I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after. — Wallace Stevens,
“13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”
The plane shivers as we hit the headwinds coming off the Franklin Mountains on our approach to El Paso International Airport. (The “international” part is a stretch, since there are no direct flights to another country from tiny ELP — though I suppose you could walk across the dry Rio Grande River to Mexico if you wanted to). The desert ground below us stretches sere and brown all the way to White Sands National Park, barely visible off the right wingtip. This part of the world is mostly a relentless tan this time of year, a result of being roasted with “dry” heat from May to September.
It’s a balmy 103 on the ground as my son and I walk to the parking garage to pick up our rental car for the drive to Las Cruces, New Mexico, 50 miles to the northwest, on the other side of the Franklins. We’re joining my daughter and a dozen or so other members of our far-flung family there for my mother’s celebration of life. She died in mid-July from complications of, well, being almost 102 years old.
My parents divorced when my two brothers and I were very young. My father got custody of us, and for reasons known only to him, we began calling our mother by her first name, Montelle, a habit we continued for all of her years.
Montelle soon remarried, lived in Thailand for a spell, gave us another brother, and then settled for much of her life in Ashland, Kentucky, where she was a longtime teacher in that city’s public school system. After her retirement in the mid-1990s, she and her husband, Bob, moved to Las Cruces, where they lived out the rest of their days — Bob painting and golfing; Montelle admiring his work and riding shotgun in the golf cart — pointing out where his ball was and making smart remarks about his prowess (or lack thereof) — which he took good-naturedly. They got involved with St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, where Montelle served as a youth minister and where she made many dear friends. After Bob died, Montelle spent several happy years living in a senior independent living community, before moving to assisted living late in life.
My brother Chris and his family also lived in Las Cruces for many years, so my family and I came to know the city — and its surrounding desert and mountains — quite well.
Montelle’s memorial service was held at St. Andrew’s, just as she wanted it to be. It was a traditional ceremony, with a 17-page program containing hymns, responsive readings, a sermon, a liturgy, remembrances from family, and even communion. Montelle left us with full honors, you might say. It was a lovely service.
Afterward, all the family members gathered at a restaurant for dinner and then moved to chairs near the hotel pool to share memories under the night sky. It put me in mind of the Wallace Stevens poem cited above, as we each dug up reminiscences and told tales of my mother from our different perspectives — her dry wit, her humanity, her kindness — including several anecdotes and pieces of family history I hadn’t heard before.
I shared a story from Montelle’s 100th birthday party: After blowing out the ceremonial candle, she got up, grasped her walker by the handles, and began to circle the table, stopping to say something to each person. When she got to me, she said, “Why here’s my favorite son!” I smiled, thinking, why not? She’s 100 and can say whatever she wants. Then she stopped behind my brother Alan, who was seated next to me. “Why here’s my favorite son!” she said. Her timing was perfect, as always.
The next day, my son and I are driving over Trans-Mountain Pass, looking down from a mile above the El Paso airport. We talk about our first memories of coming out here — his beginning when he was a child, mine starting in middle age. Two more perspectives. Two more sets of memories. Two more ways of looking at a blackbird.
