A little brighter over there

In truth on June 1, I was relieved when my wife received the sad news from her sister, Abby.

Early that morning, their mother, Elizabeth Crosby Cloud, told the cancer “go to hell, you can’t make me suffer anymore, I’ve booked a flight into the blue yonder—heaven.”

Despite this second struggle with cancer, at 95, Liz Cloud lived a full life.

For forty eight years, she put up with me. As we worked to figure each other out, I’m sure there were many early moments when Liz could have clobbered me. Yet, her gracious heart didn’t let that happen.

Liz and her husband, Ken, were as Forrest Gump said of his friend, Jenny, “they were like peas and carrots, always together.” Liz and Ken made a good pair, a good team. Even when they disagreed, Liz had a way of wearing him down.

They had lots in common, but the brine of ocean water was a tidal pull for them. That pull to the shore, the coastline trickled into the bloodstreams of their children too. Cape Cod, Sanibel, and Duck were gathering spots.

Liz had multiple gifts.

Once her mother, Bertha Avery Crosby, passed, Liz became the chief knitter of Christmas stockings for spouses new to the family and newborn grandchildren.

Liz was quite a cook. The culinary skills of her mother and auntie, Helen Loring Thompson, rubbed off on her. I never had a lousy meal when Liz was in the kitchen. Her meatloaf was perfection, and I enjoyed every crumb of the mincemeat cookies she made for me at Christmas.

In a different life, Liz could have been a professional stager for real estate agents. She had sharp, knowing eyes. Those eyes could rearrange a room in a blink, or make a stunning arrangement of flowers in minutes.

Liz was a leader, an organizer, a volunteer, and a dedicated parishioner at St. James’s Episcopal Church in West Hartford, Connecticut. No matter your age, at St. James, chances are that Liz knew you or you knew Liz.

Her children and grandchildren respected Liz’s intelligence and wisdom. They often sought her advice about the ups and downs of life.

Liz’s stamina and perseverance could be found in her daily working of the crossword puzzle in the Hartford Courant. No question that word work helped to keep her mind insightful.

After the passing of Ken, I sometimes had the assignment of driving her to Richmond for Christmas or driving her back to West Hartford after Christmas. On those long drives, Liz was a good co-pilot.

Liz loved a good party. No matter if the location was a backyard deck or a special family event, her personality and beauty brought those gatherings to life.

Honestly, my old southern bones needed time to adjust to the Cloud family’s annual trips to Cape Cod. Growing up in North Carolina, my family’s treks to the beach were always the North or South Carolina coastlines. But, the Cape did eventually hook my heart.

I remember one dreary week in the tiny, saltbox cottages at Mashnee. Gray clouds full of rain hid the sun. The discouragement of cabin fever had hit us.

Yet, one morning, Liz stood at the glass paned storm door and looked out at this soaked, bleak landscape, and proclaimed— “I think it looks a little brighter over there.”

On the morning of Monday, July 24, 2023, thirty-two family members gathered in Patuisset, a spit of land, connected by a single, narrow road on the Buzzard’s Bay side of Cape Cod. We walked down to the sandy beach in front of the friendly house where the family had stayed for multiple summers.

That was an appropriate place for the family to gather and say cherished, heartfelt words about their mom, grandmother, and mother-in-law.

After those teary words, some of Liz’s ashes were gently scattered on to the surface of the lightly rippled saltwater by her grandson, George.

I will hold that morning forever.

The low tide slowly revealed my favorite fishing sandbar with a boat channel at its tip, and a sleepy Bassetts Island in the backdrop.

In that snapshot, I will take with me the optimistic brightness that Elizabeth Crosby Cloud brought into this cantankerous old world.

May we never forget the flicker of her brightness.

That brightness made us, and the people she encountered better.