Death comes in threes

7/5/2023

My mom, born in rural Iowa during the depression, has certain rules that allow you to magically control the uncontrollable. I love it. For example, because the weather is fickle, always garden based on the moon. See, you can control nature just by paying attention to heavenly bodies. How wonderful. Or, if you’re sick, tying an old rag around your ointment-slathered neck will pretty much cure anything. Voila, I can control illness. Or, my favorite, deaths come in threes, which, of course, means there’s a beginning and an end to folks dying. So, if you are No. 4 on the death list, too bad; you didn’t make the cut. Yup, even death can be controlled. 

ONE 

“May she rest in the house of the Lord,” the priest intones, following a liturgy that was written in cold stone by Church fathers long before my time. The mourners slowly flow from the church, sad, hugging and laughing in reminiscence.

I look toward the attached hall, wondering if the church ladies are ready for the mob. 

And a mob it is. In this small-town Nebraska, there are few who the 94-year-old clown and puppeteer and storyteller and performer and matriarch did not touch in a significant way. Including her niece, my wife. For example, this woman, who saw most of the 20th century, claimed that her mother told her on her wedding day: “Never plant a cherry tree and never learn to milk a cow.” 

Sage words indeed for those hated chores of cherry pitting and milking. And my wife’s aunt never did plant a cherry tree or learn to milk a cow. Staunch feminism or just aversion to cherry pie with ice cream? Your call. 

But this small-town farm wife was tirelessly curious. Curious about the world and curious about you. 

“What do you believe if you don’t believe in God?” she would ask. And then she patiently listened, gave her thoughts, and… invited everyone to a game of Scrabble. She was all about inclusion. And her gazillion grandchildren knew this as they’d tromp in and out of her house to talk to her about school and sports and whatever was on their mind. They’d leave with a snack and the unspoken assurance that they always had a place. And if any of her many guests had a story or wanted to play a game? Even better. 

Ursula, the large puppet, turned and looked at me and then back to the puppeteer.

“Joe has no hair,” Ursula says in her high-pitched voice.

“No, he doesn’t, but I think he is very handsome,” says the puppeteer, frowning at Ursula’s rudeness.

“Well, it’s a matter of opinion,” says Ursula with a twist of her puppet lips. 

The puppeteer and her puppets — she will be missed. 

TWO 

One month after that funeral, it’s raining in California. Roads washed out. Trees hanging on the thread of their shallow roots. And not a blue sky in sight. 

A good time for another aunt’s funeral.

Nearly 45 years ago, this aunt provided a home for my wife during part of her college years in Santa Cruz. I knew they were close but did not expect the aunt to call me before the marriage. Although, looking back, I should have known there would be a few raised eyebrows when we agreed to get married after just two weeks of dating. 

The aunt called.

“Do you know what you’re getting into?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“My niece is hard to live with.”

“What?”

“Your future wife is great, and I love her, but you should know that she is opinionated and strong-willed and moody… she is not an easy person.”

“What?”

I was oblivious. My wife’s aunt just wanted to make sure I was up for the challenge. I wasn’t, of course. But this aunt was all about staring truth in the face and waiting to see who blinked. She never did. She spent a life telling the truth to family, friends and her community, ranging from how to properly treat vertigo to the craziness of real estate development on earthquake fault lines. Yup, nothing was off limits. 

Of course, this gadfly suffered the fate of all truth-tellers — she was not very popular with those who didn’t want to hear the truth. Too bad. She was a gift to her family and to her community. She was a bright flower under a cloudy California sky. 

THREE 

My oldest sister loved a party, even if it was only around her bed where she lived for too many years. She loved high emotion and drama, even if she was frequently the cause of the anger or tears or happiness or joy. She loved her family, even though she could be challenging and embracing all in the same breath. 

But my sister also loved romance. She married more than her share and had multiple boyfriends who I personally met, usually to my regret. But it was a rich life, even as she became more and more bedridden. It didn’t matter to her. Romance was romance.

But by late spring, a month after the last aunt’s death, my sister was dying. I was with her in the hospital with just days left, and I asked her if the doctor had been in. She said he had and that he was quite handsome. She added with a twinkle:

“I don’t think it’s going anywhere because I think he’s married.”

So there you have it. My sister loved love. Through all the messiness of life, she saw the clear waters of romance, and she dove in above her head every time. Right up to the very end. 

FOUR?

Now, all three women are gone and buried. The dance is over. The last blessing given.  And the sweet smell of incense has drifted out the door with another generation.

As for us? We are off scot-free. Yahoo. Death comes only in threes. Number four, whoever you are, it is your lucky day. Whew.

Now, did you plant those tomatoes between the first quarter and the full moon? n

Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com. ♦