In Requiem: Teresa R. Kelly; December 12, 1914 to August 17, 2006

My grandmother came into the world a “Kraus” (an Austrian) but she has the soul of an Irish bard. I suspect that she is descended from the White Martyrs of the early medieval period. When she traveled to Ireland, she scoffed at the Blarney Stone, claiming that it was unsanitary and difficult to reach. For those of us who knew her, we know she had no need for the Stone’s purported gifts.

I recall sitting at her feet, fascinated by her stories. Only later did I realize they were the same stories over and over again. Only after that did I realize my misgivings were misplaced. You see, historical accuracy and facts do not drive a good story. Truth drives a good story. The two are not always the same.

The “gift of gab” is truly a gift because it has several unique features. First, the gift gives the storyteller an intense passion for her story. This gift allows the listener to be enthralled by the strength and personality of the storyteller. Next, the gift gives the storyteller a vibrancy that ensnares the audience. Then, the gift provides the storyteller a love for her story. Finally, the gift gives the story itself meaning and resonance for the audience.

Now is the time for a few stories. First, I will tell you my story about her. Next, I will tell you two of Grammy Kelly’s stories.

After the Kellys return from Ireland, Grandpa and Grammy were in Phoenix for Christmas. For as long as I can remember, we have had a Christmas Eve party at my Aunt Marsha’s and Uncle Carl’s house. While there, she was regaling us with her stories of Ireland. As you may imagine, she had quite a few to tell. One of those stories was the Blarney Stone story I related above. Another was about a competing bard on the journey.

This was a church-organized trip, so several other parishioners were in the group. One lady had, apparently, kissed the Blarney Stone several times. When Teresa complained that the woman talked too much, Aunt Marsh fell out of her chair – literally, I think she still limps today because of it. The truth in this story? There’s always a bigger fish in the sea, I suppose.

Let me relate one story she told about my dad. One evening while in college, my dad was sitting on the porch talking to one of his buddies. My grandmother was eavesdropping. My dad, being a fraternity prankster, was probably building up some liquid courage to unleash a goat into the botanical gardens; or, maybe, he was getting ready to add an “F” to the sign out in front of the “Fine Arts” building. In any event, she does not remember that part of his conversation.

She remembers him talking about his parents. He told his friend that, one day, he wanted to have a house like his parents and a family like his. At the risk of sounding immodest, he does have a great family and some great children. I think he probably did receive that which he sought.

Dad is retired now, after working for over 50 years. He still tells us the story of the TV Guide route he had at age 10. He, too, told us a lot of stories. This is a subject for another day, but I think he inherited his mother’s ability to exaggerate. He used to tell us about how he trudged along to school in the snow, raced home to eat lunch, then raced back to school. What he didn’t tell us was that his childhood house was about 1/10 of a mile away. We only learned that by visiting his old neighborhood.

The truth in this story (regardless of whether it's accurate) is that my grandparents set a great example for my father. Through their example, I reaped the rewards of loving parents and a stable home. Through their example, my father learned the values of hard work, loyalty, honesty, and family.

She told another story about my Uncle Dennis. She was always impressed with how studious Dennis could be. She told me that, when he was writing his dissertations (yes, plural), she would stay up all night with him, providing him food and drink to sustain his activities. In my mind’s eye, she would literally slip food and water underneath the crack in the door to keep Dennis nourished.

Uncle Dennis did pass the bar and practice as a lawyer, but I’m not sure he engaged in writing and studying until 5 am on a regular basis. I could be wrong, I suppose. Maybe law school has become a lot easier since his day.

The truth of the story is that Uncle Dennis, like my dad, also inherited strong values from his parents. The truth is that my grandmother would stay up all night, making sure all of her children’s needs were taken care of so that they could accomplish their goals. I do not doubt for a minute that she made sure Dad and Uncle Dennis were able to complete their studies with minimal distraction.

What I will remember most about her, though, is Grandpa Kelly. He loved that woman with an intensity and ferocity that cannot be explained with mere words. They married a little bit young (about 22 years old) and stayed deeply in love throughout their marriage. Above all, they truly were an example of unconditional love and great role models for their children and grandchildren. We are taught that a husband’s love for his bride is (or, at least, should be) an earthly manifestation of God’s love for us. If their love is similar to God’s love, we are all in very good hands.

In January of 1998, Grandpa Kelly died. Now the two have been reunited.

When I sat in their house a few days ago, it was quiet. It was empty. They were both gone. It was merely a shell, and nobody lived there. I thought I would be upset that the house would be sold to someone else. They had lived in this house for nearly 50 years, and I had visited several times on my trips to Lexington. I was not upset. I am not upset. I was, however, taken aback by the lack of life in the house – very different from my past trips.

No one lives in that earthly house anymore. From now on, George and Teresa Kelly live in the House of the Lord.