Floda: Woman Out of Time

Floda: A Woman Out of Time

Time is a very strange thing. Wouldn't you agree? It flows toward us from a point unknown and slips by almost unnoticed, even though we take great pains to save it, schedule it, make it, and even try to slow or stop it. No matter how high and how strong we build the dam, time affects everyone and everything. The irresistible flow of time can sometimes bring spouts of elation, such as at the birth of a baby, or can flood a life with grief at the loss of a loved one. There is something different, though, about precious moments that elude us -- you know, the could-have-been's. I am referring to the occasions when we look back and say, "if only", or "what if". The keyword here is regret. If there is closure, then we can eventually heal at least in some measure. Regret, however, simply gnaws away at us for as long as we navigate the uncharted fathoms of time. How conscious we should be of the few years that our loved ones and we have in this life.

Let me introduce to you someone who lived outside of time, in a way. Her name was Floda. If you knew her for more than ten minutes, she would insist that you call her Aunt Flodie. She was a small, gentle woman, reminiscent of Mother Theresa. When my friends and I were teenagers, we would visit her often. She was always there. She lived in a very small, very old house, perched precariously on the top of a little hill in the Appalachians. As I would leave the main road and begin the hike up the deeply rutted dirt road toward Flodie's house, the smoke coming out of the crooked brick chimneys welcomed me. When the Easter lilies poked their sunny heads out of the recently melted soil, the smoke seasoned the crisp spring air with its sweet and inviting odor. During the summer, when the fireflies blinked their conversations and the cicadas sang their praises, the smoke rose sleepily into the lilac-perfumed night. As the autumn leaves blazed glorious colors of stained glass across the hills, the smoke ascended like the prayers of the Saints to Heaven. The smoke of the Christmas season was a bit different, though. The faint smell of cookies and pies spiced the air and mingled with the sweet smell of the burning wood, but it was still there. The smoke was always there.

The small home consisted of only a few rooms. There was a sitting room with furniture covered by afghans and quilts which were hand-made by Flodie, a bedroom, a kitchen, a quilting room, and a small, utilitarian bathroom whose walls jutted into the sitting room as a constant reminder that the room was at sometime a modern addition. Upon entering the home, we would immediately smell the rich aromas of Aunt Flodie's country cooking. Flodie cooked on an old wood stove, which was the source of heat for the kitchen end of her home. Another wood stove sat in the center of the sitting room in the place that most people would put a television set and served as the heat source for the rest of the home. Flodie had no television, computer, or any such device that most of us can hardly live without. Nevertheless, she was more aware of life than most people I have ever known. There was always something simmering on the stove, just in case visitors came by -- and they usually did.

As growing teenage boys, we would make excuses for showing up at Aunt Flodie's house just to get some of the "vittles" that she would serve, and her hugs, of course. She always called us "her boys". Depending on the time of the year, we would play basketball on our homemade dirt court (with hoops just low enough for an occasional slam-dunk), spend hours riding motorcycles across the miles of untouched woods, or go sledding down cliffs more suited for eagles' nests than reckless kids' bones. When we'd had enough, we would begin our hungry walk home, which fortuitously led past the road to Aunt Flodie's house. Aunt Flodie always needed some work done, though she claimed that she was doing fine. The wood box would be empty, vegetables dangled on the vine too long, or snow drifted onto the slanted wood porch. We would always try to find out what she needed and take care of it before we left. Aunt Flodie got along very well for an eighty-some-year-old woman, but she still needed help occasionally. She rewarded us for the work with good food, but the highlight of the day was sitting around the wood stove and talking to Aunt Flodie and Uncle Andy, her husband. He was a sweet man, and always extended a wrinkled hand for shaking when he met someone. He spoke few words, but when he did, those words were seasoned with much wisdom and pure kindness. Andy worked on the railroad all his life, and his body showed the wear of the hard work. He walked slowly and the right side of his face sagged a bit due to a stroke that happened sometime before I knew him. His right eye seemed to wink at us continuously, and he always wore a genuine but crooked smile. Andy was a very proper man. He would never think of entertaining unless he was properly dressed, including his ever-present suspenders. When he spoke, he would tilt his head back as far as he could, so that he could make eye contact through half-closed lids. His voice came in loud whispers. Together, they would weave stories from their past, finishing each other's sentences as they sewed a quilt together from patches of fabric that friends would bring to them. They would sell the quilts at embarrassingly low prices to supplement their meager income. With shaky hands, Andy would cut the squares and Flodie would sew them together and quilt them onto the blankets as the threads of their life together took on the form of a beautiful tapestry in our minds. They would sit for hours in their 1940's era clothing, hold hands occasionally, and make local history come alive. I could almost hear the years tick backwards with the rhythm of the clock above my head. Almost all of their stories centered on a church event because they were in church practically every day of their lives. They loved the Lord with a devotion that I fear is nearly gone from this world. After a while, we would begin to pray. Although it would be something of a chore, Flodie would kneel in her long, plain dress and slippers, and Andy would bow on his knees beside her in utter surrender to their God. They and we would slip out of time and into Eternity and speak one-on-one with the Lord. Indeed, it seemed as though time stood still in that little home. Some of my happiest times with the couple were in church. Andy and Flodie would rise and walk ever so slowly to the front of the church and sing long-forgotten hymns of the Faith. Every song that they chose declared the joys that lay before them in Heaven. I don't know how they sang when they were young, but when I heard them, it was not something that would attract people. Somehow, their a capella lyrics kept the small audience entranced as they sang. We knew that they sang of a Home that they had not yet seen, and we longed to be there with them some day.

Andy and Flodie started out singing together when they were dating during the Great Depression, and they sang together until Andy went Home to the Lord in the early 1990's. Andy and Flodie were so inseparable that it seemed unlikely that she would sing solo for very long. As usual, Flodie surprised us and lived a little longer than a century. On September 11th, 2001, our nation and the world mourned the loss of thousands of people in the terrorist attacks. As we were all remembering the pain one year later, I lost a close friend. I suppose that Andy reached a verse that just didn't sound as beautiful without Flodie's harmony, so the Lord called her home. September 11th will now have two very significant meanings for me. Four days before Aunt Flodie died, I was only two miles from her home. I went to a parade, took a nap, read a book, but I didn't go to visit her. I guess I just ran out of time. If only I had gone, I could have hugged her again, told her that I love her, and prayed with her one last time. I have vowed that I will not take time for granted anymore. The chimneys on their little home are now cold after so many years of warmth. I will miss Flodie and Andy, but I am happy that they are together again and in the presence of the Lord. I can hardly wait to see them again. They are home. They will always be there. At last, they can hold hands and sing to the Lord forever, for they are truly out of time.

Dan Starcher