V E R S E and I M A G E

There is much in this drawer that is no longer in use:

a notebook with ribbon to mark passages

once of some importance, a tortoiseshell comb sadly

made of tortoise shell, a prayer book bound

in mother-of-pearl. Mother-of-pearl.

And sounds: a blurring of bees in the air

no longer heard in the wild.

Everything at once, she had said. All that you

remember must be written down.

Bed linens sailing the wind, curtains flaring

beyond the windscreens, lilacs soon to lie on the ground.

There was a quickening in the heart whenever I saw him

standing in a field of bloom and hum then suddenly not there.

The field gone. The house. The road now under a newer road.

Trees along it long cut down. No canopy of hope.

And the swamp? Who knows what became of it.

Skunk cabbage and buttercups, cattails,

polliwogs and crayfish with their pulse-train song.

We caught them in jars of pond water.

Not for eating, no. To watch them live.

Wash your mother’s clothes one last time and put them away—

like wrapping a scoop of snow in tissue paper.

from You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World, edited by Ada Limón and published by Milkweed Editions in association with the Library of Congress; 50 new poems by 53 contemporary poets; © 2024

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There I am, the four-year old peeking around the kitchen door while two women fry chicken, my Nana and the person she is calling ‘Clara Jean’. Uncle Carlyle passes through, nabs a crispy crackling from the platter, says, “Mmm, good, Sister.” I’ve heard cousins and aunts call her ‘Sister’, too, but I know her real name – Mommy.

By 1949, when Clara Jean Cooke had her first date with Wilson who would become my father, everyone around her knew her as ‘Cookie’. Everyone at church; all her Reynold’s High School friends; the roommates, pals, and profs at Women’s College – ‘Cookie’. It was her name, stuck fast for eight decades, although sometime in the 1990’s my little sister Mary Ellen would christen her ‘Big Momso’ and we’d trot that one out for a joke on birthday cards and such.

Now I’m shaking hands at the open house eleven days after Mom’s death. Neighbors, caregivers, a cousin’s family, her Sunday school: “Cookie was a dear friend.” “Cookie had the sweetest smile every time I saw her.” “Cookie was so special to us.” I’m nodding and smiling and shaking the next hand, and they are all so right. The kindest, the dearest, the funniest and funnest; the most talented to ever pick up chalk and create a perfect likeness; the brightest to ever pick up pencil and defeat the NY Times Crossword; the best to ever fry up a pullet crispy and juicy. The Cookiest.

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After the guests have trickled away and Dad is conked out in his hospital bed, Mary Ellen and I are in the kitchen stowing leftovers in the fridge and bagging the trash. Mom is peeking around the kitchen door. Nana and Carlyle died in another century – there’s no one left to call her Clara Jean or Sister. Mom’s middle son is two time zones distant. It’s just her and her eldest and youngest here. I lean against the stove. Mary Ellen is drying her hands. All the busyness of the past two weeks pauses long enough for us to take deep breaths and begin to tell stories about our Mother.

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February 24, 1928  – July 23, 2024

Clara “Cookie” Griffin, 96, died peacefully at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, on July 23, 2024, surrounded by the love of her family. She was born in Winston-Salem on February 24, 1928, to Ellen McBride Cooke and Grady Carlyle Cooke MD. Cookie is preceded in death by her parents and her two brothers, Sammie and Carlyle. She is survived by her husband Eugene Wilson Griffin Jr;  her children Bill (Linda), Bob (Kathy), and Mary Ellen (Wendy); her grandchildren Josh (Allison), Margaret (Josh), Natalie, Lauren, and Claire; her great-grandchildren Saul, Amelia, and Bert; and her much loved cousin Michael Childs (Pam) and family.

Cookie was an accomplished, caring, and creative woman throughout her life. She was the first woman in her family to earn a bachelor’s degree, majoring in art at UNC Greensboro (then known as Women’s College of North Carolina), graduating with the class of 1949. After college she returned to Winston-Salem, where she worked professionally as a medical illustrator, and soon met her husband Wilson on a blind date. They married in 1950 and moved several times for his career, living in Atlanta GA, Niagra Falls NY, Memphis TN, Farmington MI, Aurora OH, and twice in Wilmington DE. Cookie became a full-time mother when her children were born. She continued her art as an avocation and also enriched the family’s life with music and a love of reading and education. She shared her love of gardening and the outdoors and taught her children the names of every bird at the feeder, but perhaps the greatest gift she shared has been her eternally optimistic and encouraging spirit.

In her 40’s, Cookie obtained a second bachelor’s degree in early childhood education at Kent State University. She was especially gifted working with young children and served as a beloved kindergarten and first grade teacher in the Aurora Public Schools for over ten years. She practiced an educational philosophy called The Open Classroom. Observers were amazed to see twenty or more 5- or 6-year olds in one room, quietly and simultaneously engaged in small group activities including art, science, and reading corner! When she and Wilson moved again to Wilmington, DE, she continued working in early education conducting preschool reading readiness assessments for the public school system.

In retirement, Cookie continued to pursue her artistic talent. She took classes to develop her craft, and her media spanned pencil drawing, charcoal, pastels, acrylics, and oils. Her subjects included plein aire, landscapes, still life, figure painting, abstracts, and always portraits. Her grandchildren and great nieces and nephews benefitted from her gifts with art and early education, both as subjects of her paintings and with hands-on instruction: she always had art projects at the ready for the children when they visited the family’s summer home on Bogue Banks at the North Carolina coast! Throughout her life, even into her 90’s, Cookie frequently drew or painted portraits of children or pets as gifts for family, friends, and community groups. These works of art are cherished by many as mementoes of Cookie’s creativity, generosity, and her love for children and animals.

In 2012, Cookie and Wilson returned to Winston-Salem. They renewed friendships dating to Cookie’s elementary school years, made new friends with neighbors in their South Marshall Street community, and joined First Presbyterian Church, where they especially loved their Adult Sunday School Class. Cookie’s life-long love of music, which had included playing piano for her young family, now expanded to enjoying violin performances by her granddaughters and regular attendance at the Winston-Salem Symphony. Throughout her life, the joy of family was paramount to Cookie, and in her final decades she spent many happy hours visiting with and sharing stories about her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We who love her will continue telling her stories.

The family wishes to thank all those who have loved and supported Cookie in recent years and months, including friends, neighbors, and the dedicated and talented caregivers at Bayada Home Health, Home Helpers of the Crystal Coast, and Trellis Supportive Care. A memorial service has been planned for September 29.

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Thank you to my sibs, Mary Ellen and Bob, for assisting in the composition of this obituary. Thank you to poet friend Suzanne Bell for sending me this poem by Carolyn Forché and recommending You Are Here by Ada Limón. As I was tidying up to prepare for Mom’s memorial open house, I happened to look in the top drawer of her dressing table. Beads, earrings, one silk glove – Mom would have been able to come up with any number of words for the collection there. Oddments. Hodgepodge. Gallimaufry. Maybe even Omnium-gatherum, such a nice ring to it. I gazed at the contents for the span of three or four deep breaths. I closed the drawer. Later.

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