As my children were growing up, Thanksgiving and Christmas meals with the Thomas clan found the family divided into two groups—the grown-ups and the kids. The grown-ups were allowed to sit around the formal dining room table while the kids were relegated to the folding tables that were always set up in the middle of the living room. Of course, each child aspired to a seat at the grown-ups’ table, especially given that their uncles/dads would give the Three Stooges a run for their money where rapid-fire retorts and one-liners were concerned. The laughter generated at the grown-ups’ table was enough to make every child envious.
They just didn’t realize what had to happen for them to graduate. Someone had to vacate their chair. And that usually meant someone had to die.
It finally happened when my husband’s grandmother suffered a massive stroke, departing this life about a week later on May 23rd of 1992. My son, who was the first in line for the vacant seat, was 10 years old when Thanksgiving rolled around. Ten years old when he would move to the grown-ups’ table and occupy the chair left empty by his great-grandmother’s death.
But when we all walked into the house, we found there were no longer separate tables. My mother-in-law, in all her wisdom, had moved the kids’ table to the end of the grown-ups’ table, creating one long gathering place. And so it remained until meals in their home were no longer an option. That didn’t mean we stopped coming together; she wouldn’t have stood for that. We just didn’t come together there.
This was the same woman who was intently watching a bald eagle in the bird sanctuary during a family trip to the Memphis Zoo. It was flapping its wings, giving her the impression something exciting was about to happen, so she started demanding the kids focus on the bird because, as she kept insisting over and over, “It’s gonna do something! It’s gonna do something!” And it did. And if you’d been standing directly under it, you’d have gotten an eye full. We laughed so hard it’s a wonder they didn’t have to scrape us off the sidewalk.
To say life was an adventure when Bobbie Thomas was around is a vast understatement. Actually, it was more like a continuous surprise. You just never knew what she would say or do next, but there was a very good chance it was going to be entertaining. And a life lesson when it came to dealing with adversity.
She was a true creative—someone who was constantly making something, whether it was finishing a quilt or knitting Christmas stockings or scarves or sweaters or piecing together heirloom quality clothes for her first two grandchildren. By the time the rest of the crew rolled around, she had moved on to other creative outlets. There were weekly trips to Lighthouse Ceramics in Crump and a home that was in a constant state of redecoration. Fortunately, her husband Frank was a semi-willing participant when it came to papering and painting. A professional florist, she had owned and operated a local shop for years, selling it when she decided she’d rather spend those long hours with her boys than a room full of carnations. Her husband and her three sons were her life and as the boys flew the coop and began families of their own, she continued to worry and fret over them while delighting in the grandchildren they provided. The walls of their home are absolutely covered with pictures of the grands and great-grands . . . and peacocks. She loved her little ones beyond measure—followed closely by peacocks . . . and cardinals (the birds, not the religious figures).
The family gatherings were a true source of joy for her, and she always worked hard to ensure that everything was perfect, from the centerpiece on the table to the menu for the day. Of course, Frank did most of the cooking and as the in-laws and grands came on board, those meals became more like an organized potluck. There were always certain items for which she would assume responsibility . . . the dirty rice, the dressing (until Kathryne came along), and the cranberry sauce which never seemed to make it from the fridge to the table. She would neatly remove it from the can and plate it, then put it in the refrigerator where it waited patiently to make its grand entrance and take its rightful place at the table. And one of us would find it still waiting patiently when the meal had ended and we were storing leftovers. Until that one year when she actually remembered. We arrived to find a plate of jiggly gelatinous cranberry goop already on the table. Unwilling to let the tradition of the unserved cranberry sauce die on that day, two of her daughters-in-law (I hereby confess to being one of them) quietly snuck it back into the fridge. We were halfway through the meal before “Miss” Bobbie realized it was missing and decided she must be losing her mind.
There are so many stories I could tell . . . about how her middle child gave her a black eye with a wayward baseball bat. How one time she managed to sew her fingers together and had to drag the sewing machine to the window so she could call for help. How her first-born grandchild named her DeeBoo (don’t ask—we’re still not sure) and how she embraced that oddly appropriate name. How she dearly loved all her great-grandchildren but had a special place in her heart for our Cora who is adopted . . . because Bobbie Thomas was also a chosen child, given a loving home by her aunt and uncle when her mother could no longer care for her. She had no secrets in her life (mainly because she wasn’t very good at keeping them) but there were things very few people knew. Like the fact that she was adopted, and her legal name was actually Mary Rob instead of Bobbie and how she eloped with her husband of over 71 years at the age of 17, crossing state lines into Mississippi so they could be married without her parents’ consent.
This independent, headstrong woman left us on Sunday morning, May 26th, and even then she did things her way, defying the predictions of the hospice house staff and hanging on for an extra week or more. She always treated me as her own and I will truly miss this woman who willingly filled the role of my "other mother". But I know, without a doubt, when she arrived on the other side, there was a whole host of family and friends waiting to greet her. And standing at the forefront of the group was her Frank, who’d probably had all the peace and quiet he could stand for the six months they were apart.
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.
