Cora Ethel (Ferguson) Collins

Today we bury my Aunt Cora.

~Cora Ethel (Ferguson) Collins~
The flight leaves in 30 minutes and I am not on the plane. My only chance to bid my last respects to my Aunt Cora and I missed it. When we got word of the final arrangements, there was not enough time to drive and this early A.M. flight would have been the only option, but it’s into Atlanta (3 hours away, says Uncle Virgil) and there’s too many variables. What if I were to miss the short service? It’s too bad that I am 800 miles away.

I’ve cried bitter tears at not being able to be there. After all, if Aunt Vi can make it, what’s my excuse?! The money I would have spent on the travel arrangements is “put to better use” if you will on Cora’s final arrangements anyway.
Sadness envelops me in these last 36 hours. How on earth did things end up this way? As I stare at her smiling face in the photos, I know there’s more to the story.
There’s some photos of happiness—Barry’s high school graduation: my parent’s small house filled with family from near and far. Ray and Robert, Cora, Elana, Luella and Dock, Lynn, Vi, Tim and Doug. I heard the story. So many came to show support; makeshift beds were everywhere—some on the couches, on the floor, in the attic even. For several days the little white house with the green shutters was overflowing with laughter, good times and love. It’s what this family does. They show up.





Fast forward to October, 1993. My near-fatal car accident. The family waited in the blur of days for any news of my improvement. Aunt Cora showed up. She couldn’t “do” anything, but pray and love on her little brother and his family in the countless hours of pain. But she was there. She gave me an angel that I still put on my Christmas tree every year to remember her love and care.

She flew across the country to California to be with my cousin, Susan, when her daughter Sarah was born. Susan’s mother had passed on many years before, so again, Aunt Cora stepped up and she was there.

I’m not sure when we started calling each other “Skinny Minnie.” Aunt Cora was always a little bit of a thing, just like her mother. Some years, after my babies were born, I wasn’t such a skinny Minnie and she told me as much! The family reunion pictures show that some years, she was skinnier than others.

I remember letters written to me, even after I was married, “If you ever need anything, let us know.” (Uncle Bobby had a great way of talking to my husband. I can just hear him now, “Pay-ter, now listen here,” in his southern drawl.)





Aunt Cora had a mind of her own. She always did. She had to. In the early years, it was all about survival. Thirteen children were born to her parents. She was part of the “second family”—Mitchell, Cora, Marshall and Virgil. “Cora had a rough life,” my dad would always say. And she did. No doubt about it. She married at 14 and gave birth at 15. My dad loved her so, they were close, even through the sibling spats—like the time she pushed him back wards over the chicken coop and he chased after her like lightning. (Never did know what happened when he caught up to her!) So it was a given that “Little Joe” was Dad’s special pal. Dad would fondly remember the time when a balloon Little Joe was playing with had popped. He carried it to Dad, handed it to him and said, “Machas fic it.” (Marshall fix it.) What a terrible night, Larry recalls, to receive a phone call at 2 a.m. and hear Dad keep repeating the words, “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Little Joe was dead. At the tender age of 16. Shot to death by a man, later determined to be insane. Little Joe and a friend were camping in the woods, apparently a little too close to his property.

Such heartache for the Ferguson Family. Not the first tragedy and certainly not the last. Such sadness for Aunt Cora. How could a mother go on? But she did. She had two adopted sons to care for. Ray and Robert were both still in diapers. She poured her life into them. I have fond memories of the family reunion softball games: Bob’s Bombers and Ray’s Raiders! (Larry always played on Ray’s team!) 2pm on the softball diamond across the field from the pavilion—intense competition! Naturally, it’s the Ferguson way, after all!




Aunt Cora, like a true Ferguson, always had an opinion and you didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. Even in later years (I believe she did mellow a bit), I remember her yelling out at the reunion. Often times it was at one of her brothers—most often her youngest one, when he got too long-winded with the Family News before the meal. “Get on with it, Virgil, we’re hungry!!” And who could forget the constant banter between her and Uncle Bobby? “Shut up” was a common phrase between the two of them!



Underneath all that “Ferguson Fire,” she really did have a heart of gold. She cared about the outcast, the overlooked, the ones nobody gave a second glance. Aunt Cora even loved cats. Her house was overrun sometimes, but it was just another way of her showing love for life’s “strays.” In the end, some would say that very thing came back to bite her. She was swindled out of her house, her money, her earthly possessions. There’s nothing left now even for a proper funeral. That’s what makes my heart ache. There will be too few gathered around the graveside today to bid farewell, to honor this sister, mother, aunt, cousin, friend. My dad would be there, if he could. She was his “Apple Core,” after all.




But I thank God that this is not all there is. This is not the end. I firmly believe that Aunt Cora’s heart was in the right place when she gave away her belongings. Maybe she wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing, or at least the ramifications of what it meant to put her signature on that line. But she gave her entire life, loving the unlovely and the helpless. It came naturally to her; it’s just what she did. That ought to count for something. In our ideals, it shouldn’t have ended like this, but I’m not writing the book. Sometimes God reminds me to put down the pen. The final chapter is not yet written.



PHOTO EDIT: *photo taken July 2011*


Some of the lyrics to my favorite song: (Your Hands, by J.J. Heller)
When You walked upon the Earth,
You healed the broken, lost and hurt
I know You hate to see me cry
One day You will set all things right
ONE DAY YOU WILL SET ALL THINGS RIGHT

The Lone Ranger

He is "Student of the Week" in his classroom. As his pencil marks the page in straight, steady lines, head bent carefully over his work, he fills in his Favorites. I watch as the blank beside TV Show is completed "The Lone Ranger." His dark expressive eyes search for mine.
"Do you remember...?" he begins. I know what he will say.
"...when I used to spend the night at Grammy and Poppy's and Grammy would make us bacon and eggs for breakfast and Poppy and I would watch the Lone Ranger in the morning?" I am silent. Those days seem a lifetime ago.
His chin quivers ever so slightly as he speaks. That emotion would almost be hidden from me if I were not examining his sweet face. He is watching for MY response.
Keep it together, I whisper inside, He needs you to be strong.
"Oh, son, what wonderful memories; such happy times to be thankful for!"
We fall silent. Just the two of us, sitting at the table, with the morning sun streaming through the window. Each lost in thought.
In his world, there's much meaning behind just those three simple words written out for his classmates to read. It's more than just black and white images across the screen. More than a horse named Silver. It's Security. Happiness. Love.

Late-winter snow

Our recent late-winter snow storm caused me to remember another late-winter snow storm. That year, Mom and I went to Florida to visit her parents and we left Dad at home. A blizzard hit while we were away and power was out for days. Somehow Dad did fine without us! I can't remember if he was able to get into work or not, but I vividly recall that he used the small kerosene heater for warmth and to heat and re-heat the pot of beans that mom had cooked and left for him to eat. At least he was well-fed that week, heating up that same pot of beans over and over on our little kerosene heater!

"I'm glad you're glad"

Dad hasn't been very chatty lately. He is watching, observing, but not so active or vocal. I was truly happy to see him up in his new wheelchair on Wednesday, looking very bright. And I told him so. "Dad, I'm so glad to see you!"
Finally the response...(I thought maybe it would be, "I'm glad to see you, too" or something along those lines)...all he said was, "Well, I'm glad that you're glad!"

Why Not Now? (from Our Daily Bread)

January 11, 2011 — by David H. Roper (from Our Daily Bread)

I have a dear friend who served as a missionary in Suriname for many years, but in his final years he was stricken with an illness that paralyzed him. At times he wondered why God allowed him to linger. He longed to depart and to be with his Lord.
Perhaps life is very hard for you or a loved one, and you are wondering why God has allowed you or your loved one to linger. When Jesus said He was going to heaven, Peter asked, “Lord, why can I not follow You now?” (John 13:37). You, like Peter, may wonder why entry into heaven has been postponed: “Why not now?”
God has a wise and loving purpose in leaving us behind. There is work to be done in us that can only be accomplished here on earth. Our afflictions, which are for the moment, are working for us “a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory” (2 Cor. 4:17). And there is work to be done for others—if only to love and to pray. Our presence may also be for the purpose of giving others an opportunity to learn love and compassion.
So, though you may desire release for yourself or a loved one, to live on in the flesh can mean fruitfulness (Phil. 1:21). And there is comfort in waiting: Though heaven may be delayed, God has His reasons. No doubt about it!

Not so in haste, my heart!
Have faith in God, and wait;
Although He seems to linger long
He never comes too late. —Torrey

Our greatest comfort is to know that God is in control.

Dad's humor

Dad wasn't real talkative today, but I could still read into some of his responses and body language that he might be feeling ornery!
From across the room, Mom said, "I love you, honey."
"I love you, too", was the clear reply.
I was sitting on the bed in his direct gaze, so I said, "What about me?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Do you love me?!" I asked again.
Just a look.
Stinker.
"Well, that's OK, Dad, I love you."
After a second he responded, "OK."
That twinkle in his eye made me laugh.

Emily and I were in the car, talking about some of Poppy's "behind-the-wheel" vocabulary--aimed at other drivers, and just traffic in general.
"Local yokels."
"Whadaya think this is, a racetrack down through here?"
And attempting to pull out from his driveway, "There wasn't anybody through here in 5 minutes but look what we got coming now, a herd of turtles."
And aimed at other drivers:
"Nut case."
"Fruitcake."
"Idiot."
Emily said she would hear the word "moron", but never knew what it meant!
And my personal favorite--aimed at the population increasing the traffic congestion: "They oughta throw a bomb under this place."
Back and forth, Emily and I recited Dad's "driving phrases" tonight and we were howling with laughter!

Moving forward yet looking back

Ironic, isn’t it, at the beginning of a new year typically filled with fresh starts, excited anticipation, and bright tomorrows that looking back paints a prettier picture than what is in front of me.

January 4th came and went this week without me giving any thought to the significance of the day. (That’s a good thing, right?!) Two years. Two whole years have passed since my daddy went away. Although he was drifting away for a long time before that.

God has been so faithful. Dad is safe, warm and well-cared for. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas, it didn’t matter that the snow was falling thickly outside his window. He was comfortable and content tucked safely in his bed. He was able to smile and say, “Christmas Gift to you, too!” HA! He remembered! THAT was a Christmas gift to me!

My throat tightens at what lies ahead in the immediate future for my father, for us. Will Dad’s earthly journey come to a close this year? What will the end look like? What will it be like as he "crosses chilly Jordan"? Will I be able to withstand? My mind races with unanswerable questions. I know I am not the first one to wonder about these things. But my thoughts must not focus on me. The end for me (saying goodbye for now) is just the beginning for him! “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Dad used to tell me. True, it will; but, boy, is it going to get better for him! Heaven is just around the corner, Dad, and what joy unspeakable! Seeing his Lord and Savior face to face! Healing! Wholeness! Complete mind and body restored! My spirits lift at those thoughts!

We gathered around the out-dated projector, silent yet very much alive images danced on the wall. Dad fishing with the boys and his brother-in-law, Joel. Dad with Virg and Grace and Vi at Six Flags over Georgia. Dad throwing football with his sons in the autumn leaves. Dad & Uncle Willard husking sweet corn in the front yard. Dad holding me as a baby, the year we visited Virg and Grace in Florida. Dad shoveling the snow drifts across the front driveway. Dad and Sam, the dog. Dad diving into the water at Jim Burns’ pool with two small boys on his back. That’s the good stuff to remember. Watching Dad in the “good ol’ days”, walking very quickly across my living room wall (!), it was not lost on me that he had a lot of energy then; much more even than when I was growing up. But I do remember summer evenings when the days were long and the sun kissed the earth even past 9pm, Dad would spontaneously suggest a round of golf. Hawk Valley. Most times we could fit 18 holes in before dark. Occasionally Mom would try out her clubs on a hole or two, often rattled by Dad’s constant—and not always kind—“coaching.” “Keep your head down; you topped it!” But mostly she and I were just along for the ride. Literally. I would squeeze in between them on the cart, Dad sometimes would let me “give it some gas” with his foot hovering near the brake. I can still almost smell THE SMELLS. Golf course smells. Newly cut grass. The engine of the golf cart. The sweaty, dirty and faintly-like-leather smell of the golf club grip. Suds from the ball-washing “machine”. And then...there was the 9th green. Squinting into the sunset. The waning sunlight cast long shadows of the flag. The best part about the 9th green was that it was just across the cartpath from the clubhouse. The clubhouse—where there were vending machines. Vending machines that contained Cokes; Dr. Peppers; long, skinny, plastic packs of salted peanuts and Hershey bars with almonds. We would almost always begin “the back nine” with such treasures and I would be content to sit happily munching the snacks, smack dab in the middle of the cart’s bench seat until, oh say, at least the 12th hole!

One evening this week, the children were getting ready for bed. Out of the blue, my husband (he’d been looking at the sweet face of our son) said, “TJ, you are Poppy’s little man.” Dad would tell him that so often. And you know what, I was glad to hear the words, you ARE, not you WERE Poppy’s little man. TJ will never stop being that. Just like my father will never stop being. Even when his time on earth is over, he will live on—in eternity with Christ, yes, but in our hearts and minds because we have sweet memories from the past to carry us into the future.