Henry is Bringing Kale to God and Oma has Yodels

Johnny Appleseed planted apple trees and Henry Muhler, my grandfather, did the same – only with kale.

Long before it achieved super food status, kale had been a staple of his German childhood. After coming to America, he grew it in the Bronx and all along the Northeast. Leftover seeds frequently were sowed into family and acquaintances’ gardens as well as unused plots of soil along highways and alleys. His retirement to Florida gave him two, and sometimes three, good harvests.

Whether one was a friend or a stranger everyone was gifted fresh or frozen kale to take home. Bank tellers, supermarket clerks along with staff at the doctors and dentists also shared his bounty.

When he died, at the age of 90, sadness mixed with a sense of a life-well lived.

As we prepared for his wake, inspiration suddenly hit me.

I bought twenty pink tea roses, as my nephew gathered fresh kale from the garden. Together we fashioned a rope.

At the funeral home I lovingly draped it around my grandfather’s hands and around the coffin’s edge.

When people saw the arrangement tears were shed.

“Henry's bringing kale to God,” was the most heard comment.

But more importantly, laughter, smiles and happy memories were shared.

Several years later, our grandmother died in a nursing home far from her neighbors and friends of the past 30 years. 

My brother and I had always been close to her, but our uncle was in charge of the funeral service. 

Our only participation, we were told, was to be at a Pennsylvania funeral parlor by noon on the following Saturday.

“It will be simple service. Just a few words from the nursing home’s minister,” he said.

Would the service reflect Oma’s true self we wondered?

Our determination to personalize her sendoff manifested into a madcap search, in a strange city, for a wooden spoon and a box of the chocolate enrobed, cream-filled snack cakes called “Yodels."

The former represented her preferred choice of punishment when one’s smart mouth pushed her last nerve. With just two well-placed whacks on the posterior respect was usually restored. Always found on the second shelf of her refrigerator, the chilled Yodels remained a constant reminder of her love from childhood well into our 30s.

Quietly, we approached her bier to tuck our purchases under her crossed hands.

Seeing the wooden spoon my uncle’s hard composure broke. He, as family legend told, had been at the receiving end of its redeeming power more than any of us.

Asking the minister to wait, he stood at the podium and delivered his own eulogy – full of love and tenderness that aptly captured his mother. Mourners, who had only known Oma after Alzheimer's had stolen her best qualities, were able to appreciate her fullness of spirit.

Honoring our loved ones with the things that made them special in life sends them off in grand style.

It also helps ease hearts during the final goodbye by leaving one more warm memory.