Sunbonnet Soliloquy

By Jewell Ellen Smith

Is Sorrow Better than Laughter?

“It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting...

“Sorrow is better than laughter; for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.”

These lines are from “Ecclesiastes”, writings of the great Solomon, king over Israel in Jerusalem, a man who in his time was reputed to be the wisest person in all the East.

Yet the words do not make sense. That is, not to me. Perhaps the thought is too deep, or in this there is some truth difficult to grasp in the twentieth century.

It suits me better to think about that Biblical quote from “Proverbs” which declares: “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

That I can understand.

Not long ago, a woman at a dinner party told a true story in which there lay some hint of Solomon’s theory that “by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better”. This was a story of a conversation in a funeral parlor -- during a wake -- as one old, old lady sought to console another over the death of the latter’s husband.

Of course one doesn’t take tape recorders to dinner parties, but as my friend began the tale of going down to a little fishing village on the Texas Gulf Coast to attend a funeral in her husband’s family, I wished that I had a recorder. And I still wish it, for I’ve forgotten many of the details, even the name of the little town. But never mind that. Her talk went something like this:

Well, it was a long drive down there. And hot. This time of year it can get as hot as Hades down on the Gulf Coast. But it wasn’t too unpleasant.

I enjoyed riding along, looking at the miles and miles of cotton fields, all white as snow. We watched the giant cotton picking machines lumbering up and down the rows, grabbing up the cotton at an unbelievable rate.

Of course Bill thought, and I did too, that we ought to go to Uncle Andy’s funeral. For Aunt Callie’s sake, if for nothing else. Then too, Uncle Andy was the last of Bill’s uncles. I had never met the old fellow, but Bill remembered him as a little man, always in a good humor, always laughing. He was 89. Just didn’t wake up one morning.

It was almost sunset when we finally reached the bay and drove into the outskirts of the village. We passed by the old lighthouse--once a famous landmark but now long abandoned.

Soon we could see the Gulf itself, and Bill began to talk of his childhood days down there and of how Uncle Andy had taught him and his cousin Alton how to catch crabs. He would take them over on the back bay and set out the nets there.

Bill remembered how when the family gathered once a year for the big family reunion, Uncle Andy always barbecued a goat. And the goat was absolutely the best thing on the table, except for the moon pies Aunt Callie brought, or her shrimp.

Aunt Callie could fry shrimp that would melt on your tongue. And she always brought scads of shrimp, fried and boiled, because her father ran a big fish market. It was the one on the corner, close to the packing sheds where the shrimp boats came in to unload.

Even when they were in just the first grade Aunt Callie would tell Bill and Alton that they would both grow up to be nothing but shrimp pickers if they didn’t study their school lessons. So they promised to study hard because they sure didn’t like the stinking smell of the shrimp packing places.

We saw a shrimp boat coming in. I’d never seen one before. That boat was like a moving oil painting, just gliding along. I begged Bill to stop and let me take pictures; but he said we barely had time to get to the funeral home for the wake.

The wake was to begin at 5 p.m. As the custom is down there, the family would assemble in the funeral parlor and be together for an hour, and then the curtain would be drawn back for friends to come for the viewing and to pay theit respects. Then there would be the Rosary in the chapel area.

There was a hush in the funeral home, and all seemed dark and dreary. An attendant whispered to us to come in, and he ushered us back to a large room where we could see Uncle Andy’s casket placed against a bank of flowers: lilies, carnations, roses, mums, and a profusion of other blossoms. The air seemed heavy with their perfume.

On the casket lay a cascade of white daisies, tied with ribbons that trailed down toward the kneeling bench. (Cousin Alton’s wife explained later that the family chose the daisies because 69 years ago Aunt Callie had carried a wedding bouquet of white daisies, when she and Uncle Andy were married in the same little church where his funeral mass was to be said the next morning.)

Cousin Alton shook hands with us, introduced us to numerous relatives we’d never seen. Then he murmured “poor Mama Callie” and went back to the door to greet more relatives.

Aunt Callie was sitting beside the casket, weeping and talking to Uncle Andy, and to herself, but mostly to Uncle Andy. Now and then she would pat his face or gently touch the black beads entwined in his hands. We went to stand beside her.

Between sobs she was whispering: “Oh, Andy, you look so nice, so nice. You always looked nice. You look like you looked on our wedding day -- when we got married, Andy -- sixty-nine years ago. I love you so, Andy. And I know you loved me. A thousand times you told me so. It’s like two larks we were. Happy like larks in a meadow... Oh, my Andy... What will I do? Andy... Andy…

Aunt Callie still sobbed as Bill and a niece helped her over to a couch not far from the casket. Bill held his arm around the old soul until her sobbing subsided.

More and more relatives came in. To each Aunt Callie would say: “Bless you, darlin’, bless you. I’m so glad you could come, darlin’. Andy would like it. Andy would like to see you here. Bless you.”

Friends began to file in. To them she said much the same thing. And having so many people there to speak to her and seeing them all go and kneel beside the casket and cross themselves seemed to please her and comfort her.

The men drifted into the adjacent room and drank coffee and talked in low tones, while the women stayed near Aunt Callie. Every few minutes the attendant would bring in another spray of flowers and lay it near the casket.

A tall gaunt-looking woman came in. When she saw there were no empty chairs near Aunt Callie, she wedged herself behind the couch in such a way that she could lean over Aunt Callie’s shoulder as she spoke to her.

“Callie, it’s me, Eudora! Remember me? Your old friend from over at back bay. Eudora.”

“Bless you, Eudora! ‘Course I remember you, darlin’. I’m glad...”

“Callie, honey, I know just how you feel. I buried three husbands, myself. I know just how you feel, just how you feel. But you are lucky, Callie. You take me, now my first husband he up and died on me and left me with four little young ‘uns. Four, mind you. Four little mouths to feed and nothin’ to feed ‘em on. Nothin’ to raise them young’uns on.

“And that funeral to pay for. You know how I paid or that funeral, Callie? I picked cotton, I did, for one cent a pound. One cent, mind you. They didn’t have none of them big cotton pickin’ machines in them days. It was all by hand and stoopin’ and bendin’ -- my old back hurts me to this day -- pickin’ one boll at a time. And all that for one cent a pound.”

Without catching her breath, she kept talking.

“Now you won’t have to do that, Callie. You’re lucky. You ain’t got no four little young’uns to feed. You got just you, yourself. You’re lucky. But me, oh Lord ‘a mercy! It was different.

“My second husband, he up and died on me, and he left me with two more little young’uns. And with no home to live in, or nothin’. And you know how I paid for that funeral? I picked shrimp. Yes siree, Callie, I picked shrimp -- right down yonder on the corner, below where your pa had his big market.

Oh, Callie, I tell you to hold up your chin. You’re lucky. You won’t have to pick no shrimp. It’s just you left, by yourself. And you’re in a nice rest home, and you’ve got your friends there, and you can go play bingo! Hold up your chin, old friend!”

Eudora cupped her hand under Aunt Callie’s chin and tilted up her face.

“That’s it! Hold up your chin. Ain’t I right, Callie? Ain’t you lucky?”

“I reckon, Eudora,” Aunt Callie murmured and turned her face away.

“Of course I’m right. Now you take my third husband when he up and died on me. Oh, Lord ‘a mercy, it was worse than ever. I thought to my soul --“

Just then the funeral home attendant came in and announced in whispers that the priest had come and that it was time for the Rosary to start, and would we all please move into the chapel area.

So we all went into the chapel and none of us ever heard what Eudora thought to her soul, or, what she picked to pay for her third husband’s funeral.

Who is to say which is more valuable, laughter or tears?

Could it be that to appreciate one, we must know and feel the other?

Perhaps that is what Solomon, and Eudora, were saying.

Published October 1985. Press your browser’s “Back” button to return.