Mema's Dollies - A Eulogy for Lahoma Parker

You don’t reach the age of 87 without passing a few milestones along the way.  God chooses all women to bear the title “daughter”, and of those, many women bear the title of “sister”.  Mema took pride in the way she doted over her siblings.  The women in this family have an inner strength that supports a very strong backbone.  If you haven’t heard the opinion of a Chapman woman, then chances are you are both blind and deaf, or at the very least, several counties away.

It was a special day, September 10^th, 1941, on the banks of the Truckee River in Reno, Nevada that Mema gained a new title and a new name.  Lahoma Chapman, at the young age of 20, was now Mrs. John Parker.  This little girl had gone from “daughter” to “sister” to “wife”.  To be the bride of John Elder Parker was an honor that my Mema clung to for her entire life.  I fully expect that on Monday afternoon, April 4^th 2011, when Mema entered the gates of Heaven,  St. Peter was merely the maitre d’, and as far as Mema was concerned, she was late for her dance.  It has been more than 21 years since Pa passed away, and I never could have imagined that she would ever have to live so long without him.  I can’t help but think that Pa sure better have been busy these last 20 years or so building one amazing place, on just the right street of gold, with the perfect view of the Crystal Sea, or Mema will have a yellow pad and ballpoint pen hard at work today.  It seems to me that everything that she did and everything that she said was somehow rooted in her relationship with Pa. 

While Pa was serving his country as a young Marine during World War II, Mema picked up a new title.  The daughter, turned sister, turned wife was now a mother.  From all accounts I have ever heard Mema was a very good mother.  She clearly loved her children.  Mema could be tough as nails, and I am sure not every day was a stroll through the park. 

I have been blessed to experience a few of these rites of passage, growing up in a wonderful family, getting married and having children.  But I cannot fathom the joy she must have felt when she stepped from motherhood into “grand” motherhood.  The title “Mema” was universal my whole life.  I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know who first uttered it, but that was her name.  And as the number of grandchildren grew, then came the numbering.  Ask Tracy which dolly she is.  Ask Amy.  Ask Scott or Missy, or Tina or John or Keri… we all know our numbers.  Because to be a dolly, was a treat, it’s a title we share and treasure.  Sure, when I was a little boy, it seemed a bit feminine.  When you are 8 going on 17, you don’t REALLY want your Mema to call you “dolly”, but that too is its own rite of passage. 

As grandchildren of Mema and Pa, we all knew collectively and individually that we were loved.  We were cherished.  We were a source of unspeakable pride.  Recently, when Mema got so ill that she had to be hospitalized, I got to visit her twice.  On my first visit, I was with Tracy; Mom and Missy had prepared us well for what we would see.  This particular bladder infection and the lack of nourishment had really taken a toll on Mema and she wasn’t speaking much, if at all.  It was hard to see her this way, and I am eternally thankful that this will not be the way I remember my Mema.  But on this visit, before I left, I made a point to tell her how much I loved her, and how I knew that she loved me.  I knew because she had shown me and all of us how much she loved us our entire lives.  Whether it was a sleepover at Mema’s house, which usually consisted of a baked potato dinner, and a TV line up of Hee Haw, Dukes of Hazzard, and Dallas (with a cup of Sugar Smacks or a Pa cookie for a snack), or when she came to a school function, or one of the frequent and way too long phone conversations, I knew my Mema loved me.  Pa may have built “The Farm”, on the banks of the Illinois River to be their retirement house, but for Mema, if there wasn’t going to be bunkhouse for the dollies, and enough stored water to wash a months-worth of clothes, then it was just a useless plot of land.  I also doubt that Mema or Pa could truly find an RV useful if they couldn’t take their dollies.  I know it was those trips growing up that put the travel bug in me, and a big reason I convinced my own bride that we “needed” our travel trailer. 

Something I am exceedingly proud of is that in Mema’s final days, all of her dollies were accounted for, front and center at Mema’s bedside.  And with that, Mema, who has not been able to travel in many years, had also now met every single one of her dollies’ dollies.

From my seat, the view that I have of Mema  I can’t think of anything that she took more joy or pleasure in than family.  I can’t think of a time where she failed to come to a family member’s aid when it was needed.  Whether it was taking care of children, caring for the infirmed or raising cane with a doctor, nurse or administrator if someone she loved was not being taken care of, family was central to her.  Has anybody else ever heard her say “I am so mad, I could spit nickels!”?  As a kid, I never had any idea of what that meant, but I often wondered how many of them nickels I could gather up if I got to watch just once!  But even at a young age, I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to see that.  How many pens and yellow pads did this woman go through over the years? 

 
Watching her, she taught me how to love my girls, my siblings and my parents.  Listening to her, she taught me the colorfulness of our family heritage.  I also saw what it can look like when one man loves one woman and spends a lifetime creating a bond that transcends our earthly realm and renews hope in our future in Heaven.  She is my Mema, and I will always be Dolly #3.