By Dixon Marshall (To be read by John Marshall IV at Mom’s funeral)
Maxine Marshall. Her first name was really Mildred, but her contemporary friends and siblings knew her as Maxine, because she preferred her middle name. In truth, she hated the name “Mildred.” Sadly, nearly all of her dear old friends have been gone for a while now. There was almost nobody left to call her “Maxine” for quite some time before she passed away. I know she missed them all—but this is a price we pay for longevity.
Born as Maxine Wolfe, then going by the Marshall surname after marrying her beloved John Marshall, the rest of us knew her as either Mom, Mama, Mommy Marshall, Grandma, Aunt Mack, Meemaw or Granny--whether related to her or not. This is because nearly all of her adult life had been centered around her children. When I say “her children,” I say it loosely, because I do mean all of the children that she knew. Whether grandchildren, great-grandchildren, step-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, or even just friends of her children—we were her children. We were all the same to her--she loved us all with equal passion and gusto.
Her passion was not just reserved for her “children,” though. Her lust for life had an uncanny depth and breadth. Maxine Marshall lived her life with a passion, and possessed a roaring sense of humor; this trait was firmly ingrained—she knew of no other way to exist.
Maxine was tough. Petite in body, but huge in personality, she was born in and of the mountains, not too long after the turn of the 20th century. She was the daughter of subsistence farmers. Her birthplace was her childhood home on that farm on the mountain, nearly ten miles from town. All of her formal schooling was had in a one-room school on that same mountain (but she did take classes in town, and received her GED, much later in life). Her driveway was something much less than a wagon trail snaking from the summit of Wolfe Mountain for seven miles. Her childhood transportation consisted of her own two feet, but when she got “old enough,” she did at least acquire four-legged transportation, in the form of a horse she called “Ol’ Jet.”
I have walked that same rugged trail to her home place several times myself, hoping to capture some of the magic, but only failing to capture my breath less than halfway up.
At the tender age of ten, it was not unusual for her parents to send her to the store in Fisher for beans and coffee, or to the old grist mill at the South Fork River bridge in Moorefield for flour. I am not talking about a one pound bag of beans, or a five pound sack of flour. What she had to fetch would be up to twenty-five pounds of beans or flour, packaged in rough burlap sacks.
As she described it, the storekeepers felt sorry for her, as they knew that this little girl had to haul the goodies back up the mountain on her shoulder—so they would give her an extra empty sack. That way she could place half of the product in each. She would then tie the bags together, styling a sort of harness, which she said helped her keep her balance on the rocky road home.
McGyver had nothing on this resourceful little mountain girl.
She had to make several rest stops along the steep uphill climb, but she nearly always made it back to the top of the mountain before dark. On those times that she didn’t beat the dusk, she said it got spooky when the owls started screeching and hooting after sunset.
She always spoke of these things as wonderful adventures, not as hardships. You could tell by the gleam in her eyes, and the bright little smile, that when she spoke of these sagas of long ago, that she truly wished she could re-live them. To Maxine, those were days of freedom and independence. Freedom to roam was bliss to this remarkable woman, even in the golden autumn of her life.
Mama was very transparent. Love us she did, but make no mistake about it--when we did wrong, she did not hold back. Thus she gained our respect—we knew that there was no fluff to be found here. Mama Marshall was a woman of real and tangible substance. She was truly a rose with all of its thorns intact—and we loved her all the more for that.
When she wed John Marshall, she had married a die-hard Democrat, but she had been raised by staunch Republicans. Apparently, Dad successfully converted her, because she was also very much of the Democratic persuasion. Oddly, she in turn raised very conservative children.
Mommy Marshall was a Christian, and she truly enjoyed church. She wasn’t able to attend much in the latter couple of years, but she spoke often of the two pastors that she admired—she felt in her heart that they were true men of God—Ken Owens and Glen Berg. Mom had accepted and loved Jesus, and she knew she was going to heaven.
Aunt Mack knew how to survive. Not merely how to survive, though—she knew how to live, how to love life, and how to enjoy living despite not having many material things at all early on in life—and despite the unending curse of severe rheumatoid arthritis that reared its ugly head in her young middle ages. She handily fought off health demons and catastrophes that would have conquered anyone of lesser spirit, and I believe that would include most of us here today.
If ever you saw an odd piece of vegetation that you had not encountered before, you only needed to show it to Granny Marshall. She was the ultimate field guide—a walking botanical database; I can not remember ever showing her a plant or weed that she could not identify. She always knew what was safe, what would make you itch, or what might kill you. I can see how this was important for her survival early on, considering the ecosystem that she was a part of as a child.
Meemaw finally got her drivers license in her 50s. My brother John, and his wife Terri, still speak of the horrors of teaching her to drive. Everyone else that had ever been a passenger in her car came to understand the meaning of “white knuckles.” To Mom’s credit, she never had a serious accident, but just a couple of minor benders.
Grandma Marshall was a lover of animals. At various times she had kept some pets that would strike terror in the hearts of visitors. Of course, I encouraged this as a child. Mom has had a Raccoon, an Alligator, snakes and lizards (which were really mine), many dogs of all species and sizes, and numerous cats. One of those cats many of us think was just evil, but nobody can remember its name. Her last cat, named Tom, weighed in at thirty-two pounds. Oddly, Mama had an unnatural terror of spiders.
Mom lost her husband too soon. She had sorely missed the love of her life from the time he passed away, in 1972. She had a couple of flames, and had dated a few times in the intervening years, but she never managed to replace John. Honestly, I do not believe she even wanted to, because she certainly did not try very hard. She made sure that arrangements were in place, so that she could be buried next to John.
We have all learned from Maxine. We have inherited her savvy nature, her honesty, and her transparency—but we cannot equal it. This is something that has been passed down not so much in our DNA as it was in simply how she touched our lives. Mama set an example for all of us, yet we are hard put to compare to her example. She was the real thing.
Maxine, Mama, Granny, Meemaw, Mommy Marshall, Aunt Mack, Mom, Grandma—but never, ever Mildred. She will be sorely missed. She was something special, no matter which name we used. In her presence, we all felt very special. We can only hope to live by her example.
Goodbye, Mama. I miss you. I will see you on the other side one day.
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