The two-storied, gray wooden house sat stately on the corner directly across from the grade school building. Several chairs were placed on the spacious front porch, welcoming all who wanted to visit or just watch cars go by ever so slowly on a summer evening, a frequent pastime in this small Kansas town. Uncle Fred and Aunt Eula had lived in this place for nearly forty years.
Fred Howard was the local pharmacist and owned Howard Drug. He was like a “poor souls” resident doctor. Bottles of prescribed drugs sat on the shelves in the back of his store, out of the reach of everyone except my Great Uncle Fred. Once in a while, he would emerge from his pill-counting and come to the front of the store to pour himself a frosty Coca-Cola, or to stir up a mouth-watering cherry malt (with luscious Steffens ice cream) just for me. When visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, who lived just two blocks away, I would spend countless hours at Uncle Fred’s drugstore.
Aunt Eula was the most benevolent person I have ever known. If my mom complimented her on a piece of furniture or knick-knack, she would simply say with the graciousness of an empress, “Here, Katherine, why don’t you take it?” She loved to cook and her food preparation was presented simply and beautifully. Every conversation with her left little doubt about what she believed spiritually, how she felt about her town, and what she thought about the status of current affairs. No one had ever been created like her, nor ever would be again.
I remember the day Aunt Eula drew her final breath on this earth. I received an unexpected telephone call from my cousin Kent. “David, Aunt Eula died last night. They want you to come and speak at her service.” As I drove the hundred miles to a grieving family and community, I rehearsed in my mind the meager declarations I had prepared for the eulogy. The combination of words and thoughts seemed woefully powerless. She was more than words.
We would be celebrating her life in the same Methodist Church where my parents had been married thirty years before. Many of the folks that attended that sweltering summer wedding, with sweaty smiles adorning their faces, were now shedding tears. On this crisp fall day the choir sang with quivering voices without Aunt Eula’s ever-present soprano vibrato. Kent offered a measure of hope as he read haltingly from the Scriptures. “The Lord… the Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not…” I was next. I do not remember the words that came out of me that day.
Kent had flown in from the West Coast and needed my help with transportation to the airport. As we rode together, many memories of Aunt Eula flooded the car. It was a time of catharsis for both of us. When we neared the airport, Kent thanked me for the two-hour ride and conversation. Then–as if he had been savoring one last truth–he said, “You know, David, Aunt Eula never had to say, ‘I wished I would’ve…’ ”
