Thoughts About My Mother and Her Dying

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Thoughts About My Mother and Her Dying
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I didn't cry much when Dad died in October of this year (2021). I was half-mad, but I didn't cry. Half-mad, because I couldn't get him to accept the care he needed until it was too late. If I could've gotten him into Hamilton Pointe when I wanted to earlier this year, he might still be with us. So yeah, half-mad, but I didn't cry. Just a few days before his death, we were able to get an emergency admission into Newburgh Healthcare, thanks to the amazing caregivers at Heart to Heart Hospice and, of course, the staff of Newburgh Healthcare. But Dad rarely listened to me or sought my counsel.

Mom stopped eating after Dad died, but that also wasn't a surprise. My mother was the Queen of No. No to me having Power of Attorney. Thankfully, the social worker at Newburgh Healthcare talked her out of saying no to that. No to needing to eat. No to the Covid booster. No to getting her diabetes finger prick, and no to insulin. And, the last time I saw my mother lucid, it was no to the brownie that was on her plate. As my daughter, Stephanie, recalls, "She chucked that brownie across the table. It's now my favorite memory." And then, the other resident sitting at the table with us said, "I want my brownie, though. Can you push it closer to me?" Which the answer was, Absolutely!

Dad could always talk Mom out of saying "no." Always. Every time. One of the workers told me that once when Dad came in to pick up Mom for church on a Sunday morning, he was upset that Mom wasn't dressed and ready to go. The worker told him that she had refused to get up that morning. Dad went into the room, she said, and he came out a few minutes later and said, "She's ready now." Dad would've been able to talk Mom into eating, or into taking the Covid booster, or anything else she needed to be talked into. As with my Dad, I never had that power with my Mom. To be fair, I'm pretty stubborn myself.

The day before Mom died, 19 Dec 2021, hospice called to say she had gone down hill very quickly that Sunday. The next morning, while in the bath, the nurse at Newburgh Healthcare called to say that she wasn't expected to make it. Well, I've heard that one before. There were quite a few times the last 20 years when I have seen Mom so ill that I didn't expect her to make it. One of those times was when she was admitted to Newburgh Healthcare in 2014. I didn't think she'd be in there for more than a couple of days. She stayed 7 years.

So I was in the bath, and they called and wanted me to come in as quickly as I could. I kind of thought that maybe this was going to be it. But, I didn't expect it to be that very day. I got to the nursing home before the hour was up, met with the hospice nurse and the facility nurse, and then the chaplain came in. Mom was on morphine and comfortable. Remembering how I lost all my pictures because I was complacent in getting them out of my dad's house, I picked up a few things I knew I wanted from my mother. Memories. Two pieces of the last nativity set that she didn't finish. (She handmade many nativity sets in her lifetime.) Her Bible. A couple of photo albums she had that was of her McLean family. And then, I rushed out, heading to go to work, leaving her behind with the chaplain. Click on photos to enlarge

 As I was leaving, the business personnel, who were having lunch together in the break room, asked me if she had passed. I said, "no, not yet." But I had to go to work. I had piano lessons scheduled for Monday and Tuesday of that week, having then the rest of the year to myself. I would be back tomorrow, I reasoned, and this is what I told the workers. And I would be off after that to give Mom all the time in the world.

I got the call while I was teaching that afternoon, and since I didn't answer, Stephanie was the second person they called to tell her Mom had passed. I still didn't cry. Stephanie did.

I didn't cry as we were cleaning out her room at Newburgh Healthcare. I didn't cry when talking with the pastor who was to give her eulogy. I didn't cry at the visitation. I didn't cry during her eulogy. Death is so natural to me. As a pastor's daughter, I grew up with death. My first marriage, which lasted 29 years, was to a man who worked maintenance at a funeral home and whose best friends were funeral directors. We hung out a lot at the funeral home. I saw a lot of death. And, I have been a church musician practically my whole life and have played countless funerals. Death doesn't bother me.

After the funeral service, Kenny drove Stephanie and I in our Jeep Compass behind the hearse all the way from Washington Avenue in Evansville, Indiana, to Yankeetown, Indiana, if not on the grounds of Alcoa, pretty close, to Bates Hill Cemetery. We had just been there a few months ago for my father's burial, and Stephanie and I had visited later for a picture of the stone for Find-A-Grave. It was familiar.

Pastor said a few words and had a prayer. And then that was it. It was time to go. But... but... I couldn't leave her here. Everyone had started walking to their cars. I grabbed Stephanie's hand to try to stop myself from crying. We can't leave her here, I thought. Are we just going to leave her here? I decided I wouldn't leave. I'd sit there forever, fighting back tears. I didn't care how long it would take; I was just going to sit there and wait. I could see in the corner of my eye that Pastor was waiting for me to be okay enough to get up from the chair I was sitting in. Stephanie coaxed me up. I knew I had to leave. I knew I couldn't sit there, but why couldn't I? We can't just leave her here!

My mother and I. We never were close. We never really saw anything eye-to-eye. And we were never going to no matter what either one of us did. But, in that moment, I understood that this was my mom and that she was gone. She didn't visit me after her death like my father did, but this was still my mom, and she still was gone.

But she's not really gone, is she? She's in her heavenly home with her sister, her mom, and my dad. When she and her sister put their heads together, there was no one else. Betty has been gone 9 long years now. And now, they're with each other again, with their heads together, no doubt, scheming their next project.

Mom with her younger sister, Betty
They were always close
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Uncle Rufus Jr., Mom, Uncle Eddie, Aunt Betty, Uncle Owen
Only the youngest, Owen, is left
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

 

Stephanie walked with me back to the car, but I asked my husband permission - who knows why in that moment - but I asked permission to go see my Aunt Robbin one last time before they drove back to their home near Indianapolis. Everyone else were in their cars, ready to go, but no one could leave until we did, because we had them blocked in. So Stephanie walked me down the procession of cars. I didn't know what vehicle they were in, but it didn't matter. Aunt Robbin jumped out of the vehicle, and we hugged one last time. I don't think Aunt Robbin really understood how much I have always loved her until after my parents died. She asked me to come see her soon, and I said, "I want to." And I do. And hopefully that's in the cards for 2022 - which I think is going to be a great year, by the way.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Scuffletown, KY - Mom's Side of the Story

Growing Up with a Preacher Man 

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Scuffletown, KY - Mom's Side of the Story

____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

This post was updated Feb. 28, 2024

I have always thought - from the time I could think - that my parents were an odd match. Now that Dad has passed and Mom is in the nursing home, I was right. They were an odd match, which probably made them perfect for each other.

I've talked a lot about Dad's history in this blog and on Facebook, but I have talked very little about my mother's side of the family. Still, I've always been weirdly proud that my Aunt Betty McLean Kroeger (1938-2012) was born in what is now a ghost town. She was proud of it, too. Click on photos to enlarge

Scuffletown and surrounding area
Google Maps with correct attribution

Scuffletown's problem is that it was on the Ohio River, which was always flooding the town. This is what caused its demise. I always thought it was the building of the twin bridges from Evansville, Indiana over the Ohio River going into Henderson, Kentucky. By building the twin bridges, people in Kentucky no longer needed the Scuffletown ferry to get them to Evansville. You see, people from Kentucky would take John Pfingston's ferry into Cypress Beach, located near the Newburgh Overlook, and from there would take a train into downtown Evansville where they could shop. This, to me, sounds delightful. The flooding, though? Not so much.

Mom with her mother
Downtown Evansville, Shopping
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Scuffletown basically was owned by a man named Will Dempewolf. According to an article in The Warrick Press, 29 Aug 1985, Dempewolf owned 1,284 acres in Scuffletown. Many of the residents worked on his farm as tenants. My grandfather operated the Scuffletown General Store, which was also owned by Dempewolf. The ferry, operated by my 2x great-grandfather, was also owned by Dempewolf.

Mom with her brother, Rufus Jr.
Scuffletown, KY
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

My mother talked very little about Scuffletown, where she lived with her parents until the 1937 flood drove them out. After the flood took everything in Scuffletown, the McLean family moved to an area called Vanada Station in rural Warrick County, Indiana, close to Newburgh Indiana. I remember that my mother only really talked about two things in Scuffletown. One was about how much drinking went on; and the second was how all her friends there were of African-American descent.

According to Wikipedia,
this was the founding family of Scuffletown
Public Domain via Wikipedia

Scuffletown was indeed a drinking town, as it was the stomping grounds of so-called "riverboat men." Because there were no locks or dams on the Ohio River at Newburgh, which was then called Sprinklesburgh, the water over the Ohio sometimes got pretty low. Low enough that the riverboat men would have to lay over at Scuffletown, waiting for rain. While waiting, the men drank... a lot of whisky. It feels that Mom told me that her Uncles were all alcoholics. But I was young when she told me this. I know there were alcoholics in the family, but I don't think it was her Pfingston uncles. (It was recently confirmed that many were.) It was just the riverboat men in general, drinking a bunch and probably fighting. I can't imagine being so young and exposed to all this rowdiness. It certainly made an impression, for my mother never touched alcohol that I know of in her whole life. And Dad was polar opposite of what she would have witnessed growing up in Scuffletown. He grew up in a very religious household where drinking was thought of as quite sinful - the devil himself, actually. This may have further attracted her to him.

From L to R
Great-grandmother Flora Vogt Pfingston
Grandmother Anna Bell Pfingston McLean
My mom, Mary McLean Howard
Great-grandfather Arthur Edward Pfingston
In front of Anna Bell's house in Warrick Co., IN
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

The second thing I remember her talking about more than anything was how many African-American friends she had growing up and how they would do each other's hair. Growing up in a little town in Northern Indiana that was completely white, I was intrigued by this.

It is striking, though, that her mother, my grandmother, in the Evansville Press dated 29 Sep 1931 named the names of the four white families that lived with them in Scuffletown: Howard Buley, Lon Meredith, John Beach, and Alvin Watkins. Anna Bell then stated that "nine negro families make up the rest." That was the ending sentence of the article.

Today, there is nothing at Scuffletown but bottomlands. According to Wikipedia, in 2001, the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service suggested making this area a nature preserve, but that hasn't happened.

I have also read that the Henderson, Kentucky Public Library has recordings of some of those who lived in Scuffletown. I will have to make a trip there to see if my grandparents were counted among those recorded.  I'm also wondering if any of the African-American families who lived there were recorded. I would love to hear their side of the story.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC