One of the strange things about mass media is that you deal in masses of people. Every week we have multiple obituaries in our newspapers. Each of the deceased leaves behind a wake in the water of humanity, touching other lives in innumerable and profound ways.
Our God creates so many people and yet each person is unique and precious. It is mind boggling, but that’s simply the way it is. Our job at the newspaper is to chronicle their passing. We cannot begin to fully express the magnitude of their journey.
This past week it was my turn to lose a precious person in my life, my aunt, whose life spanned an entire century. Ida Fae Emmerich Hardy was my father’s older sister, but she was like a mother to me, especially after my father and mother had passed.
Aunt Fae was born in McComb, Mississippi on October 18, 1926. She grew up in the Great Depression and was 14 years old at the start of World War II. Can you imagine?
Her father, Oliver Emmerich, was a struggling newspaper publisher, having gone into debt to buy a press just before the Great Depression hit. He survived by making sandwiches for the nearby Army base after the war started.
Even so, she had a happy childhood, the result of her intrinsically happy and optimistic spirit. No matter how tough things got, Aunt Fae was undaunted. She pushed on with a smile on her face.
After graduation from Millsaps, she eventually became an airline stewardess. Back in the early days of commercial air travel, being a stewardess was akin to being a celebrity. Only one in a thousand applicants were accepted. She was weighed every day when reporting for work. One of her colleagues was suspended until she lost five pounds.
After being based in Dallas, she moved to New York City, where she was good friends with the late Wirt Yerger of Jackson, a friend of mine who loved to recall my aunt and their New York days.
One Sunday in New York, Fae decided to attend a nearby Sunday school for young singles. But the church door was locked and she turned to leave. As she was walking away, she heard a voice cry down from a window, “The other door is open.” Those words that day changed her life.
There were two guests at the Sunday school session, Fae and Bob Hardy. When asked about her previous church home, Fae mentioned her Methodist church in Dallas from where she recently moved. The other guest, Bob Hardy, was shocked. “I grew up in that church,” he exclaimed.
After Sunday school, they went out for coffee. Three months later they were engaged. It was the start of a 40-plus year marriage that resulted in seven children, 16 grandchildren and eight and counting great grandchildren.
Bob Hardy finished Cornell Medical School and picked San Antonio, Texas, as the place to build his practice as a neurosurgeon. At the time, my father was editorial page editor of the Houston Chronicle so our families were close, being only three hours away. My cousins were more like brothers and sisters.
Early on, Uncle Bob purchased 250 acres near Boerne, Texas, 45 minutes north of San Antonio along a beautiful stretch of the crystal clear Guadalupe River, part of the same river system that creates the famous downtown San Antonio RiverWalk.
Bob and Fae named their ranch Poco Loco, which means a little crazy in Spanish. Growing up, some of the best days of my life were at Poco Loco surrounded by my extended Texas family.
My father said Fae was scatterbrained and thought she was crazy for having so many children. It was one of few times my father missed the boat. I guess being a younger sibling, he couldn’t see the ocean of wisdom residing behind her sweet southern belle demeanor. She would gladly put herself down if it lifted someone else up.
After my parents passed, Aunt Fae and I grew closer. I was the closest thing to her brother and my mother, both of whom, like everyone, she loved dearly. And she was the closest thing to my parents. We talked every week on the phone for decades.
When my father died, my mother moved to San Antonio to be near Fae. This renewed our bonds to our San Antonio family. What a blessing! I feel like I have a whole other huge family, indeed a clan, in San Antonio, mainly in the lovely older Alamo Heights area.
Fae and my mother got along fabulously, so I asked Fae the secret. “Just let her know you love her and agree with everything she says.” I followed Fae’s always perfect advice and it greatly improved my relationship with my mother (and many others!)
Fae’s life was not without struggle. She lost two of seven children. Yet her marriage not only survived but thrived. Her character and hope were like tempered steel.
A year or so ago, Fae went on home dialysis. “Do you really want to do this,” I asked. She said, “I’m still enjoying life.” Her joy was a glass of white wine and talking on the phone with the dozens of members of her family. She was the essence of a matriarch.
Then a few months ago, a small stroke made her struggle to get the words out, even though her mind was sharp as ever. What was her joy became increasingly frustrating.
Then I got a call from my cousin Charles. “Mom wants to talk to you,” he said and patched her in. “ She struggled to get the words out, but the “thank you’s” were clear as a bell. I told her what a wonderful blessing she had been to me and all of us and that she should be so excited that heaven awaits. “It’s going to be better than you can possibly imagine.” I got to repeat those words telephonically hours before she passed.
Usually when you die at 100, you’ve outlived your friends and the funeral is small. Not this time. The Alamo Heights Methodist Church was packed. And for good reason.
I bet at the moment of her death, she could hear these words “This door is open!”
