From Beginning to End

by Robert Fulghum

But the last memory is the one being made here now. I knew she had complete kidney failure and didn’t have long to live. I’m deeply moved by the care she put into preparing for her own death when she knew her time had come; the insistence that this occasion be about life; the request that we not come in black or be too solemn; the jazz band and the party tomorrow night; and the little odds and ends she sent all of us the past year. What an exit. What a classy way to go.

  When I was young, she taught me how to think, how to learn; later, she taught me how to loosen up. And being here now I realize she still isn’t through with me. She’s taught me how to die.

  –

  The minister stands and remains silent for a time.

  Then he speaks:

  Jennifer Jason was Martha Carter’s student in high school. Eight years later she became Martha’s daughter-in-law when she married Martha’s son, Alan, and subsequently became the mother of Martha’s first grandchild. She has been asked to speak on behalf of the family.

  –

  One look at Jennifer Jason Carter and you surmise that she must be very much like her mother-in-law at the same age—short chestnut hair, rosy complexion, trimly dressed in a yellow suit, she gives an impression of confidence, intelligence, and vitality. She says:

  Our family talked with Martha about this service for most of an afternoon just before she died. That evening, after Martha had fallen asleep, we talked for hours. That was part of Martha’s memorial service—as all the memories of her came back to her family. We laughed and cried and sat sometimes in silence.

  It was clear to Hannah and Alan that they could not begin to eulogize their mother here today—they wouldn’t know where to stop and wouldn’t be able to finish because of the strength of their feelings. I’m pleased to speak for them.

  We asked Dick Havens to speak first because Martha was above all else a teacher—both at school and with her family. The best moments of her life came when those two worlds overlapped. In her prime, she seemed so strong, so serious, and so sure of herself that her students thought of her as invulnerable. And, even on her worst days, she managed to teach.

  I remember one day in class when she surprised us by being irritable and ill-tempered. She got angry at one student and then dismissed the class early because she felt none of us had really done our homework. “Out, out,” she snapped, pointing at the door. Stunned and cowed, we silently collected our belongings and passed into the hallway. Before we got very far, she came to the door, and in a voice so soft we hardly heard her, she called after us to please come back. She was in tears. When we had resumed our seats, she sat down behind her desk and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, told us she was ashamed of herself and how sorry she was for the way she had acted. It wasn’t our fault. She said she was not feeling well, had not been sleeping well, and had some difficult things to deal with in her personal life. But she apologized for taking her feelings out on us, and since she knew we had bad days sometimes, too, she felt we would understand. Half the class ended up hugging her and comforting her.

  It was the first time in my entire life an adult had apologized to me for anything. And if Martha Carter could make a mistake and apologize, then so could I. I don’t remember a lot of things about English literature, but I will never forget that moment of being taught the power of integrity. Because of her I have always apologized to her son and her grandchildren when I lost my temper.

  Speaking of temper, Martha Carter had one—the kind that could remove paint and a layer of hide. She was not without her flaws. Her energy and ability could be overwhelming at times. Sometimes I avoided her because she always seemed so organized. She didn’t have much patience with sloppy thinking. If you got into an intellectual discussion with her, you’d better have your facts right and your homework done, or she’d eat you alive and you’d feel so dumb you wanted to hide under a chair. Her virtue was a little hard to take, too—she didn’t lie and she didn’t cheat, and she was tough on those who did. She was so independent you wondered if she ever really needed anybody—there was so little she could not do for herself.

  It took me years to understand that the reason she came on so strong is that she had to be strong all her life—she had no choice. She had so much death and sickness to deal with—she had to work and raise a family alone—and she knew there was nobody to fall back on. Her strength armored her weaknesses.

  When she was dying, I was astonished when she told me she had been scared all her life. She wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. Typically, she made a joke of this by saying that she had always wanted to have a quiet little place in the country all by herself and now she was going to get it.

  If you want to know if she was a successful parent, all you have to do is look at the lives of Hannah and Alan and how they are with their own children, and the answer is yes. In a conversation between just the two of us, Martha said that of course she loved her children as any mother should, but when she stepped back and looked at them with her most critical eye, she also really liked them, admired them, and was proud of them.

  I knew Martha Carter at several stages of my life and hers. What amazed me is the way she continued to change and grow until the day she died. When she retired from teaching, she said she was also retiring from being a respectable matron. She let her hair grow long, stopped wearing serious clothes, bought a pickup truck to drive, and moved to a tiny house with a huge yard so she could raise the garden of her dreams. She traveled, did volunteer work, and took ballroom dancing lessons.

  For exercise, she took up walking. She didn’t like sitting around making small talk, so if you wanted to visit with her, you had to go fora walk—and she could walk forever. On her walks, she was still the Chief Investigator—Inspector Carter—always looking into whatever interested her, talking with strangers, and marching right into people’s yards to see flowers that attracted her attention.

  As she grew older and her friends began to die, she said she needed younger friends and some new ideas. So she went back to the university to study art and art history and be with the younger generation.

  About five years ago, when she was seventy-five years old, the family was a little surprised to get a call one Sunday night asking for one of us to pick her up at Norway Hall because she was unable to drive. We didn’t know what on earth she was doing at a dance hall and couldn’t imagine her too drunk to drive. She wasn’t drunk—she had sprained her ankle while dancing. That’s how we found out she had taken an interest in traditional New Orleans—style jazz. When bands she liked played at the Norway Hall on Sunday nights, she went to listen and dance. She said it was a lot more comforting than church sometimes.

  Martha Carter and I had a rich relationship. She was my mentor. And I loved her with all my heart. And I give my family fair warning: I plan to be as alive as she was for as long as I live. When I’m old and you wonder where I am on weekends, look for me at Norway Hall. And if anybody wonders why, I can say my mother-in-law drove me to it.

  –

  Jennifer moves to sit beside her husband and children, and there is quiet again—only the sound of a slight breeze moving the leaves of the trees.

  The minister introduces Fred Ambler, the trombone player in the band.

  He’s a plump, balding, middle-aged man—a little ill at ease with speaking.

  –

  Well, I’m really glad I came today. I didn’t know all these things about Martha. I just thought she was this neat old lady who showed up from time to time and helped out the Jazz Society by selling tickets at the door and putting up decorations. She was a pretty good dancer, too. When she called me a couple of weeks before she died and asked if the band would play at her funeral, I didn’t quite know what to say. I know this is a New Orleans tradition, but our band had never done it, and we didn’t know what to play. But she did. She picked out all the tunes—some because she liked the name of the song and some because she liked to dance to them.

  When we came up the drive a little while a
go, we played “Mama’s Gone Goodbye”; in a minute we’ll play “His Eye Is on the Sparrow”; and at the end, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” During the reception, she asked us to play “Gimme a Break,” “My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It,” “Making Whoopee,” and “Muskrat Ramble,” among others. Tomorrow night there’s a party at Norway Hall—potluck supper at six and music and dancing until nine. Martha Carter paid for it, so it’s free and you’re invited. She asked me to say to you that if you don’t know much about our music or how to dance to it, come anyway, maybe you’ll learn something you can use. Thank you.

  Fred Ambler walks over to where the rest of the band is standing in the shade of some trees, and the band plays, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow, and I Know He Watches Me”—in slow tempo, with solos all around.

  –

  After a pause, the minister stands alongside the grave once again, holding an envelope in one hand.

  Martha Carter was not an official member of my church, though she attended on occasion and we were casually acquainted. It was a little surprising to get her call about a month ago asking me to conduct her funeral saying something like “My time has come, Reverend, and you’re my man.” I was a little taken aback at first, but after helping her arrange this service, I feel as though I had won an important honor—the Martha Carter Funeral Award.

  She insisted that the service be brief, an honest reflection of her life and beliefs, and above all, considerate of the needs and feelings of her family and friends. Her wishes were not her first concern. She wanted to make sure that this service was as inclusive as possible and that there was time for people to have their own thoughts and not feel imposed upon.

  And, as you might expect, she wanted the last word.

  The minister holds up the envelope for all to see.

  On the outside, in her handwriting, it says, A Note from Martha.

  He tears open the sealed envelope, takes out a folded note, and reads aloud:

  –

  All in all, I’ve had a wonderful life.

  Thank you all for your part in it.

  When death appeared at my door, I was expecting him.

  I put on my dancing shoes and went.

  You do the same.

  Good-bye, with love—Martha.

  –

  The minister shows the note to all and says:

  The legacy of Martha Carter is not the dry residue of death. She left behind the sweet taste of the fine wine of life. When I think now of Martha Carter, a voice in my head says, “I hope I live and die as well as she has.”

  And another voice, perhaps Martha’s, replies:

  “So?—what’s keeping you?”

  Will you please stand.

  You are invited to join us under the trees for refreshments—the family would like to greet all of you. And, of course, you are invited to the dance tomorrow night. Finally, a request: At the end of the service, will you please stop by the grave, take a handful of dirt, and place it on Martha’s urn. She wanted her family and friends to bury her.

  And now, let us join in silent prayer, each in his own way.

  –

  (Silence.)

  –

  We are grateful for Martha Lee Olson McBride Carter.

  For her example—of how to live and how to die.

  Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, God bless her.

  God bless us all.

  Amen.

  The minister picks up the small wooden box that has been sitting on a table at the end of the grave, places it in the concrete vault below, scatters a handful of dirt on it, and moves on as members of the family come to do the same. The band strikes up “The Saints” and marches off down the driveway, stepping lively, blowing strong.

  For Martha Carter, ignorance was always an enemy.

  When her first husband died, he left no will, and she knew nothing about his legal and financial affairs. Because he was killed in combat in wartime, she was at the mercy of the bureaucracies of both the federal and state governments. She had to engage an attorney, and even then it took almost two years to collect documents, file forms, get the estate probated, and finally settle all her husband’s affairs.

  It was an awful, awful experience—she lived with his death daily for two years in a most painful way. A part of her life was taken away because she was not free to make any decisions involving money or property until the estate was settled. It was bad enough being a young widow with a child—but to have to endure all the frustrations built into the legal machinery was more than she thought she could bear at times. Her parents, though alive and well at the time, were little help—they were too fearful of death themselves and couldn’t talk about it with her. If only her husband had left a simple will.…

  Martha said she was like everybody else in that she didn’t learn her lesson the first time. Or the second time. And beyond. She went through a similar experience when her father, son, and second husband died. Everybody puts off planning for death, which means that others suffer the consequences of our inaction.

  My knowledge backs Martha’s—about seventy percent of those who die, die intestate—without a will or any adequate instructions for their executors or next of kin. And in doing so, leave confusion and pain and frustration as major bequests to their families.

  As Martha pointed out, the problem is that we are reluctant to talk about death. We’re afraid, for one thing, and ignorant for another. But since we think death is always a long way off, we think we can deal with it when the time comes.

  Martha was determined to settle her affairs well—not just think about it.

  Though her affairs were not complicated, and though she had a basic will drawn up when her second husband died, she wanted to make sure her affairs really were in order. Times change—laws change. The year dialysis began, she consulted her attorney, read a current book about estate planning, and made the necessary adjustments to her will so that the costs and complications of estate probate were avoided.

  At the same time, she made what she felt was an equally important step. She began a series of conversations with her family. She said, “As hard as it may be to talk about death matters, if you hide anything from your family now, they will be sorry later. I know.”

  First she discussed her legal and financial affairs with them and did what was possible to transfer her property and power of attorney to her children, especially to her daughter, who the family agreed was to be the formal executor of her estate.

  At about the same time, she made sure that her family had access to her safe-deposit box at the bank and knew just where her legal and financial records were kept. Her daughter went along with her to meet with her attorney when the final will was notarized.

  Next she started writing a Letter of Instruction.

  This began as a written description of her wishes about her funeral and continued with thoughts about the disposition of personal possessions not involved in the settlement of her estate—gifts to family and friends. Since this was not a binding legal document, it soon became a sentimental journal of her last year of life.

  Martha realized that she had more than things to leave behind—there were thoughts and feelings to leave as well. She started writing personal notes to be mailed after she died—some to be mailed as much as a year later. A few of the small gifts were not to be made until some time had passed.

  In years past, when members of her family died, she found that society treated the funeral as the end of the matter. Yet her own mourning went on for such a long time afterward. She knew her friends had to get on with their lives, and she didn’t want to impose her ongoing sorrow on them. But she needed sympathy and kindness at times when she couldn’t ask. It frustrated her that nobody else seemed to know or care. She recalled once taking out her anguish on one of her classes—it was the anniversary of her son’s death.

  Several of her friends had lost husbands in recent years, and it was her custom to write short letters of consolation at the time of death and the
n write much longer letters after six months or a year had passed. She knew from her own experience it was at these later times that empathy was most needed—that gestures of caring were most appreciated. It was on these anniversary dates that she sent flowers—it was the living who needed them later on, not the dead at the funeral.

  So it was that a year after her own death, her children and closest friends received notes and flowers from her. This really happened—because Martha had entrusted the task to me. And in doing so, taught me how to minister to those who grieve.

  Notice that I keep emphasizing teaching. All of us are teachers. All of us fill that role of educator in the lives of children and friends, even strangers. Somebody looks up to each one of us to set an example. We know this because we look to others for inspiration. We learn from what they do and are. Teach well.

  Having arranged her legal, financial, and emotional affairs as far as words and numbers on paper could go, Martha turned to her funeral arrangements. Since she had made arrangements for others, she knew just how much the costs could be. If she did nothing and her family turned the matter over to a funeral home, she figured it would cost as much as five thousand dollars. She liked the candor of one funeral director who told her she could spend all she wanted on embalming and a casket, but the same thing would happen to her sooner or later—dust and bones. In one year without embalming and maybe fifteen or twenty years with embalming. What difference did it make? Dust and bones, no matter what. And the whole earth would fall into the sun someday, and everything would be cremated then, he said, so why wait?

  She liked this guy—he dealt a straight hand.

  The same candid man also told her if she was cremated, she shouldn’t have her ashes spread in gardens or under plants—especially roses; too much calcium would kill them—he also had learned the hard way.

  Martha, for her own part, would have settled for the least expense and trouble. Immediate cremation and ashes scattered at sea, with no funeral. But she presented her thoughts as suggestions and possibilities and gave careful attention to her children’s responses. They agreed about cremation, but for reasons they found hard to express, they wanted her ashes placed in a nearby cemetery, and they wanted a ceremony—a memorial service of some kind—a ritual of farewell.