"The Living Keep Moving..."

..."And The Dead Lie Still" was what my Grandaddy Pearson used to say. We all always loved that one.
Gorgeous Mississippi Pines
The day after we buried Pop, we went to Hattiesburg to be at Grandad Pearsons' side during his passing. It was purely coincidental timing, if you believe in such a thing as coincidence.
I do not, sir.
The odds of me, both my parents and my sister all four being down there at the same time are pretty slim. The odds of someone actually dieing at the moment that you are there by their side are slimmer yet. It was my family and my Aunt Charme, Dad's little sister, who were all 5 holding hands in a circle around him as he went on to the hereafter. I'm really at a loss for words in trying to write it justice.
I have to say though, that it was very similar to being present for a birth; intense, being hyper-aware of each moment in the present, feeling a soul moving into or out of the world right in front of you. There are a lot of similarities between birth and death. I picture it as dropping into this physical world and then dropping back out, into the Universe, the collective unconscious, Heaven, or whatever label of your choosing.
Wilbur Buckner Pearson would undoubtedly choose Heaven. And if that experience didn't bring every one of us to Jesus, nothin' would!
He had been a fine woodworker, a problem solver, architect, aeronautical engineer, tinkerer and builder, whistler, gardener, cat trainer, ice cream eater, coffee drinker and a most devout Christian. He also loved miniatures and had handmade from scratch an exact replica of Napoleon's coach that was about the size of a loaf of bread and was complete with velvet button tucked interior and little brass hardware. He'd carved the whole thing from wood and it sat with museum quality presence in their living room, I was forbidden to touch it. I would sneak in when everyone in the house were all napping in the hot Mississippi afternoon and creep up to it, hold my breath and open that little tiny side door, peering inside to that magically opulent, miniature world. I'd really need a picture of it to do it justice.
Another of my favorite things he made that I got to grow up with was the hand carved wooden cameo that's probably about 10" tall he carved of my Mom. It is so soft and perfect, lovingly and skillfully capturing her classic beauty. A perfect bas relief of the lovely contours of her young face, I spent lots of time standing beneath it where it hung in out hallway, reaching up and feeling the landscape of her profile rendered in wood from an old apple crate and marvel that such could be done. His level of craftsmanship is what I will always aspire to. That's probably the biggest mark he left on me; setting a very high standard for doing things the right way, paticularly in woodworking, and having that yardstick to measure everything by.
Between funerals and deaths we all camped out at my Mimi's house and sat around eating peas and cornbread and telling old stories! Oral history is one of the tenets of the Pearson/Caldwell clan.
Here we are setting around Mimi's living room, decompressing after a long day. Laughs came freely and easily in this crowd!

Here is Brandi, Aunt Charme, me and Dad the day after, about to go our separate ways.
I brought back an embarrassment of buckeyes from my great Granny Jefcoats tree. You carry one in your pocket and they bring good luck. They are such things of great beauty! Such a sight to behold all this abundance gathered in one spot. They're my memento from a long and highly spiritually charged visit to the Deep, mysterious South.
What a week!
As for me, I'm about to lie still as the dead for hopefully ten hours or so, to get back to all the moving I've got to resume tomorrow.
I plan to rest in great peace.