by Jim Stovall
Without hesitating, Claudia responded, “Mr. Hamilton, it seems that no stone has been left unturned, and everyone has done their utmost for Miss Sally, but you remember what she always said.”
I did, indeed, remember, and it caused me to chuckle as I emphatically stated in unison with Claudia, “All you can do is all you can do.”
That phrase, and the sentiment behind it, was one of my lasting legacies from Miss Sally. With that simple phrase, Sally May Anderson had encouraged a myriad of people countless times. When you heard Miss Sally utter, “All you can do is all you can do,” you felt duty-bound to give your best effort and confident knowing it would be good enough.
My cell phone vibrated, and I glanced down to see that Hawthorne was calling. I answered promptly, and he greeted me respectfully and began reporting on the litany of details to which he had already attended that morning. Hawthorne, Claudia, and Oscar had done yeoman’s work over the past few days, getting everything in and around Anderson House ready. Hawthorne concluded the call with the question that always seemed to be on his lips after he had completed another job to his accustomed high standard.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
I told him I couldn’t think of anything, thanked him, and closed my phone.
Taking one last sip of the gourmet coffee Claudia had just poured and taking one last gaze across the gardens below, I turned to go downstairs and prepare myself to do what needed to be done.
The swelling strains of Pachelbel’s Canon drifted out from the full orchestra that was playing beside the dais that had been set up on the grounds of Anderson House for Miss Sally’s memorial service. I stood beside the walkway along which mourners drifted uphill to the seating area.
While the faces and identities of most of those attending the service would have been immediately recognizable to anyone who regularly reads a newspaper or watches television, my stalwart assistant and right arm, Miss Hastings, was by my side to fill in the blanks by whispering in my ear the names of virtually every person as they approached us.
I was pleased to see my old friend Gus Caldwell striding up the hill between a United States senator and a business mogul. Red Stevens had introduced me to Gus years ago. The two of them had built oil, cattle, and business empires that may never be duplicated again.
Gus hugged Miss Hastings and greeted her warmly and then extended his hand to shake mine. Gus Caldwell is a man of the outdoors. I knew he would have been more comfortable astride his horse than he was now, elegantly dressed in the somber suit befitting the occasion. As he shook my hand vigorously, I had the same fleeting thought I always had when shaking hands with Gus: He could break my hand without even trying.
Gus said, “Ted, it’s good to see you, my friend.” He released my hand, no worse for wear, and continued, “She was a special lady. They don’t make ’em like Miss Sally anymore, and I will always be grateful to Red for introducing me to her.”
Just then, Jason Stevens stepped out of the stream of people walking up the hill and approached us. He greeted us all warmly and respectfully. I couldn’t help but remember when I had first met him, which had happened during a time in his life when he didn’t show a bit of respect for anyone or anything.
If anyone but Red Stevens had asked me to shepherd young Jason Stevens through the twelve life lessons that his grandfather had prepared for him, I wouldn’t have even considered it.
Gus grinned at Jason and said playfully, “After this service, you and I will need to walk around the perimeter of the grounds and make sure all of Miss Sally’s fences are shipshape.”
Jason’s eyes grew wide for an instant, and then he realized Gus was observing that time-honored cowboy tradition of pulling his leg.
The first of Red Stevens’s gifts to Jason had come in the form of lessons about work, delivered by Gus Caldwell, who remained an unparalleled example of the merits of hard work. Jason had spent a month straining his back to build a fence while he also strained his mind to learn about the gift of work.
As the last few guests took their places, Gus, Jason, Miss Hastings, and I walked down the aisle and found our seats in the front row.
Funeral services are a difficult proposition. While you want to pay attention to everyone present and every word said, each person and every thought uttered takes you to past places and times in your own life during which the honored person touched you. I found myself being absorbed by memories and fond thoughts of Miss Sally as the memorial service played out.
I heard the orchestra playing the refrains of one of Miss Sally’s favorite pieces and knew that it was approaching the time in the service when I was to speak. As the symphony’s last notes drifted across the grounds of Anderson House, I approached the podium.
“For anyone who knew Miss Sally in life, there is nothing I need say at this point to immortalize her in your mind, heart, and spirit. And for any unfortunate soul who never met Sally May Anderson, there’s nothing I can say to describe the special person and significant life we celebrate today.”
I reached into my pocket, took out a single piece of paper, unfolded it, and set it on the podium before me. As I glanced down at the impactful words, I realized I wouldn’t need the paper, as the words on the paper had been seared into my brain and etched into my heart years before.
“Miss Sally had a favorite poem that was given to her by the same person who gave it to me—my lifelong friend, Red Stevens. Today is the day Miss Sally determined we should give it to you.”
I looked out over the expectant crowd. Just as I was preparing to speak, the sun broke through the fog, causing the gardens and grounds of Anderson House to come to life and display their vivid colors. I nodded and smiled, knowing that some things are just meant to be. And then I began to recite . . .
Cornerstones
“If I am to dream, let me dream magnificently.
Let me dream grand and lofty thoughts and ideals
That are worthy of me and my best efforts.
“If I am to strive, let me strive mightily.
Let me spend myself and my very being
In a quest for that magnificent dream.
“And, if I am to stumble, let me stumble but persevere.
Let me learn, grow, and expand myself to join the battle renewed—
Another day and another day and another day.
“If I am to win, as I must, let me do so with honor, humility, and gratitude
For those people and things that have made winning possible
And so very sweet.
“For each of us has been given life as an empty plot of ground
With four cornerstones.
These four cornerstones are the ability to dream,
The ability to strive,
The ability to stumble but persevere,
And the ability to win.
“The common man sees his plot of ground as little more
Than a place to sit and ponder the things that will never be.
But the uncommon man sees his plot of ground as a castle,
A cathedral,
A place of learning and healing.
For the uncommon man understands that in these four cornerstones
The Almighty has given us anything—and everything.”
I paused briefly to allow the words of that poem to sink in for all of us gathered there to honor Miss Sally.
Just as I was preparing to give my final remarks, I heard the roar of a Speeding motorcycle thundering up the hill.
FIVE
The Inheritance
If I could help someone like me, it would be my legacy.
Up to that point, it had been what my sainted mother would have called a banner day. Miss Sally’s memorial service was shaping up to be all that I hoped it would be and more. The best, brightest, and most-celebrated people of Sally’s generation and several subsequent generations had gathered to pay respects to her and pay tribute to a life well lived.
The orchestra had performed f
lawlessly. Each of the speakers had been thoughtful and poignant, and the weather had even cooperated when, as if on cue, the fog parted and the sun broke through, almost as though Miss Sally were sending us her love from heaven. I felt good about what I had shared and had gotten through the reading of the special poem without stumbling.
And then, just when I thought everything was under control, some imbecilic half-wit on a motorcycle raced through the parking area below and actually began riding the motorcycle up the walkway toward the area where everyone was seated for the memorial service. The infernal contraption was so loud I couldn’t even think, much less conclude my remarks to those assembled for the solemn occasion.
I have spent over a half century of my life in the practice of the law. In most legal circles, I am considered formidable, and in others, I am actually thought of as intimidating. As I stood at the podium, looking over the impressive group of people that had gathered for the memorial service, I was contemplating what civil, criminal, and punitive legal action could be taken against the incorrigible individual who dared to interrupt Miss Sally May Anderson’s tribute. I was mentally reviewing all of the pro and con arguments surrounding the death penalty as everyone turned in unison to stare at the huge motorcycle that was thundering toward them.
As it approached the back row of seated people, I hoped the lunatic driving the motorcycle would come to a stop before plowing into several rows of chairs. At the very last moment, he did indeed slow the vehicle and turn it parallel to the back row before he finally brought it to a halt.
As the motorcycle’s deafening engine mercifully shut off, the silence that fell over the hillside was a welcome relief.
As the rider got off of the motorcycle and casually tossed his helmet aside as if he would never need it again, he brushed back long, stringy hair, and I instantly recognized him from some of Miss Sally’s photos. It was Joey Anderson. Eventually, the crowd settled down and turned toward where I was still standing at the podium. I tried to think of what to say and how to get everyone’s mind and spirit back on Miss Sally, the life she lived, and what she would want us to take away from this day. I cleared my throat and resumed speaking.
“Miss Sally May Anderson lived an incredible life. One need look no further than the luminaries gathered here out of respect for her to understand the impact her life had on past and current generations.”
I paused and then stared directly at Joey as I concluded my remarks.
“Miss Sally would want us to learn from her past and celebrate her memory in the present, but most of all, she would want us to look to the future as her love, energy, and wisdom still need to be experienced by certain individuals.”
I glared at Joey and finished by saying, “May we all dedicate ourselves to the task of ensuring that the lessons Miss Sally left behind be felt by those who need them most.”
The memorial service concluded without further incident. I stood with Miss Hastings, Gus, and Jason to thank everyone as they filed back down the footpath toward the sumptuous feast Claudia had set out on linen-covered tables in the garden area.
As the last of the mourners passed by and I thanked them for being a part of the special day, Jason glanced over toward where Joey was nonchalantly making some type of adjustment to his motorcycle. He was self-absorbed and seemed completely oblivious to what was going on around him and the fact that he had disrespectfully interrupted a solemn occasion.
Jason said aloud to no one in particular, “He sort of reminds me of me, but I couldn’t have been that bad.”
Miss Hastings began trying to assure Jason that he hadn’t been that difficult or a problem, when Gus Caldwell blurted out in his matter-of-fact tone, “Son, you weren’t that bad . . . You were a whole lot worse.”
I wasn’t able to enjoy as much of Claudia’s culinary artistry as I would have liked. I floated from table to table, trying to make everyone feel welcome as I knew Miss Sally would have done if she had been there. I checked on a number of details regarding the food and beverage service only to find that everything had already been handled by Claudia and double-checked by Hawthorne.
The day had turned out to be bright and warm, and the gardens were idyllic, so the guests lingered, sharing their stories and memories of Miss Sally and how she had touched each of their lives.
Eventually, the guests began to drift away amidst hugs, handshakes, and well wishes. Finally, there were only a few of us left to tend to the cleanup.
Joey Anderson drifted over toward me and mumbled, “Are you Hamilton?”
I turned to him with my best courtroom stare and declared, “Young man, I am Theodore J. Hamilton, Esquire.”
Joey took a half step back and stared at me as if he were looking at a space alien.
After a long, awkward pause, he explained, “I’m Joey. I was diving near the Great Barrier Reef in Australia when I got your express package about my great-grandmother dying.”
He stared at me hopefully, as if I would pick up on his intentions, but I just stared at him, refusing to make it any easier.
He dropped his gaze, cleared his throat, and continued.
“I came here to get my money.”
I smiled mischievously and asked, “Did you have some money here?”
He shook his head and whined, “Your letter said I should come and get my stuff.”
I feigned confusion and declared, “My correspondence indicated, as I remember, that your great-grandmother, Miss Sally May Anderson, had regrettably passed away, and you should travel by the most expedient conveyance to participate in her memorial service and discuss your possible inclusion in the disposition of her estate.”
I took that opportunity to glare disgustedly toward the motorcycle and remark, “I look forward to the point in time when you and I will be able to have a frank and candid discussion regarding the definition of an expedient conveyance.”
His confusion turned into annoyance, and he shot back, “Just tell me how I can get my money and get out of here.”
I explained, “Young man, there is a time and place for everything, and the time for that discussion will be tomorrow morning, and the place will be around the breakfast table in the main house.”
I turned and departed, leaving him standing there, stunned and bewildered.
After enjoying a comfortable evening as a guest of Anderson House, the next morning—as I had done hundreds of times over the years—I made my way toward what I would always think of as Miss Sally’s breakfast table.
Anderson House is a rambling old estate with many twists and turns. Guests have been known to get lost, confused, or totally turned around; but every morning, one need simply follow their nose toward the sumptuous aroma emanating from Claudia’s kitchen to find their place at Miss Sally’s famous breakfast table.
As I settled into my comfortable seat at the head of the table, I couldn’t help but think about all of the world leaders, sports and entertainment luminaries, theologians, and thought leaders, as well as everyday people like me who had gathered around this table to take in a bit of sustenance for their body and a lot of sustenance for their mind and spirit.
Generally, all the guests of Anderson House are welcome at this table; however, arrangements for this particular morning had already been planned by Miss Sally on her visit to my office several months before. All the other guests of Anderson House would be breakfasting on the upper veranda or in the main dining room so that a select few of Miss Sally’s choosing could have a special meeting over breakfast at this particular table.
Just as Claudia presented me with that cup of pure ambrosia known as the first coffee of the day, Gus Caldwell slid into the seat beside me. I mentally patted myself on the back for beating Gus to the breakfast table, as he has always been known as an early riser.
My private celebration was interrupted when Gus proclaimed, “Beautiful morning, Ted. I’ve already hiked around the lake on the far end of the property and checked out a few of the outbuildings.”
M
iss Hastings took her place at my other side. As she and I exchanged our subtle nods to one another that said nothing and expressed everything, Jason Stevens bounded into the room and slid into the chair next to her.
Only after Jason had settled did Hawthorne and Oscar approach the table and look to me for a nod to be seated. Claudia stood expectantly near the door to the kitchen. I smiled and motioned to her, signaling she should serve everyone and join us.
The chair at the opposite end of the table was conspicuously empty.
As their duties always called them elsewhere, Claudia, Hawthorne, and Oscar were not in the habit of joining guests for Miss Sally’s famous breakfast gatherings, but today they were able to join in on the stories and remembrances of Miss Sally. We laughed, cried, and shared memories of the special lady and how she had left her imprint on us all.
The breakfast banquet contained every imaginable variety of fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, and all of the other dishes one would expect as well as some one wouldn’t. Second cups of coffee were savored, and third cups were enjoyed by a few of us.
Finally, I heard my long-awaited guest of honor and new client approaching. Joey Anderson rounded the corner and stood in the entryway to the breakfast room. The conversation around the table ceased, and the room fell silent as everyone stared at Joey. His hair was a mess, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his clothes looked as if he had slept in them.
Gus broke the silence, speaking to me. “Ted, I think you may have had one of those senior moments they talk about. You must have told Joey we were meeting for lunch instead of breakfast.”
Amid the laughter, Joey slunk over to the table and slumped into the chair at the far end.
Claudia asked him what he would like, and Joey just shook his head, grumbling, “I don’t eat breakfast.”
Gus responded to Joey, “Well, son, if I got out of bed when you did, I wouldn’t eat breakfast either.”
Joey finally found his voice and a modicum of courage, declaring to everyone, “Look, I don’t know you people, and I really don’t want to. I just want to know how quick I can get my money and get as far away from this place as possible.”
