Eulogy

On Friday, I took part in a sweet funeral played out by a large cast in honor of Mary Stewart Covington, the mother of my and dear friend, and brilliant artist and writer, Elizabeth Bradford. The early morning interment was at the church where Elizabeth's father's funeral had taken place, and her wedding, at which I was a groomsman for her former husband, David. The old cemetery sits on a boulder strewn hill  that overlooks the 19th century clapboard church. As we stood in the bright cold, saying a tearful good-bye, I was overcome by the rush of fourty years of memories.

Mary was called GrandMary by her grandchildren, and "grand" she was. Liz and I were art students in Chapel Hill when she introduced me to her mother for the first time at her parent's annual Christmas party in 1971, which was as elegant an affair as I had ever seen in my 20 years. Upon entering the living room, the grand piano tunes reflected the shimmer of the decor and the incredible Christmas tree. This tree was flocked in white, and covered with live white narcissus in floral tubes, decked out with three sizes of miniature white lights and a dazzling display of crystals and shimmering ancient glass ornaments. The tree was surrounded by a blanket of snow on which there were satin ribbon-wrapped gifts with tiny moss covered pots of narcissus sitting casually about. The fragrance was intoxicating. In 1971, not even Martha Stewart had forced narcissus bulbs. There were white mechanical birds hidden in the branches which tweeted a serenade all evening. The food was southern, mouth-watering bites, passed by waiters, and the bar was stocked and hosted by her loquatious and fun-loving dad, Hurd Bradford. I was simply astounded by that party. As a rather unworldly college student, my world was rocked by that Christmas party and by the "grand" Mary and her great taste. She became my teacher that very night. On later summer visits to their mountain house with Elizabeth, Mary took us to the auction houses and antique shops, and taught me about how to spot a fake and how to grab a treasure. She explained clarity and cut in diamonds, and the difference and importance of platinum. She showed me the secret inlaid drawers in the first real Sheridan piece I had ever seen, her own desk. Heady stuff for a young man who loved design. I never saw a woman who could go through an antique shop in such record time, and with her expert eyes, always find an amazing overlooked find. The following spring after that Christmas party, Elizabeth introduced me to B. J. Brantley, her UNC room mate, and my destiny was sealed, as B.J. and I were married 33 years ago this month.

Mary Stewart had an amazing life, and was adored by many as a forward-thinking progressive teacher and philanthropist. She survived three husbands, and her will and faith kept her in this world stylishly alive and alert until her last moments. She passed on her great sense of graciousness to everyone she ever encountered. Mary's service was held in the beautifully proportioned Davidson Presbyterian church on the Jeffersonian-inspired campus. Simple, upbeat and tasteful, the service was followed by a reception at which we saw many old faces; including artists and friends of Elizabeth, and her wonderful family and amazing children, now grown men. We also visited with David, whom we had not seen in over twenty years, and shared laughs over old times. It was a lovely send off.

On the long afternoon drive home, BJ and I sat mostly in silence, lost in the dusty trail of memories, occasionally breaking the quiet with a comment on the day, or discussing the next beach trip with Elizabeth. I realized at some point during the drive that it was January seventh, and that I had buried my own father that very same day, six years earlier. I wondered at the roundness of days and years, and asked myself silently, "will I stand on that hill, overlooking that sweet old church when Elizabeth dies to say good bye, or will she help BJ sprinkle my ashes at the beach, where we three have had so many good memories together." Who can guess what the future may hold. Either way, I imagine one of us will say or write a eulogy of some sort, as a send off to dear old friends and the passage of time together. In the meantime, I give thanks to fate, for bringing Elizabeth, and her dear mom into my life.