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.
