A stop last Saturday at Wolfe Cemetery in Georgetown.

We took a low-intensity road trip last Saturday.

A Saturday morning outing to Hemlock Cliffs, with an unexpected side order of unsolved murder.

On the way back, I'd yet to become aware of the locally famous story of William Dessie Messamore. This didn't come until later in the evening, when there was time to research. I can't recall ever hearing this tale, but it's possible my dad and his friends might have regaled me with it when I was a kid. 

For the return trip, we decided to stop by Wolfe Cemetery on the western edge of Georgetown for a visit with my parents, who are buried there. They always were adamant about having a simple veteran's grave marker, nothing elaborate or ostentatious. 

Diana and I always agreed with this course, and found the graveside scene on Saturday to be peaceful and appropriate. 

I wasn't up for a scientific survey, but most of the grave markers at Wolfe Cemetery are on the conservative side. This is in keeping with my recollections of the townspeople. Some are more expressive, and there's nothing wrong with that. After all, you can't take it with you.

Cemeteries always make me think. Will our lives and work be remembered? I'm not sure it matters. Thirty-five years ago, I walked along the Appian Way while visiting Rome. 

Crumbling 2,000-year-old memorials bore the names of tremendously important people who've been forgotten for almost as long. Gazing at them, lost in reverie, I soon realized the significance of the here and now -- namely, autos zooming past my vantage point on the narrow one-lane road. I opted for life, and repaired to the nearest bar for sustenance.

I may have known what my parents' grave at Wolfe Cemetery would look like, given I'd seen it previously. But I didn't know my reaction would be one of peacefulness and equanimity. We can't live forever, and their resting place seems, well, right. Maybe it's time for my wife and I to have that chat, too. 

David Goodall.

I made a note of this story several days before it concluded, precisely and concisely as David Goodall intended, in death from his own volition. Specifically, we refer to such an act as "assisted dying" or "euthanasia."

Almost immediately came the news of Scottish musician Scott Hutchison's death, presumably a suicide, and with it important discussions about depression and mental health. These echoed many of my thoughts last autumn, after we returned from the Netherlands to say goodbye to Bill.

"Then, on the 10th anniversary of his death, my mother sat us down and explained the concept of suicide."

I've nothing glib to say about any of it today, on Mother's Day, although it seems to me that last year, my mom made the decision to die. She wouldn't eat or drink, and she had made it clear for decades that she would refuse the intervention of means to maintain life at precisely such a time.

Her health was failing, and some might call this refusal of sustenance a suicide, albeit by passive and natural means. She slept until it was finished. I'll go to my own grave secure in the knowledge that I acted as she intended, by doing nothing save being there, watching, and hoping that by doing so there'd be some measure of comfort.

Regular readers know that I harbor a great deal of contempt for Hallmark Holidays, but in spite of this, my mind was open in 2017; it passed uneventfully, perhaps because the numbness hadn't quite subsided. This year is different. I find myself looking for universals in something that's highly personal, and I'm just barely intelligent enough to know they'll probably remain elusive.

This Goodall chap sounds like a good fellow. May he rest in peace. I'm uncertain how these thoughts about a male scientist, a musical Scotsman, their suicides and the death of my mother last year are connected.

Sometimes you just go with it.

A Song Before Dying: David Goodall, 104, Australian Scientist, Ends His Life in Switzerland, by Yonette Joseph and Iliana Magra (New York Times)

LONDON — On the eve of his death, David Goodall, 104, Australian scientist, father, grandfather and right-to-die advocate, was asked if he had any moments of hesitation, “even fleeting ones.”

“No, none whatever,” Mr. Goodall said in a strong voice. “I no longer want to continue life, and I’m happy to have a chance tomorrow to end it.”

Mr. Goodall spoke on Wednesday before a phalanx journalists and photographers in Basel, Switzerland. That the inquisitors had come from around the globe to hear what would be most likely the last public words of the man once called Australia’s oldest working scientist was evidence that his campaign to end his life had captivated audiences worldwide.

On Thursday, Mr. Goodall died about 12.30 p.m. local time, according to Exit International, a right-to-die organization of which he had been a longtime member.

A renown botanist and ecologist, he was not terminally ill, but his health had deteriorated so badly that he had to stop most of his activities — like working at Edith Cowan University in Perth and performing in the theater — and he did not want to continue living. A fall in his home last month exacerbated his condition.

Keenly aware that the news conference on Wednesday was one last opportunity to help promote euthanasia and assisted dying in his own country, Mr. Goodall, wearing a blue sweater with the small logo “Ageing Gracefully” on the front, withstood the barrage of questions, squinting because of the flashing cameras and sometimes struggling to understand because of his hearing loss ...

Saying goodbye, and resuming the journey.

April 1, 2017.

We drove out to Georgetown yesterday morning, and I don't mind saying that it's a strange feeling to have both your parents in the trunk of the car.

My father died in 2001, and it was my mother's decision to keep his ashes with her at the house they shared in Georgetown. When mom began discussing her wishes with regard to her own passing, she was characteristically specific, with one major exception.

They'd purchased a burial plot at Wolfe Cemetery, on Georgetown's west side, and she acquired a veteran's government-issued headstone for them to share. However, she wouldn't commit to whether the ashes should be buried in the plot, by the headstone.

This was left up to me -- bury them, scatter them, keep them ... whatever.

As a sanity mechanism, human beings are quite capable of laughing through tears, When I first saw the fine wooden box containing my mother's ashes atop a table at the funeral home, I was reminded of the aftermath of my father's wake 16 years ago.

We drove back to the house, and I picked up the container holding my father's ashes and carried it into the house, setting it on the kitchen island counter next to the sink.

My mom walked in and didn't skip a beat.

"No, not there," she said, as though surprised by her son's failure to appreciate a hitherto unknown point of etiquette pertaining to urns, remains and their proximity to dishwashing zones.

"Then where?"

For once, she wasn't certain.

"I'm not sure. Maybe over there on the shelf?"

Granted, it's not something we think about every day. Eventually my dad's ashes were moved to a corner of the living room, along with the American flag provided by the VA for his wake, as folded in a display case. The items remained right there until 2014, when the house was sold and mom moved to Silvercrest.

Getting back to the point, my parents were pragmatists, and seldom made frivolous expenditures. In this spirit, it seemed appropriate to me to bury their ashes together in the place they'd originally chosen. Yesterday this was done.

It also was the best place, with an adjacent shade tree and enough distance between grave and highway to ensure peace for reflection. To my mind, a crisp early April morning was ideal for dispelling jitters by walking around the cemetery.

Springtime is all about renewal, and the many familiar names on the tombstones weren't depressing or funereal at all; rather, they brought back cherished memories of childhood, sports and school.

These were people who influenced me when I was a child. I looked up to them. They're gone, but many of them as yet exist in my head -- and my heart.

I thought about those chairs in Our Town, Thornton Wilder's play. Throughout my mom's final illness and death, I found myself thinking back to origins, about my youth in Georgetown. In physical terms, I've never lived very far from the place I grew up, though my consciousness has tended to reside thousands of miles away.

This has been by choice, and that's likely the way it will stay, but yesterday I may finally have started making peace with the past. We're all making a journey, and we'll all come full circle in the end. There's plenty of spirituality to be found in this life, whether or not one subscribes to a religious perspective ... and each to his or her own.

It has been a sad, exhilarating, challenging, rewarding, moving and numbing year so far. Life goes on, and so do we.

There will be no posts at NA Confidential on Thursday, March 23.

The visitation/observance for my mother is Thursday evening in Georgetown, and the blog will be left silent until Friday, when ON THE AVENUES will appear. Once again, thanks to everyone who has conveyed their kind thoughts, in whatever form, by whatever means.

The obituary and visitation arrangements for Bettye Sue Baylor (1932 - 2017).

Brother Donald (l), sister Jean (r) and baby Sue (circa 1933).

Diana and I thank you yet again for the many kind thoughts, condolences and memories. As was her habit, my mother left clear instructions for how she wanted arrangements to be made, and I've done my best to comply, with only a couple of judgment calls required. Following is the obituary I wrote. You'll find information about arrangements at the end.

---

Bettye Sue Baylor, 84, of New Albany, Indiana died on Sunday, March 12, 2017.

Sue was born on October 9, 1932 in Henderson, Kentucky to Elva and Anna Allen. Her father was a successful farmer, and her mother a one-woman farm household management team. Sue was the youngest of eight children. She had four brothers and three sisters, one of whom (Jean Halbert of St. Petersburg, Florida) survives her.

Elva and Anna were determined that their children would have the opportunity for higher education, and one after the other, they departed Henderson for Lexington and attended the University of Kentucky. Sue graduated from UK with an education degree in the spring of 1954. She quickly accepted a job offer from tiny Georgetown High School in Indiana, and began her career teaching home economics – primarily cooking and the art of the kitchen.

Shortly after Sue arrived in Georgetown, a mischievous town matchmaker arranged a date for her with Roger G. Baylor (1925 – 2001), noted local baseball player and a veteran of World War II. Soon they were married, and in 1960, their son Roger A. Baylor was born. By the mid-1960s, the Baylor family had settled permanently on the east side of Georgetown, in a house on a wooded hill overlooking the former reservoir. Sue remained there until 2014, when she downsized to the Villages at Historic Silvercrest in New Albany.

Floyd Central High School began operations in 1967, absorbing Georgetown’s grades 7 – 12. Sue moved with them. Her new home economics department was state-of-the-art, and the “natural” order of the curriculum set in granite: girls took home economics, and boys took shop. She advised a sizeable Future Homemakers of America chapter, and found time to earn a master’s degree at Spalding.

As Sue’s teaching career progressed, times changed and home economics gradually was de-emphasized. Nonetheless, to this very day, hundreds of Sue’s former students shop for groceries, prepare meals, set their tables and even wash dishes according to lessons learned from her. It’s a remarkable legacy, and in response to popular demand, here is one variant of Sue’s recipe for no-bake cookies, which so many of her students recall with fondness.

---

CHOCOLATE NO BAKE COOKIES

2 cups sugar
¼ cup cocoa
½ cup milk
½ cup peanut butter
1 stick butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups oats

Mix sugar, cocoa and milk in saucepan and bring to a boil for 1 minute. Then add peanut butter, butter, vanilla and oats. Mix well. Drop onto wax paper.

---

As an educator, Sue was efficient, highly organized and relentlessly professional. Each day, she came to class ready to teach. These traits carried over to her life at home, but she also enjoyed hobbies like flower gardening, reading and travel.

In addition, the colors blue and yellow played a major role in Sue’s life away from the classroom.

From Adolph Rupp through Anthony Davis, Sue cheered for her alma mater’s basketball team, the “Big Blue” Wildcats, never refraining from her rooting interest even when completely surrounded by throngs of Hoosiers and Cardinals.

Sue also resolutely followed in the footsteps of her father, referring to herself without fail as a Yellow Dog Democrat, i.e., someone who’ll vote for a yellow dog before even remotely considering a Republican. For decades, she supported and made donations to many educational, environmental and social justice causes.

It was a fine run for a farm girl from Western Kentucky, and Sue’s family is grateful to Silvercrest’s staff members for their kindness and consideration during her final illness, with thanks also to Hosparus for its timely assistance.

2014.

Bettye Sue (Allen) Baylor is survived by her son Roger A. Baylor and his wife Diana (New Albany); sister Jean; and an extensive network of nieces, nephews and their families, far too numerous to list here. Sue was equally fond of her longtime neighbors in Georgetown, who really were like family to her.

Sue chose cremation, and her ashes will be buried along with those of her late husband in a private service later this spring at Wolfe Cemetery in Georgetown.

There’ll be a public visitation from 6:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m. on Thursday, March 23, at Gehlbach & Royse Funeral Home, 7420 Highway 64 in Georgetown, Indiana (812-951-2131).

In lieu of flowers (please), donations are requested to support the Imagination Library Project in Floyd County. The project provides monthly, free books to children from birth to age 5, fostering an early love of reading.

Checks can be made to the New Albany-Floyd County Education Foundation, with “Sue Baylor” in the memo line: NAFC Education Foundation, 2813 Grant Line Road, New Albany IN 47150. On-line, go to www.nafcedfoundation.org/donatenow/ for a PayPal link, and don’t forget to designate "Sue Baylor" in the notes section.

About my mother's condition.

The following was posted on Thursday evening at Facebook. I've struggled with issues of privacy versus my compulsion to disseminate news deemed to be important. In 2016, several of my mom's former teaching colleagues at Floyd Central High School died, among them Pat Conard, Joe Gilbert, Glenn Edwards, Bob Youngblood and Mick Neely. The latter two were tremendously influential in my life, and naturally my mom had students who might say this, too. In fact, many of them have, commenting on Facebook, and these testimonials have been immensely helpful to me as we await her letting go. As for now, she is resting with the minimum of medication, just what is necessary to ease discomfort. It is not likely that she'll regain consciousness. Thanks to everyone (several hundred at last count) who have read and commented at Fb. If you know mother and son at all, it will come as absolutely no surprise that she has been far more prepared for this than me.  

Whatever ability I have with words is failing me this evening, and so for once allow me to step away from the character I’ve chosen to inhabit and speak plainly.

For the past two months, Sue Baylor's health has been failing, and these almost certainly are her final days. I hope I’m wrong about this, but facts are facts. As ever the consummately organized ex-teacher, my mother always has made her end-of-life wishes perfectly clear, and I’ve done my best to honor them.

Hosparus (hospice) became involved about two weeks ago, and I’m grateful for the assistance. Nurse Debbie visits Mom at Silvercrest on the skilled nursing floor, and she’s crackerjack.

Mom has not been in any pain; at 84, her body’s just giving out, and at some point soon, she’ll decide to let go. She’s sleeping a lot, in and out of lucidity. For those wishing to say goodbye, I can’t recommend a visit, but I’m not prohibiting it, either. Neither mother nor son is religious, but in like fashion, I’m not about to dictate the form and content of your kind thoughts.

My mother has had a good life, and she taught hundreds of students (mostly girls, but a few guys, too – including me) how to cook. She never drank, but of course I picked up the slack in that department. I’ll let you and the world know what’s happening when there’s something to report. Thanks for reading, and please let others know if you think the notification is appropriate.

SHANE'S EXCELLENT NEW WORDS: Palliative, hospice, and the care offered by Hosparus.

Today I'll be departing from the polemical template, refraining from the edgy boilerplate, and getting personal.

By making sure we understand today's words and concepts, you'll also glimpse my mother Sue Baylor's relative position these days in terms of her journey through life.

pal·li·a·tive
ˈpalēˌādiv,ˈpalēədiv/
adjective
(Of a medicine or medical care) relieving pain without dealing with the cause of the condition.

hos·pice
ˈhäspəs/
noun
A home providing care for the sick, especially the terminally ill.

Here is an easy explanation.

The differences between hospice and palliative care.

Hospice care and palliative care are very similar when it comes to the most important issue for dying people: care. Most people have heard of hospice care and have a general idea of what services hospice provides. What they don’t know or what may become confusing is that hospice provides “palliative care,” and that palliative care is both a method of administering “comfort” care and increasingly, an administered system of palliative care offered most prevalently by hospitals. As an adjunct or supplement to some of the more “traditional” care options, both hospice and palliative care protocols call for patients to receive a combined approach where medications, day-to-day care, equipment, bereavement counseling, and symptom treatment are administered through a single program. Where palliative care programs and hospice care programs differ greatly is in the care location, timing, payment, and eligibility for services.

Probably most readers are familiar with Hosparus.

About Hosparus

Hosparus is a fully accredited provider of premier hospice services and one of the largest non-profit hospice organizations in the country. We are here for patients and families who choose to have the best quality of life possible until the end of life.

We offer medical care, individual and family counseling, personal care, spiritual care, bereavement services, pain management and much more.

We have been serving the needs of this community since 1978 when Hosparus accepted its first patient. This year, we will care for nearly 6,200 patients and their families in the 33 counties we serve in Kentucky and Southern Indiana.

Hosparus cares for all – regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, sex, sexual preference, age, handicap or ability to pay. Care is delivered through a team-oriented approach and is tailored to patient needs and wishes. Support is provided to families and loved ones as well. Hosparus supports the best possible quality of life for patients and their loved ones and is based on a caring, not curing model of care.

Now that we're firm on concepts, it's time for the rest of the story.

The Villages at Historic Silvercrest has been my mother's home since 2014. She began on the independent living floor, then went to assisted living. Earlier this year, she suffered a particularly nasty urinary tract infection on top of symptoms of dementia that have been stealthily gathering steam, and while there isn't a specifically catastrophic diagnosis like cancer, it is clear that her body is giving out on her.

Consequently, as of today mom is a Hosparus patient. She will remain at Silvercrest, with Hosparus staff coming to her. Visitors are welcome, and should inquire at the front desk as to her current location, because she'll soon be moved from the rehabilitation floor to a different room, and the destination isn't yet known. She has good days and bad. It's the way this works. She's asleep a lot, and has no pain.

During my mom's career as a teacher, she prided herself on professionalism and organization (a gene that didn't migrate to me, not one single bit). She always kept her affairs in order, and never refrained from openness and communication about her wishes at the present juncture.

liv·ing will
ˈliviNG ˈˌwil/
noun
A written statement detailing a person's desires regarding their medical treatment in circumstances in which they are no longer able to express informed consent, especially an advance directive.

In this as in so many other facets of life, the mantra for 2017 is simple: one foot in front of the other, and one day at a time.

My mom did well for a farm girl from Western Kentucky, and she's had a good life. These likely are her final days, weeks and perhaps even months; there's no way of knowing the cosmic and karmic schedule. I'm grateful for the existence of Hosparus in assisting in the transition, thankful for whatever time is left to my mother, and thinking that it's time I learned from her example.

I'll be back next week with the usual sass directed toward the usual suspects, but until then, we all have homework. Do you have an updated last will or living will?

If not, my advice is to get to it. We are.