Today was my Aunt Joanne's funeral, and first we gathered at the Kilgore Funeral parlor in Leeds, and then the procession went over the mountain to Kendricks Cemetery in Dunnavant, where my mom's side of the family, the Rameys and Isbells and so forth, has been getting themselves buried since before the Civil War. Most of my immediate family made it, some of whom I'd not seen since my Grandma Ramey died in 2005. It's a beautiful spot, on the shores of Wehapa Lake, in the shadow of a mountain. Today, the mountain was afire with autumn colors.
I'm going to make a long post about Aunt Joanne sometime soon. But tonight I'm so tired I can hardly type.
The absolute weirdest thing about today was seeing my eighth-grade homeroom teacher. Mr. Dawson, whom I had not seen since May 1978, forty-one years ago. And telling who was was back then.
This morning, before the funeral, Kathryn and I read through "Bus Fare" and "Dancy vs. the Pterosaur," both of which hold up far better than I expected. "Bus Fare," especially, which was written way, way back in early 2011.