincoln Memorial University while I visited Fleetie. She was amazed that that big literature book didn’t have one single picture in it!
When I wasn’t at Fleetie’s house, I talked to her on the phone at least once a week. She read the newspaper daily, particularly the obituaries. Every time someone died and was served by either Ailor or Cooke Mortuary she would ask me if I knew them. Many times I did, sometimes I didn’t, and it did not matter either way. She would proceed to read me the entire obituary.
I must admit, the older I got the more tedious this got. I hope Fleetie never caught on to my teenage impatience, for I would not have wanted to hurt her feelings.
Sometimes when growing up, a child becomes his/her parents, and sometimes
his/her aunt. My ritual during a normal work day is to show up, sign in on my computerized time sheet, then check the obituaries online. Since printing obituaries is so expensive, many people don’t have them published in the newspaper, so I go to Cooke-Campbell and Trinity Funeral Home online and check their listings. As the gospel song would say, “Sometimes a Light Surprises”, and I recognize and am shocked at the passing of a friend or acquaintance.
I suppose some would think me eccentric (if they are kind) or crazy (if they are not as kind). That’s all right—I used to think my aunt Fleetie was a little extreme when it came to obituaries. How wonderful it would be for the phone to ring and for Fleetie to read me just one more obituary. (That is to say, if time could be turned back. If the phone rang right now and it was Fleetie, I’d most likely be joining her in the glory land!)
When I was young, practically everyone who died was older than me. Now, many are older, but more are my age or younger. That’s just a sobering reminder that time is passing and makes me question if I am using the time left to best advantage.
A former student posted on Facebook the other day an apology to everyone she thought was old at forty when she was a kid. I replied, “I forgive you.” How true it is—as we age we become our elders.
As obsessed with obituaries as she was, Fleetie was persnickety when it came to her own death. She spent the last few years of her life in a nursing home. After a period of initial dissatisfaction, she settled in her mind that she was in her apartment. Still, she often told my sister that she wanted to die. She would say, “Why don’t God just take me home?” My sister told her one day something to the effect, “Fleetie, I can push you off this balcony if you want me to and send you on your way.” Fleetie replied, “No, I don’t want to go that way!”
Fleetie’s request was that her obituary not be published until she was buried. She basically just wanted the family to be at the viewing, and she only wanted us to get a very brief glimpse of her in the casket. I told some of our relatives, “If she had known how pretty she was going to look she’d have wanted everybody to see her.”
But Fleetie was not vain. She was a modest Christian woman. In Preacher Oliver Wolfenbarger’s eulogy, the one statement that I remember is, “Wolfenbarger was loved by Fleetie.”
So was Ronnie. And so was Jack. Though Jack Thomas had been dead thirty-six years, Fleetie had matching casket sprays made so that when she was buried their graves were both covered with flowers. Even through the valley of the shadow of death Fleetie remembered the love she had for her long-departed husband.
My wish for us all, Dear Readers, is that we can find just a small measure of that kind of love in our lives. The best way to find love is to give it—love is one of those things that when given, it returns, multiplied many times over.
And it’s the love that remains. The only tangible thing I of my aunt Fleetie’s is a ceramic clock she bought at a rummage sale not long before she had her first stroke. That clock can be destroyed. Illness may even take away the memories. But the love will remain forever.

I leave you with a few email thoughts:

There's always a lot to be thankful for if you take time to look for it.
For example, I am sitting here thinking how nice it is that wrinkles don't hurt.

Aging: Eventually you will reach a point
when you stop lying about your age
and start bragging about it.