What a beautiful essay, Rona. You wandered here and there, sure of your direction. I don't use euphemisms for death. Everyone is so scared to call it what it is. And, ick, the Rainbow Bridge. It's make-believe. It diminishes memory of the ones we've lost to soft peddle the truth.
The thought of Paul McCartney being in his eighties blows my mind, but of course he is. How can life feel so long in one breath, and then in the next, as if it's flashed by us as we barely kept up. He can't be in his eighties. I'm still a nine-year-old bopping to their music. And Rona, this line, "Death comes to mind so often, I must be on the path to nirvana." I could hear you saying that. I laughed out loud. Thanks for this. Chef's kiss! xo
You picked up on my favorite line. For a melancholic, I can be pretty funny. If you remember Beatlemania at all, I think you’ll enjoy the book of McCartney’s photos. He had real flair as a shooter but life sent him careening in another direction.
Yes, you're quite funny IRL (on Zoom!). It's your delivery that's fabulous, because you're so perfectly dry when you say things. Barely as smile playing at your lips and a mischievous look in your eyes. I've learned to detect these tells over the time I've gotten to know you. Big hug, sorry my dear, but when we finally meet, you're going to have to suffer a Nan squeeze that will probably last too long for you! xo
Beautiful, Rona. Grandparents’ and parents’ deaths, though very sad, are the cost of a long life. Even pets, who grace our lives for a short time only. When friends begin to die, that feels like a whole other country.
Maria, from Brazil, friend for life who loved jokes and told many bad ones. Married five times and said at least four of those divorces were the best thing she'd done for herself, other than write.
Patrick, my brother, who died, barely 58, of cancer in 2009. He lives in the poems I wrote and published in "Neruda's Memoirs". I miss him every day. He could have been an artist. Instead, he restored classic Thunderbirds.
Nancy and Henry, my parents; Elizabeth and Harold, my maternal grandparents (Grandma always re-served the vegetables no one liked; sometimes, we won out); Maria, my Brazilian friend who lived a life of adventure and taught English-as-a-second language; Ruth, a member of my college class who died in one of the towers on 9/11.
Mr. Silbertstein, owner of a D.C. art gallery. He taught me about art on the late Saturday mornings or early afternoons I went there. The original limited-editioned and signed prints he published became the beginnings of my art collection. He sold me my first piece of sculpture.
Jack, Seamus, Mr. Stuffy: They were my Westies. The latter once tp'd the house, all four floors. All of them could gut a supposedly un-tearable toy in minutes, always knowing exactly where it was weakest. They loved chasing the light that appeared on the floor or wall at a certain time of day, were known to bark at statues, delighted in car rides.
Neal, my St. Bernard. He slept outside my bedroom door every night. I was heartbroken when my parents gave him away because I was at college and they were moving to Florida. Once,
Jack, the donkey. My brothers gave him a beer and forever after he knew how to guzzle it with an extended lip.
Clarence, our Shetland pony that pulled a two-seated cart. When we were out one day with him his harness broke, so I walked him home while my sisters pulled the cart. Was that ever the story of the neighborhood.
Sport, our last pet lamb, one of twins rejected by his mother. He liked to be pushed in an antique green wicker carriage, until he ate it. His favorite food: peas and chicken. His favorite place to sit: a corner of the couch. Woe be unto anyone who was there when he came into the house; he would back up, come running, and ram a knee. Quite painful. My sisters once dressed him up, lipstick on his lips, sitting askew in that wicker carriage.
Maureen! Such love and humor in this honor roll. It’s not easy to write animal characters, and yours spring to life in a few words chosen with precision. A favorite: “He liked to be pushed in an antique green wicker carriage, until he ate it.”
I want to add Willard, a long-ago family friend who was more a grandfather to me than my own grandfather.
I realized, in writing this, that my usual way of working out grief following a death of someone I love is to write a poem; I’ve also written many poems for friends who partners, children, or friends have died. Oddly enough, I haven’t done that for the pet-beings in my life, maybe because they remain so vivid in my mind.
Beautiful. "Time blessed us and theirs ran out." I wrote my father's obituary, and my sister's. It was profoundly sad but felt like the last gift I could give them.
Sometimes death is both a loss and a catastrophe as it was for me when my father died when I was 24. I won't elaborate all of it here but I knew even then that being in a cohort of peers with two living parents would be existentially different for decades to come and I was right. Part of the shock of losing a friend is that they are usually our age or thereabouts, so until early old age it also seems too soon and unfair, though we may acknowledge that there's no guarantee about life span. When my beloved friend Nancy Richler died at age 60, while both her parents were alive in their 80s, it felt like a violation of nature. I told myself I would never have a friendship like that again in my life, without denigrating any of my other friendships. The affinity between any two people is particular to them and just as finding romantic partners has an element of luck so does finding friends.
I knew Nancy by reputation, as perhaps you knew Val. It’s staggering to me that the death of a friend is denied its due as a monumental disruption or even, when it’s early, as “a violation of nature.” Maxine Kumin wrote a beautiful poem about the death of her friend Anne Sexton. Tennyson took 17 years to write his famous poem on the death of a friend at 22. And yet, last time I checked, there weren’t any condolence cards for those mourning a friend.
This is beautiful. As always, I love following the twists and turns of your remarkable mind. I’m in the complicated process of mourning the recent death of my husband of nearly 65 years to dementia and heart failure after a long decline. I have felt the same way about the word die — just say it. Name it. Lately, though I find myself slipping into passed away — not always, but in moments when I need something softer.
Sixty-five years. Sandell, I am sorry for the slow, hard loss of your husband. I knew he was ill so this must be a fresh and smarting anguish. How interesting that you sometimes resort to “passed away” after long resistance to this usge. My heart is with you.
My beloved brother Tom died eight days ago. I flew up from Florida in time to be by his bedside at the end, and though he couldn’t speak, his eyes flew wide when he saw me and he tried to lift his arms. Tom was a singer. Church choirs, barbershop harmony and acoustic guitar. We played together and sang harmonies since he was a teenager. His voice, smile and joy when he sang was contagious. Now he’s in God’s choir of angels. I miss him so much it aches. Can’t listen to certain songs we sang together yet without tears, but I know eventually those songs will bring me warm comfort.
As always, Rona, you say what we think, what we need to hear. Especially for me as I lost a dear friend last week whom I have known since the age of ten. We were children together, young women, married women, mothers, and aged together proud of the fact that we did not look our age! She died on a trip. The first of my childhood friends. I have lost part of myself. Say their names. Orah was her name. It means light in Hebrew, and she was a light to so many. May her memory be a blessing for the 65 years of friendship and love she gave me.
Nitza, how precious Orah was to you and how you’re going to miss her. It’s rare to keep a childhood friend; you kept yours for a lifetime. But how could you not want more years together/ Thank you for taking a minute to share your friendship and your thoughts on my essay.
You struck a chord with me this morning in San Diego, Rona. My mother came to this area after my father died and rented a little house just blocks from where I now live. I pass her little house almost every day and glance over to the screened side porch where she loved to sit and I say aloud, " Hi Mama"! She's still in my heart and memories. Thanks for always allowing us to rekindle our past memories as we read your lovely words.
Thank you, Vi. I have warm memories of your city, where we once spent several happy weeks with our much-missed Casey. I can picture the scene you describe—the porch and your “hi, Mama.” You and she will continue this loving conversation.
My dad Vincent died at age 63. I called a neighbour woman and said he'd "gone." I think it was an overnight heart attack but that wasn't explained to me. I was 15 years old. My mother went emotionally absent. As an only child, I had no one to help me understand. A frenzy of boyfriends and an early marriage substituted for understanding and grief. Decades passed before I realized I'd never mourned him -- never learned how to mourn -- and that explained a lot. However, a week or so after he died I wrote a poem and recognized myself as a writer.
When one parent dies, the other is often too stricken to meet the occasion with the kids. Vincent’s death must have shattered you, since the family as you’d known it died with you.
I never imagined I would be standing here today, trying to find the words to honor my
very best friend in the world, Paulette Bunn.
On Saturday morning—the very morning she left us—Paulette shared these words in one of her ‘almost famous’ FaceBook posts:
“Spring in the South is indeed a thing of beauty. Fruit trees blooming. Spring bulbs
across pastures where homes once stood. Ditches with patches of jonquils relocated
by road equipment. The birds are at the feeders and busily building nests. All is a joy.”
All is a joy.
Those words feel especially meaningful now… because that is exactly how Paulette
lived her life.
She left us so unexpectedly on Saturday—the day before Easter—leaving behind the
love of her life, Carey, her husband of 64 years, her son Andy, his wife Jeanne, their children
Jessica and Buck, and those precious great-grandchildren—Wyatt, Lily, Lane,
McKenzie, and Josey—who brought her so much joy.
No one who knew Paulette would argue that while she cherished her friendships, her
heart belonged first and foremost to her family. When they hurt, she hurt even more.
And when they were happy, there was no one on earth happier than their Mimi.
And what a Mimi she was.
I often called her “Mrs. Bunn”—a term of endearment I borrowed from
Carey—and somehow it just fit. It carried both love and respect… and just a little bit of
caution.
Because if you knew Paulette, you knew she had a feisty side.
You’ve probably heard the stories about redheads having a temper… and I can tell
you, those stories are based in fact! Anyone who spent much time with
Paulette knows exactly what I’m talking about.
As I’ve struggled these past few days trying to decide what stories to share, one word
kept coming to mind: hope.
We all think about hope as the promise of tomorrow… the hope of what’s to
come. But with Paulette… most of us were just hoping we didn’t do something to
make her mad.
Because a mad Mimi… well… that was not a pretty sight.
And if there was one thing that could absolutely guarantee that outcome, it was trying
to give her directions while she was backing up a trailer.
In fact, there’s a pillow that says it perfectly:
“Please don’t take to heart anything I say while you’re giving me directions to back up
my trailer.”
That was Paulette—strong-willed, independent, and absolutely certain she knew
exactly what she was doing… because most of the time, she did.
But beneath that feisty spirit was something even more powerful.
Paulette had a deep and unwavering compassion for others.
She could not tolerate injustice. She could not stand unkindness. And she had no
patience for a lack of compassion toward those who might be different—whether
those differences were physical, mental, cultural, or anything else that set someone
apart.
She saw people. Truly saw them.
And she loved fiercely.
But I will tell you this—her compassion had its limits. It did not extend to those who
choose to live their lives without kindness.
---
Paulette and I shared many adventures over the years—but one of the most memorable
began in 1986.
One day, completely out of the blue, she and Carey flagged me down and said, “Meet
us at Jackson’s Restaurant for lunch.”
Well, I went.
And before that lunch was over, the three of us had created what would become
Countryside Land & Homes of Henry County. The hardest part of starting that company was not the work… it
was chosing the name.
In 1986, my last name was Dunn… and for several days, the very best name we could
come up with was…
“Bunn, Dunn & Fun.”
Thankfully… we came to our senses.
But over the next few years, there was nothing funny about the success we had.
Together, we sold over 1,000 acres of land that became The Farm, along with
countless other properties.
And Paulette had her own special category of listings—what she liked to call “zip
houses.”
Those came from her partnership with Zip Hinton—an unlikely friendship, but one built
on deep respect.
They bought and sold a building in Barnesville back and forth so many times I lost
count.
One day,recently Paulette was frustrated—something about the toilets being stopped up—and
she was going on and on. Finally, I said, “Paulette, why don’t you just sell it back to
Zip again?”
She stopped… looked at me… and said, “That’s a good idea.”
And off she went. I spoke with Zip a few days ago and we talked about how special their friendship was. He
said, “We were great friends… but I’ll tell you—she was my orneriest friend.”
That is an apt description.
---
At some point during those early years, I realized I needed help at home.
Paulette had the most amazing friend—Janice Harris, who is here with us today.
She bragged on Janice and her ability to bring order into the chaos of a house run by a woman whose business responsibilities trumped washing clothes and changing sheets, so much that I thought, if I could hire Janice to help me, there would be no end to what I could accomplish.
But Paulette said Janice’s schedule was full.
Until one day, she came in and said, “Lynda, Janice has an opening. Get home quick
and pick everything up—she’s a cleaner, not a picker-upper.”
Well, I ran home… grabbed everything in sight… and threw it all into the guestroom bathtub,
pulled the curtain closed, and prayed she wouldn’t look.
Thankfully… she didn’t.
Janice took the job, and from then on, Paulette and I – with support at home from Janice- were unstoppable!
---Time passed… life changed… but Paulette was always there.
We talked each other through everything.
Our friendship never wavered.
Not once.
---
Then came our greatest adventure. At a time when many women are sitting at home not doing much to make new memories, Paulette joined a group called Sisters on the Fly—women who restore vintage campers and go “glamping.”
Their motto at the time was: “No men. No children. No dogs.”
That was right up Paulette’s alley.
She found a tiny camper, turned it into “The Henhouse,” and made it absolutely
adorable.
I went to see it.
It was about the size of a Spam can. No bathroom. Room for one.
And for the first time ever, I thought… “This does not sound like fun”.
But then I read a book about the group—and the next day I called her and said, “I’m
in.”
We found a camper in McDonough—complete with a bathroom and sixteen electrical
outlets, which is a very big deal in a camper.
We bought it together and named it “The Giggle Garden.”
We painted flowers and hummingbirds on it… added window boxes… and filled them
with real flowers wherever we went.
And oh… the adventures we had.
The scariest adventure is being revealed here for the first time. We were driving in a blinding rainstorm through LA ( lower Alabama) pulling that camper and had to find somewhere to stay overnight. Every hotel room in Montgomery was full so we found a place in a parking lot in downtown and after treating ourselves to a seafood dinner we went to bed in the glamper while it was still light hoping no one would realize there were two ladies of a certain age inside. When dawn broke—we slipped out of there feeling very lucky.
And we made one very important decision:
We were never telling our husbands…not because they could affect our quest for adventure, but because we didn’t want them to worry what we might get up to next.
So Carey… and Reb…
Just know this—
Paulette and I were intrepid explorers.
And we could handle whatever came our way.
---
As I look across all of you gathered here today to honor and celebrate Paulette’s life,
one thing is very clear.
There is not a person here who couldn’t tell a story about a special moment they
shared with her.
She was the friend everyone wanted… and the friend everyone needed.
Every story… filled with love and laughter. She cared deeply for everyone in her life.
She made time for people.
And if we could have bottled her energy… we could all retire tomorrow.
She was a powerhouse professionally.
The cornerstone of her family.
And a rockstar to all of us blessed to call her friend.
---
Over the past few days, Carey and I have asked each other the same question so many of you
have asked yourselves:
“What are we going to do without her?”
That question has stayed with me.
But I believe I have the answer.
Every one of us is going to keep living… and loving… and laughing…
Just like we did when she was here. Because that’s what she would want.
And truth be told…
If we don’t…
She might just get mad in heaven.
And nobody wants Mimi mad.
---
Mrs. Bunn… Paulette… Mimi…
May you rest easy, knowing your legacy lives on in every one of us.
And as we go forward, may we carry with us the way you saw the world—
Because even on your final morning, you reminded us:
“Spring in the South is indeed a thing of beauty… all is a joy.”
Wise woman! ( the closest we ever came to harsh words was once early on when I thought I was being helpful and telling her which way to turn the wheel…..BIG MISTAKE!!! 😂😂😂
Ever since I first read one of your novels, I have been captivated by your zest for life and sharing it unapologetically. Your words make me a stronger, braver woman. At 75, I remain fully engaged in working in the luxury real estate market in NE Georgia. I play pickleball ( the angst that is relieved by knocking the cover off the ball is fabulous).
I live in a very red area where my beliefs make me an outlier. I lost my best friend of 40 years on the Saturday before Easter …a silly misstep resulted in a fall and internal bleeding ended her absolutely delightfully whimsical life three hours later leaving her family and friends in shock and disbelief.
Oh, the stories………and they deserve to be written down.
I would very much like to talk with you to see if there is hope for me to achieve my forever dream of writing. ( I was an English major with a minor in Journalism and my intention - which I never thought of discussing with my parents- was to be a writer. Granted, my life plan was somewhat nebulous, but when my mother - ever practical- reacted to my answer to her question about what I planned to do after college with a complete lack of enthusiasm and said, “ You need to get a teaching degree so you can get a job you’ll get paid for”, it broke my belief in myself. Even at age 20, I truly believed she was all knowing and knew best.
I was wrong. And so was she.
So, let’s talk and see if there may still be time for me to make my dreams come true. Somehow, ever since I first read your encouraging words to women about putting their stories on paper, I have felt called to reach out.
Paulette encouraged me to write for years and I kept promising her I was going to.
Your story this morning made me realize - it’s now or never. Let’s do it! Paulette would be proud!
Hello and welcome, LakeLady. I hear a story clamoring, “Write me!” And perhaps it’s about the best friend who’d still be here, living and loving, if not for that one misstep.
Since I don’t write novels, I think you may be confusing me with my sister (and biggest fan). Paulette and I have exchanged virtual waves and smiles, so that’s another point of connection. Back to the point: I’ll send you an email about your writing and my coaching. Watch for it later today.
Well, I obviously did confuse you with your sister, Joyce. Honestly, I think you are both great voices so let's see what you and I can get up to - some shenanigans, I hope- and who knows...if I can write an essay, perhaps I can write a novel at some point. ( I just sent you an email with my contact info.)
You do write. It’s never too late, until your words themselves are gone. Wasn’t Grandma Moses in her 80s when she started painting? I was 7mumble2mumble when I was offered work doing landscape design and the only landscapes I had ever designed were the experiments in places I lived. Two months ago I put a labyrinth in a backyard that had been only tumbleweeds and ran a streak of gold colored lightning through it because lightning strikes in the desert too. It’s all the life of the imagination lived out in words, in paint, mud and clay, and in the dirt itself. Write!!! Write and let us see it!
I am certain I would choose you for a new friend! Your kindness and encouragement may be just the ticket to help me work with Rona and share the life and times of Paulette Bunn and our long and interesting friendship. She left instructions in her will for me to deliver her eulogy. If it is okay, I'll share it here. It's a start, right?
Gail, I’ve been to the Grandma Moses museum, and you are right. I love the idea of imagination living in dirt as well as paint and words. Sounds like you are breaking ground both literally and creatively.
What a beautiful essay, Rona. You wandered here and there, sure of your direction. I don't use euphemisms for death. Everyone is so scared to call it what it is. And, ick, the Rainbow Bridge. It's make-believe. It diminishes memory of the ones we've lost to soft peddle the truth.
The thought of Paul McCartney being in his eighties blows my mind, but of course he is. How can life feel so long in one breath, and then in the next, as if it's flashed by us as we barely kept up. He can't be in his eighties. I'm still a nine-year-old bopping to their music. And Rona, this line, "Death comes to mind so often, I must be on the path to nirvana." I could hear you saying that. I laughed out loud. Thanks for this. Chef's kiss! xo
You picked up on my favorite line. For a melancholic, I can be pretty funny. If you remember Beatlemania at all, I think you’ll enjoy the book of McCartney’s photos. He had real flair as a shooter but life sent him careening in another direction.
Yes, you're quite funny IRL (on Zoom!). It's your delivery that's fabulous, because you're so perfectly dry when you say things. Barely as smile playing at your lips and a mischievous look in your eyes. I've learned to detect these tells over the time I've gotten to know you. Big hug, sorry my dear, but when we finally meet, you're going to have to suffer a Nan squeeze that will probably last too long for you! xo
Nah! I’m up to it and will love it.
That's my Rona!
Beautiful, Rona. Grandparents’ and parents’ deaths, though very sad, are the cost of a long life. Even pets, who grace our lives for a short time only. When friends begin to die, that feels like a whole other country.
Yes. At first it seems like a fluke. Then it becomes a wave.
Oh yes. I've lost sssooo many friends at this point that it's honestly overwhelming. Makes me feel ill.
Maria, from Brazil, friend for life who loved jokes and told many bad ones. Married five times and said at least four of those divorces were the best thing she'd done for herself, other than write.
Patrick, my brother, who died, barely 58, of cancer in 2009. He lives in the poems I wrote and published in "Neruda's Memoirs". I miss him every day. He could have been an artist. Instead, he restored classic Thunderbirds.
Nancy and Henry, my parents; Elizabeth and Harold, my maternal grandparents (Grandma always re-served the vegetables no one liked; sometimes, we won out); Maria, my Brazilian friend who lived a life of adventure and taught English-as-a-second language; Ruth, a member of my college class who died in one of the towers on 9/11.
Mr. Silbertstein, owner of a D.C. art gallery. He taught me about art on the late Saturday mornings or early afternoons I went there. The original limited-editioned and signed prints he published became the beginnings of my art collection. He sold me my first piece of sculpture.
Jack, Seamus, Mr. Stuffy: They were my Westies. The latter once tp'd the house, all four floors. All of them could gut a supposedly un-tearable toy in minutes, always knowing exactly where it was weakest. They loved chasing the light that appeared on the floor or wall at a certain time of day, were known to bark at statues, delighted in car rides.
Neal, my St. Bernard. He slept outside my bedroom door every night. I was heartbroken when my parents gave him away because I was at college and they were moving to Florida. Once,
Jack, the donkey. My brothers gave him a beer and forever after he knew how to guzzle it with an extended lip.
Clarence, our Shetland pony that pulled a two-seated cart. When we were out one day with him his harness broke, so I walked him home while my sisters pulled the cart. Was that ever the story of the neighborhood.
Sport, our last pet lamb, one of twins rejected by his mother. He liked to be pushed in an antique green wicker carriage, until he ate it. His favorite food: peas and chicken. His favorite place to sit: a corner of the couch. Woe be unto anyone who was there when he came into the house; he would back up, come running, and ram a knee. Quite painful. My sisters once dressed him up, lipstick on his lips, sitting askew in that wicker carriage.
Maureen! Such love and humor in this honor roll. It’s not easy to write animal characters, and yours spring to life in a few words chosen with precision. A favorite: “He liked to be pushed in an antique green wicker carriage, until he ate it.”
I want to add Willard, a long-ago family friend who was more a grandfather to me than my own grandfather.
I realized, in writing this, that my usual way of working out grief following a death of someone I love is to write a poem; I’ve also written many poems for friends who partners, children, or friends have died. Oddly enough, I haven’t done that for the pet-beings in my life, maybe because they remain so vivid in my mind.
Beautiful, Rona. Without grief, I’m convinced it’s impossible to celebrate life in all its dailiness, wackiness and lovey-ness.
Yes, grief is the flip side of joy.
Beautiful. "Time blessed us and theirs ran out." I wrote my father's obituary, and my sister's. It was profoundly sad but felt like the last gift I could give them.
I feel the same way about obituaries, Laurie. It’s an honor and a sorrow to write one.
Sometimes death is both a loss and a catastrophe as it was for me when my father died when I was 24. I won't elaborate all of it here but I knew even then that being in a cohort of peers with two living parents would be existentially different for decades to come and I was right. Part of the shock of losing a friend is that they are usually our age or thereabouts, so until early old age it also seems too soon and unfair, though we may acknowledge that there's no guarantee about life span. When my beloved friend Nancy Richler died at age 60, while both her parents were alive in their 80s, it felt like a violation of nature. I told myself I would never have a friendship like that again in my life, without denigrating any of my other friendships. The affinity between any two people is particular to them and just as finding romantic partners has an element of luck so does finding friends.
I knew Nancy by reputation, as perhaps you knew Val. It’s staggering to me that the death of a friend is denied its due as a monumental disruption or even, when it’s early, as “a violation of nature.” Maxine Kumin wrote a beautiful poem about the death of her friend Anne Sexton. Tennyson took 17 years to write his famous poem on the death of a friend at 22. And yet, last time I checked, there weren’t any condolence cards for those mourning a friend.
I don’t want their names to feel like a list or, worse yet, a partial list, but there are names I’m thinking of as I type away here.
*
“Music… tending towards silence” I’ll take that idea to my grave.
Isn’t it a beautiful thought? The entire poem, really.
It sure is and a lovely, warm piece, Rona.
Deeply moving. And inspiring. Thank you.
Thank you.
This is beautiful. As always, I love following the twists and turns of your remarkable mind. I’m in the complicated process of mourning the recent death of my husband of nearly 65 years to dementia and heart failure after a long decline. I have felt the same way about the word die — just say it. Name it. Lately, though I find myself slipping into passed away — not always, but in moments when I need something softer.
Sixty-five years. Sandell, I am sorry for the slow, hard loss of your husband. I knew he was ill so this must be a fresh and smarting anguish. How interesting that you sometimes resort to “passed away” after long resistance to this usge. My heart is with you.
My beloved brother Tom died eight days ago. I flew up from Florida in time to be by his bedside at the end, and though he couldn’t speak, his eyes flew wide when he saw me and he tried to lift his arms. Tom was a singer. Church choirs, barbershop harmony and acoustic guitar. We played together and sang harmonies since he was a teenager. His voice, smile and joy when he sang was contagious. Now he’s in God’s choir of angels. I miss him so much it aches. Can’t listen to certain songs we sang together yet without tears, but I know eventually those songs will bring me warm comfort.
Patti, your love of Tom sings here. I am so sorry. May the songs you shared bring you pleasure someday.
As always, Rona, you say what we think, what we need to hear. Especially for me as I lost a dear friend last week whom I have known since the age of ten. We were children together, young women, married women, mothers, and aged together proud of the fact that we did not look our age! She died on a trip. The first of my childhood friends. I have lost part of myself. Say their names. Orah was her name. It means light in Hebrew, and she was a light to so many. May her memory be a blessing for the 65 years of friendship and love she gave me.
Nitza, how precious Orah was to you and how you’re going to miss her. It’s rare to keep a childhood friend; you kept yours for a lifetime. But how could you not want more years together/ Thank you for taking a minute to share your friendship and your thoughts on my essay.
You struck a chord with me this morning in San Diego, Rona. My mother came to this area after my father died and rented a little house just blocks from where I now live. I pass her little house almost every day and glance over to the screened side porch where she loved to sit and I say aloud, " Hi Mama"! She's still in my heart and memories. Thanks for always allowing us to rekindle our past memories as we read your lovely words.
Thank you, Vi. I have warm memories of your city, where we once spent several happy weeks with our much-missed Casey. I can picture the scene you describe—the porch and your “hi, Mama.” You and she will continue this loving conversation.
Beautiful, Rona. So many names on my tongue now. Thank you.
Thank you, Holly. The music will be with you forever.
My dad Vincent died at age 63. I called a neighbour woman and said he'd "gone." I think it was an overnight heart attack but that wasn't explained to me. I was 15 years old. My mother went emotionally absent. As an only child, I had no one to help me understand. A frenzy of boyfriends and an early marriage substituted for understanding and grief. Decades passed before I realized I'd never mourned him -- never learned how to mourn -- and that explained a lot. However, a week or so after he died I wrote a poem and recognized myself as a writer.
Thank you for this, Rona.
When one parent dies, the other is often too stricken to meet the occasion with the kids. Vincent’s death must have shattered you, since the family as you’d known it died with you.
Saying her name - Paulette Bunn
I never imagined I would be standing here today, trying to find the words to honor my
very best friend in the world, Paulette Bunn.
On Saturday morning—the very morning she left us—Paulette shared these words in one of her ‘almost famous’ FaceBook posts:
“Spring in the South is indeed a thing of beauty. Fruit trees blooming. Spring bulbs
across pastures where homes once stood. Ditches with patches of jonquils relocated
by road equipment. The birds are at the feeders and busily building nests. All is a joy.”
All is a joy.
Those words feel especially meaningful now… because that is exactly how Paulette
lived her life.
She left us so unexpectedly on Saturday—the day before Easter—leaving behind the
love of her life, Carey, her husband of 64 years, her son Andy, his wife Jeanne, their children
Jessica and Buck, and those precious great-grandchildren—Wyatt, Lily, Lane,
McKenzie, and Josey—who brought her so much joy.
No one who knew Paulette would argue that while she cherished her friendships, her
heart belonged first and foremost to her family. When they hurt, she hurt even more.
And when they were happy, there was no one on earth happier than their Mimi.
And what a Mimi she was.
I often called her “Mrs. Bunn”—a term of endearment I borrowed from
Carey—and somehow it just fit. It carried both love and respect… and just a little bit of
caution.
Because if you knew Paulette, you knew she had a feisty side.
You’ve probably heard the stories about redheads having a temper… and I can tell
you, those stories are based in fact! Anyone who spent much time with
Paulette knows exactly what I’m talking about.
As I’ve struggled these past few days trying to decide what stories to share, one word
kept coming to mind: hope.
We all think about hope as the promise of tomorrow… the hope of what’s to
come. But with Paulette… most of us were just hoping we didn’t do something to
make her mad.
Because a mad Mimi… well… that was not a pretty sight.
And if there was one thing that could absolutely guarantee that outcome, it was trying
to give her directions while she was backing up a trailer.
In fact, there’s a pillow that says it perfectly:
“Please don’t take to heart anything I say while you’re giving me directions to back up
my trailer.”
That was Paulette—strong-willed, independent, and absolutely certain she knew
exactly what she was doing… because most of the time, she did.
But beneath that feisty spirit was something even more powerful.
Paulette had a deep and unwavering compassion for others.
She could not tolerate injustice. She could not stand unkindness. And she had no
patience for a lack of compassion toward those who might be different—whether
those differences were physical, mental, cultural, or anything else that set someone
apart.
She saw people. Truly saw them.
And she loved fiercely.
But I will tell you this—her compassion had its limits. It did not extend to those who
choose to live their lives without kindness.
---
Paulette and I shared many adventures over the years—but one of the most memorable
began in 1986.
One day, completely out of the blue, she and Carey flagged me down and said, “Meet
us at Jackson’s Restaurant for lunch.”
Well, I went.
And before that lunch was over, the three of us had created what would become
Countryside Land & Homes of Henry County. The hardest part of starting that company was not the work… it
was chosing the name.
In 1986, my last name was Dunn… and for several days, the very best name we could
come up with was…
“Bunn, Dunn & Fun.”
Thankfully… we came to our senses.
But over the next few years, there was nothing funny about the success we had.
Together, we sold over 1,000 acres of land that became The Farm, along with
countless other properties.
And Paulette had her own special category of listings—what she liked to call “zip
houses.”
Those came from her partnership with Zip Hinton—an unlikely friendship, but one built
on deep respect.
They bought and sold a building in Barnesville back and forth so many times I lost
count.
One day,recently Paulette was frustrated—something about the toilets being stopped up—and
she was going on and on. Finally, I said, “Paulette, why don’t you just sell it back to
Zip again?”
She stopped… looked at me… and said, “That’s a good idea.”
And off she went. I spoke with Zip a few days ago and we talked about how special their friendship was. He
said, “We were great friends… but I’ll tell you—she was my orneriest friend.”
That is an apt description.
---
At some point during those early years, I realized I needed help at home.
Paulette had the most amazing friend—Janice Harris, who is here with us today.
She bragged on Janice and her ability to bring order into the chaos of a house run by a woman whose business responsibilities trumped washing clothes and changing sheets, so much that I thought, if I could hire Janice to help me, there would be no end to what I could accomplish.
But Paulette said Janice’s schedule was full.
Until one day, she came in and said, “Lynda, Janice has an opening. Get home quick
and pick everything up—she’s a cleaner, not a picker-upper.”
Well, I ran home… grabbed everything in sight… and threw it all into the guestroom bathtub,
pulled the curtain closed, and prayed she wouldn’t look.
Thankfully… she didn’t.
Janice took the job, and from then on, Paulette and I – with support at home from Janice- were unstoppable!
---Time passed… life changed… but Paulette was always there.
We talked each other through everything.
Our friendship never wavered.
Not once.
---
Then came our greatest adventure. At a time when many women are sitting at home not doing much to make new memories, Paulette joined a group called Sisters on the Fly—women who restore vintage campers and go “glamping.”
Their motto at the time was: “No men. No children. No dogs.”
That was right up Paulette’s alley.
She found a tiny camper, turned it into “The Henhouse,” and made it absolutely
adorable.
I went to see it.
It was about the size of a Spam can. No bathroom. Room for one.
And for the first time ever, I thought… “This does not sound like fun”.
But then I read a book about the group—and the next day I called her and said, “I’m
in.”
We found a camper in McDonough—complete with a bathroom and sixteen electrical
outlets, which is a very big deal in a camper.
We bought it together and named it “The Giggle Garden.”
We painted flowers and hummingbirds on it… added window boxes… and filled them
with real flowers wherever we went.
And oh… the adventures we had.
The scariest adventure is being revealed here for the first time. We were driving in a blinding rainstorm through LA ( lower Alabama) pulling that camper and had to find somewhere to stay overnight. Every hotel room in Montgomery was full so we found a place in a parking lot in downtown and after treating ourselves to a seafood dinner we went to bed in the glamper while it was still light hoping no one would realize there were two ladies of a certain age inside. When dawn broke—we slipped out of there feeling very lucky.
And we made one very important decision:
We were never telling our husbands…not because they could affect our quest for adventure, but because we didn’t want them to worry what we might get up to next.
So Carey… and Reb…
Just know this—
Paulette and I were intrepid explorers.
And we could handle whatever came our way.
---
As I look across all of you gathered here today to honor and celebrate Paulette’s life,
one thing is very clear.
There is not a person here who couldn’t tell a story about a special moment they
shared with her.
She was the friend everyone wanted… and the friend everyone needed.
Every story… filled with love and laughter. She cared deeply for everyone in her life.
She made time for people.
And if we could have bottled her energy… we could all retire tomorrow.
She was a powerhouse professionally.
The cornerstone of her family.
And a rockstar to all of us blessed to call her friend.
---
Over the past few days, Carey and I have asked each other the same question so many of you
have asked yourselves:
“What are we going to do without her?”
That question has stayed with me.
But I believe I have the answer.
Every one of us is going to keep living… and loving… and laughing…
Just like we did when she was here. Because that’s what she would want.
And truth be told…
If we don’t…
She might just get mad in heaven.
And nobody wants Mimi mad.
---
Mrs. Bunn… Paulette… Mimi…
May you rest easy, knowing your legacy lives on in every one of us.
And as we go forward, may we carry with us the way you saw the world—
Because even on your final morning, you reminded us:
“Spring in the South is indeed a thing of beauty… all is a joy.”
And because of you…
It still is.
Paulette Bunn, I wish I could have known you. And I’d button my lip while you were backing up a trailer.
Wise woman! ( the closest we ever came to harsh words was once early on when I thought I was being helpful and telling her which way to turn the wheel…..BIG MISTAKE!!! 😂😂😂
Put me in, Coach.
Ever since I first read one of your novels, I have been captivated by your zest for life and sharing it unapologetically. Your words make me a stronger, braver woman. At 75, I remain fully engaged in working in the luxury real estate market in NE Georgia. I play pickleball ( the angst that is relieved by knocking the cover off the ball is fabulous).
I live in a very red area where my beliefs make me an outlier. I lost my best friend of 40 years on the Saturday before Easter …a silly misstep resulted in a fall and internal bleeding ended her absolutely delightfully whimsical life three hours later leaving her family and friends in shock and disbelief.
Oh, the stories………and they deserve to be written down.
I would very much like to talk with you to see if there is hope for me to achieve my forever dream of writing. ( I was an English major with a minor in Journalism and my intention - which I never thought of discussing with my parents- was to be a writer. Granted, my life plan was somewhat nebulous, but when my mother - ever practical- reacted to my answer to her question about what I planned to do after college with a complete lack of enthusiasm and said, “ You need to get a teaching degree so you can get a job you’ll get paid for”, it broke my belief in myself. Even at age 20, I truly believed she was all knowing and knew best.
I was wrong. And so was she.
So, let’s talk and see if there may still be time for me to make my dreams come true. Somehow, ever since I first read your encouraging words to women about putting their stories on paper, I have felt called to reach out.
Paulette encouraged me to write for years and I kept promising her I was going to.
Your story this morning made me realize - it’s now or never. Let’s do it! Paulette would be proud!
Hello and welcome, LakeLady. I hear a story clamoring, “Write me!” And perhaps it’s about the best friend who’d still be here, living and loving, if not for that one misstep.
Since I don’t write novels, I think you may be confusing me with my sister (and biggest fan). Paulette and I have exchanged virtual waves and smiles, so that’s another point of connection. Back to the point: I’ll send you an email about your writing and my coaching. Watch for it later today.
Well, I obviously did confuse you with your sister, Joyce. Honestly, I think you are both great voices so let's see what you and I can get up to - some shenanigans, I hope- and who knows...if I can write an essay, perhaps I can write a novel at some point. ( I just sent you an email with my contact info.)
“Shenanigans.” That’s the spirit!
You do write. It’s never too late, until your words themselves are gone. Wasn’t Grandma Moses in her 80s when she started painting? I was 7mumble2mumble when I was offered work doing landscape design and the only landscapes I had ever designed were the experiments in places I lived. Two months ago I put a labyrinth in a backyard that had been only tumbleweeds and ran a streak of gold colored lightning through it because lightning strikes in the desert too. It’s all the life of the imagination lived out in words, in paint, mud and clay, and in the dirt itself. Write!!! Write and let us see it!
I am certain I would choose you for a new friend! Your kindness and encouragement may be just the ticket to help me work with Rona and share the life and times of Paulette Bunn and our long and interesting friendship. She left instructions in her will for me to deliver her eulogy. If it is okay, I'll share it here. It's a start, right?
It’s okay. Maureen posted a tribute to many lost loves.
Done.
Gail, I’ve been to the Grandma Moses museum, and you are right. I love the idea of imagination living in dirt as well as paint and words. Sounds like you are breaking ground both literally and creatively.