In Memoriam

Saturday October 24, 2009

Jane Loree Williams-Krum
1936 - 2009

. . . .If you're reading this on the Facebook Notes page, I recommend that you read it from the external site, The Desolation Angel - An Idiot's Ravings, to be able to hear the soundtrack that was put together for this one, and actually, when it comes to that, my Mom was one of the biggest fans of the music on here, and would constantly comment on the cuts and selections that I always put here, please let this one play all the way through, all the music, there's a lot here, some of it, lessons she taught me, in who she was, and how she lived.
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There comes a morning for everyone when you wake up, and no matter your age, you are 6 years old again, and all you know is that you want your Mom. That morning came on Tuesday, when Jane, our Mother, passed from this Earth on Monday, and began her walk home.

How do you sum a life up in a eulogy? What words can you compress into a few paragraphs, a page or so, and capture the vast sweep, the interconnections, the family ties, memories and stories? You cannot, it can’t be done, but it’s still an effort that must be made to put into some permanent form the legacy that Jane Loree Williams-Krum leaves for us.

Jane was born in Bangor, a small town, to Gladys and Harry Holloway, and along with her brother Ron, and sisters, Marlene and Helen, grew up in a household imbued with small town values and the particular quirks of what growing up in an Irish household brings with itself. From an early age, after summers spent out at Crooked Lake, Delton at her aunt’s resort, she noticed a handsome young man, Norman and in time married him and they began their life together, bringing into the world my sister Kyle and myself, and in turn, giving us the gift of having them for parents.

Mom had a love of the fine arts, of music, and had an instinctive eye for style, grace and elegance in any situation, no matter what. She was grace personified, but with that Irish will of steel just underneath it. Through her many careers; as a partner with Dad in the electrical contracting business; working at All-Phase electric in the lighting showroom, at Comstock High School as a secretary, at Langeland’s in the chapel; and traveling with Kyle throughout the U.S. and the world with the U.S.T.A., Mom always had that eye for what was “right” and “good”.

There are many of my own friends, and many a Comstock High School student; along with Kyle and myself, and our own children who can tell you that having Mom quietly and directly talk to you about one stunt or another that you’d pulled, was an experience that no one looked forward to, but in retrospect, was probably one of greatest gifts. It was her gentle, direct way of helping steer people down the right path that I will always treasure, and always remember. More than once I’ve done something stupid in my own life and had Mom defend me fiercely , as she defended her children and her grandchildren; and then let me know privately in a very loving way just where I’d made the misstep. Mom absolutely treasured her children and her grandchildren, her family was her life, and our successes, all of us, all of them, were her greatest satisfactions, ones beyond measure.

Mom was probably the fiercest fighter that I’ve ever known, despite her diminutive stature. As Dad’s illness at the end of his life progressed, Mom never left his side and was always there to help him, and in the end was with him, just the two of them, as it had started. As she found love again with Jean, and the end of his life came upon them, Mom was there to help him and aid him, despite her own health issues. Mom was the classic “fooler”. No matter how badly she might have felt, no matter what happened, she would get dressed, hair and make-up just so and go out into the world. Every time she went into the hospital, she would rally, never quit, and come back out, and be back quickly in the swing of things. Sometimes, the bravest gladiators among us are from humble origins, or slight of frame, and we may take no notice of them next to us in grocery line, or sitting at a restaurant, until the time comes when we watch their soul burn brightly as a beacon in the night, safely guiding us home again.

I believe this. I believe that now Mom is not tired, and not short of breath, that she is vital and shining. I believe that Dad and Jean were waiting for her, and that whatever humble fishing cabin they may have put together for themselves is already color-coordinated, with good furniture and accessories found at a bargain price, and that everything is in order, and in its place.

I believe this, that we all were given our love of travel and adventure from her, and that every time one of us hops on an airplane or a helicopter, from now on, we need no longer worry, that the smallest bird flying beside us up in the wide sky is the one who will protect us, watch over us and see that we safely make it home again.

And I believe one more thing. I believe that I, that we, all of us, our family and those that knew her, were the lucky ones, and the more fortunate ones, for having known her, having her be integral to our lives and loving us.

. . . . .As I went through the whirlwind of this week, in a daze, there was much I missed, or much that was swirling around in my head, that now I have the opportunity to start to put together.

. . . .When the call came last Monday, I was at work, out in the Gulf of Mexico. The men I work with, the people with the transport company did everything they could do, in their power to get me back to shore and on my way home to Michigan. For that, I am eternally grateful.

. . . .I am so grateful for the period of my life that I was a complete and total asshole, and that I was able to go back to her and ask for her forgiveness and move forward from there. I am grateful for the opportunity I had to call her each time before I went back out to work and tell her that I loved her, and hear her tell me that she loved me, and ask me to be careful.

. . . .My mother was possibly this column's biggest fan, and would constantly be in a back and forth with me about many of the subjects that are often presented here. Far from disagreeing, she was the source for much of what you read here, and it's taken me until today to start to fully realize just how much of my thinking, of my ideas about things that I got from her. At moments, a sob will shudder through my body when I realize that she will never read it again, that she won't give me more ideas to work from. Her health issues were the real-life springboard for me for much of what I see right now as the fundamental, essentially wrong portions of the health-care system here in this country.

. . . .It was her health struggles that gave me a solid grounding for the very short patience and fuse that I have for whiny people and complainers. For over 5 years, closer to 10, she fought COPD, an elevated heart rate, bladder cancer and body that was in constant failure. Yes, she had her bad days, and countless trips to the hospital; but she would rally, get back up, and the hair, make-up and jewelry would be just so, the clothing would be sharp, and she would say "Today is a good day". When my sister went to get clothing for her for the funeral, she walked into her closet and found a plaque, hidden above the mirror with a quote from Winston Churchill "Never, never, never give up". She didn't. She was the toughest, fiercest fighter that I ever knew, and I know that portion of my spirit, my soul, that portion that doesn't give up and won't quit came from her. There are not many people I know who could keep going even with skin as brittle, transparent and fragile as parchment and just as easy to tear, with about 50% oxygen uptake and in constant pain; but she did more than keep going, she prevailed and would always find a way to win.

. . . At some point, we all become orphans, that is the nature of the cycle of life, and it is the natural progression. It doesn't make it hurt any less, at all. In sitting the funeral home on Thursday night; the funeral service and luncheon on Friday, some realizations hit me. They hit me as I watched my great-aunt Clara, who will be 90 in January, and is the last surviving of Great-grandpa Dennis Hurley's 13 children, and little sister to my own Grandma, Gladys, who was the oldest, tell everyone that she wanted to see them at the family reunion next summer, and it is now in it's 100th consecutive year, and she kept her vow to Dennis and my Great-Grandma, that the Hurley family and it's descendants would always stay in touch with one another, would understand their blood ties. As Clara, who is nearly my aunt and uncle's age, talk to them, to Uncle Ron and Aunt Marlene, who are now the last two surviving of my Grandma Gladys's kids. I watched as my cousins, Jimmy, Norma Jean, Billy and the rest repeated old stories to us, told my own sons, a new generation, stories of their uncle, my son's Grandpa, my Dad, Norm and in that way, made sure that the history and stories are passed on. I watched as my cousin Billy's oldest daughter, Billie Sue, shared pictures of her son, her Caleb, with my son Caleb sitting where I could see him while looking at those pictures. We are a grand sprawling clan, us Hurleys, who have become Williams, Oudings, Sharpsteens, Holloways and on. We are Irish by descent, from Dennis, and we are the story of this country, this America. We are farmers, bankers, truckers, veterans, cooks, barowners, racers, teachers, nurses, electricians, horseman and everything in between.

. . . . It is from Dennis, and his daughter Gladys, his daughter Clara, that we have known who we are and been able to carry on old, old traditions. As I reminisced with my own generation yesterday, we reflected on the fact that we still may be the only people we know, who when Dennis died, actually sat, as children, through a traditional 4 day wake for Dennis, in my Grandma Gladys's front parlor, since it was the 60's; replete with every tradition, (including my aunt Delberta's husband taking up his 4 day position beside the coffin, reading comic books, and sipping home brewed beer from a Mason jar, one leg propped over a chair leg); our experience may be unique, since traditions from the 30's and 40's carried forward into the 60's and 70's. We spent every Sunday, and I mean every Sunday, back in Glady's house, as a family; loud, sprawling and loving one another. It was my cousin Mark's job and mine to mow Grandma's lawn, Clementine's next door, and the widow Annie Taylor's across the street, before we could join the other cousins in my Grandma's kitchen for dinner, it was my cousin Billy and Kevin's job to clear brush from the alley out back, and clean the shed. We ate as cousins, as a family, with Grandma in the kitchen, as the adults ate in the dining room. I am sure that the pastor of the church we were at had to gulp at least once or twice, as we passed her coffin for the last time, and members of my family did what blood and tradition dictate for us to do as fitting farewells and help for our loved one gone, but he was gracious and said nothing.

. . . .It was only fitting and right, that as we walked out of the luncheon yesterday, the last thing we did as a group was watch my cousin Mark's oldest daughter Allie's 18 month old son get out of his high chair and play, running across the floor of the banquet room, laughing and chortling the whole time.

. . . .I fear for my sister, who had the bulk of the job of taking care of my Mom thrust upon her, and did her job well, so well. It was the majority of her life for some time now, and there will be a huge hole there, but she is our blood, and the blood of our parents, and has that spirit in her that always prevails, and never gives up, never quits.

. . . .We cannot give up, and we are not singularities. We are links in a chain, stops along the road of life, and we are all each of us, products of our bloodlines and our families, and it is our job to pick up and carry on, even on those days when we feel like we're 6 years old again. We are the gifts that our parents have left to the world, their markers, their signpost that they were here, and that it is a good world, and wonderful life.

. . . .I live and work much of my life out in the elements. Rain, wind and snow have never bothered me, and now I will anticipate each drop of rain, each storm, knowing that it is my mother's, now joined with my father, grace showering down upon me.

. . . .Kiss your kids, tell the ones you love out loud that you do. This rodeo is a one-way ticket and no one gets out alive, and we don't get to dictate the terms and circumstances of how our ticket gets punched. So it's not about yesterday, or tomorow. It's about right here, right now. The curtain's gone up, this is not a dress rehearsal, and today is all we have.

Kip Williams - The Desolation Angel