I am a lover of words and occasionally manage to put them together in a half-way decent manner. Ask me to speak to you spontaneously . . . off the cuff . . . with no preparation . . . and my brain freezes. On paper I get to review it and study it and edit it and delete it and start from scratch as many times as I choose before the world sees it. Not so much with verbal communication. And it shows.
The same goes for sharing emotional connections with other people—and when I say sharing, I mean telling them how I feel about them. Oh, it’s easy to tell my family I love them, but much more difficult (if not impossible) to do so with other members of the human race. Hereditarily speaking, my family (at least the Shackelford side of my family) tends to hold those feelings quite close so the rest of the world hasn’t a clue what’s going on in our heads—or metaphorical hearts.
All of the above is why, years ago, I decided to write letters to a few people who had greatly impacted my life. I wanted them to know how much I admired them—and loved them—without going through any uncomfortable conversations where neither of us knew how to respond. I also wanted them to have something they could revisit from time to time, should my efforts be worth recalling.
The very first person I ever wrote to was Gordon Ross. He was a funeral director at the funeral home in Bolivar and had been for as long as I could remember, working with my grandfather and then my uncle. He and his wife also owned the cemetery where my grandparents and uncle are buried. And they owned and operated the Townhouse Restaurant, the preferred dining establishment whenever we made the trip from Savannah to Bolivar to visit with my grandparents. I have no idea what I ate there, but I can remember the feeling of walking into that restaurant and being greeted by Gordon and Maxine, even after all these years. I have so many happy memories that involve Gordon . . . and he provided a connection to my grandfather Pop that only two of the other Bolivar employees offered—Arthur Wheeler and his wife Esther.
When I learned Gordon was terminally ill with only a few months left on this earth, I wanted to go see him. To tell him how much our friendship meant and how much I would miss him. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Seems I’m like a lot of other folks. I handle death so much better than I do the dying part. So, I sat down with my pen and paper and told him in the only other way I knew how. And after much contemplation and consternation, I slipped the letter into an envelope and entrusted it to the United States Postal Service.
I did the same with Jim Garey, who worked our visitations at the funeral home in Savannah for several years. He was a good friend of my father’s and tried to look after me as he knew my dad would have during Dad’s illness and after his death. If I worked late at night, he was concerned because I’d be leaving when no one else was there. He’d pull around the building and realize anyone could see me in bookkeeping, thanks to the three large windows we’d installed to fill in the center bay of the garage for recordkeeping and storage. And he was quite relieved when I broke down and bought blinds for said windows. That way, no one would know I was burning the midnight oil.
The more I learned about Jim, the more in awe I was of this quiet, unassuming gentleman (and I mean that in the truest Southern sense of the word) who almost died in a radio bunker that collapsed on him after being bombed during World War II. It devastated me when I learned he had been diagnosed with cancer—cancer for which he did not choose to be treated. I really believe his age and the loss of his lovely wife just a short time before were factors in his decision, but factors didn’t matter when I realized the world would be short one shining light at his death. So again, my love of words and Jim led me to tell him in writing how much he had meant to me all those years—and how much I would miss him when that time came.
There have been other letters, ones not written in contemplation of death but because someone inspired me with their perseverance in the face of debilitating illness. Or to people I knew were struggling with personal issues. I didn’t want to intrude, but I wanted them to know I could see their pain and there was at least one person who cared. I never asked if the letters were received. That would have meant a conversation I had worked so hard to avoid. But in every instance, I learned they had made it to their intended destination. It may have been the family sharing with me at the funeral home or a friend of a friend of someone who received my feeble efforts. I had made a difference—however brief that difference may have been—in the life of someone who had made such a tremendous difference in mine.
But then I stopped. Life got in the way and Death stole people from my world. People I never told how much they meant to me. Those unwritten letters . . . those missed opportunities still sadden me today and now I find myself feeling the need to begin again. There are people who inspire me. People who have nurtured me. People who, over the years, have helped make me the person I am. And I want them to know what an impact they’ve had on my life.
We can all take a minute to share those feelings. It doesn’t have to be a mile-long letter filled with all the words. A simple card will do. A brief message jotted on a piece of paper and mailed to that special person. The fact that you took that minute and used it to thank them will mean more than you realize. The catch is that you can’t wait or say I’ll do that tomorrow. There are already too many missed opportunities in Life. The opportunity to say thank you shouldn’t be one of them.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
