If you’re familiar with this blog, you probably know that I’ve been trying to cope with the loss of my aunt, Betty Smith, who died in April.
Betty was a charming, gracious, truly delightful person. She never married, so her life revolved around the greater Smith clan, which is a growing and widely scattered bunch, and her friends and co-workers in Savannah.
Betty was the heart and soul of our family. The axis we revolved around. The force that held us together. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.
The last time I saw her was in February, when I went to Savannah for a periodic visit. At the time, her health and spirits were fine.
Betty always insisted that I bring Paco to Savannah with me. She understood that Paco is a prince among dogs, and she was very fond of him. In the evenings, as we sat in the den and chatted, Paco would sit next to Betty to receive a leisurely petting and ear-scratching.
My February trip was typical in every way. I was in Savannah for four days. Twice, we went to the Smith family plot at Bonaventure Cemetery to pay our respects to the departed. We spent one evening visiting Cilie Sutton, Betty’s best pal for an astounding 86 years. We strolled around the downtown squares and along the riverfront. We ate seafood twice a day.
The morning Paco and I were loading up to drive home, I took these two photos:
The two shots work so well together that when I got home, I made prints and placed them in a double frame. I keep them in a prominent spot where I see them often.
At the time, I didn’t know they would be my last photos of her. They mean a great deal to me.
If you’ll notice, Betty is holding a camera in the photos. As I later learned, she took a photo of me as I drove away, which was unusual. This is the photo.
That shot may not look like much, but it’s meaningful if you know about the “departure ritual” we Smiths followed for many years when it was time to leave Savannah.
How the ritual began, no one remembers, but we all followed it religiously. It involved driving past Betty’s house and giving her a final wave.
Betty’s house is on Kinzie Avenue, a double street with a median. The lane in front of her house is one way eastbound. The lane on the other side of the median is one way westbound.
The median is there because for many years, a street car line ran down Kinzie Avenue. Both sides of the street are extra wide, so cars can park at the curbs and still allow for passing traffic.
The departure ritual involved driving away in the required easterly direction, making a U-turn at the end of the block, returning west past Betty’s house on the other side of Kinzie Avenue, and waving goodbye.
Betty and any remaining house guests would be standing on the front porch, waving back.
The finale of the ritual was when you reached the next stop sign, a block away, and gave your horn a tap.
About a month after Betty’s funeral, I found the photos she took during my February visit. The processing envelope from the camera store identified the date. The above photo of my departure was among them.
(Betty stubbornly stayed with her film camera. We couldn’t convince her to go digital.)
So, from that morning in February, I have the final photo I took of Aunt Betty, the final photo she took of me a few moments later, and a reminder of our longtime departure ritual.
Considering all the siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins who visited Aunt Betty over the years, that ritual played out hundreds of times.
How sad that we won’t be doing it anymore.
Truly photos to treasure. The story brought tears to my eyes. Thanks for sharing, Rocky.
Thanks, Tim, you old softie.