For Eleanor

Eleanor Wheeler died Thursday.

And, true to form, me being the journalist that I am, I didn’t even realize she had died until I was putting her obituary on the page, Friday, as I was proofreading it for mistakes and reading her biographical information and suddenly began reading the names of her 5 sons (3 of whom are or were basketball coaches that I have worked with over the years) and her 7 grandchildren (1 of whom was one of the best high school basketball players I have ever seen/covered; his name is T.J. Wheeler, and he actually enjoyed a pretty nice college career, too, playing for the University of Illinois).

“Oh, my gosh,” I said to myself. “This is Eleanor.”

I had read her full name at the top of the obit and had not even made the connection before. But now I knew, and now, I was sad.

I am sad.

Eleanor was 78. I sorta figure any woman who has managed to raise 5 boys, or 5 girls, or 5 kids, period, no matter what mixture of genders, should live to be at least 100, mainly because they have already survived the difficult part of life. But 78 years is a pretty long time, and it makes me smile, somehow, to know that Eleanor is/was exactly twice my age, at this moment.

I don’t even remember when I met Eleanor. All I know is I have known T.J. since he was a sophomore in high school (1987-88) and sported The Best Flattop I have ever seen on anyone, ever, and I started getting to know his family then. Sometime along the way, I met his grandmother, and she and her husband eventually moved to this town.

I went to her house, once. Not sure why; I think I may have been dropping off some pictures or something. It was a beautiful home, simple and welcoming and comfortable. She had a pool out back, and before I left, she told me, “You come by, any time. We’ll go outside and swim.”

I never went back. Oh, I thought about dropping by from time to time, but I never did. I always had something else I needed to be doing, or I probably told myself, well, she’s probably busy, anyway.

Occasionally, though, I would see her out and about. Always, the first week of the h.s. basketball season, I would see her at the tournament at Du Quoin, where her middle son, Wendell, coaches. And once in a while, I’d see her getting groceries at Big John.

Every time I saw her, she made me feel as if she were incredibly happy to see me. Every time.

She’d ask me how I’d been, and sometimes she’d say, “You know, you still haven’t been over to swim in the pool!” And I’d smile and say, “Oh, I know! I need to get over there!”

And when we spoke, always, she would tell me: “I’ve sure been enjoying the articles you write.”

And sometimes, I would be in one of those phases in which writing came easy, and the ideas and words for columns flowed, non-stop. Believe it or not, at one time in my life, I used to write a weekly column. And I flirt with the idea now, but it’s a little like certain other things, with me: If I am not required to do it, then I usually don’t.

“Thank you, Eleanor,” I would say, and to myself, I would make a mental note to remember that words are important, and the writing you put on a page of the newspaper does matter because someone is reading. Always.

We would go our separate ways, and I’d know that sometime, I would run into Eleanor again. And she would make me feel as if she were incredibly happy to see her.

I hope she knows how happy it made me, too.

: )

I stopped by Eleanor’s visitation last night. And yeah, I hate going to those things as much as anyone does, but sometimes, you just have to go.

I went a little early because I had to work afterwards and because I didn’t want to drive at night, if I could help it. And because the funeral home is in McLeansboro, I decided that I would stop by Auten’s and grab a pizza on the way back so The Lovely and I could eat dinner together when I got back to town.

Besides, Eleanor’s eldest son, Tom (T.J.’s dad), was the one who had told me about Auten’s Pizza in the first place.

You go to funerals and visitations to pay your respects. To sign the guest book and marvel over the beautiful flowers and comment on how peaceful the deceased person looks. To hug the surviving relatives, and perhaps to share a poignant memory or 2.

To comfort each other.

There weren’t too many people there, yet, when I arrived. I signed the book and moseyed into the viewing room; there were flowers everywhere, and mostly empty chairs because it was still early.

I saw Tom, and when he saw me, he immediately started sobbing.

“Oh, Di, you didn’t have to do this,” he said, as he grabbed ahold of me and hugged me, and we both cried, together.

We stood there for a few minutes, and then we talked to his son for a moment, and then to his father. Tom told me a little about his mother’s last few days, and then he said he wasn’t sure how they’d go on without her.

“You will because you’re strong,” I told him.

“No, she was the strong one,” he said.

“And you’re strong because of her.”

They will carry on.

: )

The pizza was superb.