My patent leather shoes were squeezing my feet and I was squirming in the pew. The white lace socks that once halved in a perfect roll had upturned on themselves and started their ascent up my calf. I couldn’t wait to shed my slip and dress, their itchiness an emotional assault on my very being.

I counted the windows and light fixtures and studied the hairstyles of the choir members. Though it was the 70’s, there were plenty of hold over bouffant, which I judged harshly against the modern wedge and pageboy that I had seen in my sister’s Seventeen magazine.

Mama gave me a warning glance for being fidgety and I treaded with caution around the risk and proximity of a good pinching. I busied my mind with studying the agenda items on the bulletin. We were currently at reading of the scripture, with special music, sermon, and a hymn to go.

Since it was Homecoming and we were venerating the deceased, “When We All Get to Heaven,” was the grand finale. We’d be singing all the verses unless people walked the aisle for Jesus. I was hoping hard that everyone was right with the Lord because my stomach was already growling for the midday meal on the church grounds. Shrouded by white dishtowels, platters of food waited on a buffet constructed of sawhorses and plank boards. Some of the entrees could be identified by shape and smell, waiting reverently to be blessed and unveiled.

I surveyed my attack earlier when Mama placed her Tupperware cake taker, heavy with homemade Chocolate Chip Poundcake with cooked chocolate icing, on the dessert table. I mentally filled my Styrofoam sectional with chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, copper penny style carrots, and maybe some green bean casserole, (if it had the crunchy onions on top.)

There was special plate designation area for Aunt Ruth’s hot dogs, which could only be described some fifty years later as wax paper wrapped, cole slaw topped, soggy bunned deliciousness. For real, I could eat four of them right now. Okay, maybe five. They were a Homecoming showstopper, and I would have worried about their lasting availability, except Aunt Ruth tucked some under the table, saved just for my cousin, Tim, and me. She always did.

I don’t remember us striking this deal with Aunt Ruth, she was just that kind of person. She knew what you liked and quietly stored it away without fanfare so that she could provide it for you. The same could be said for her in the way she served her family, her community, her church. She was a behind the scenes kind of person, keeping life’s furnace hot with freshly hewn firewood, that she cut, stacked, and burned so that others might bask in effortless warmth.

Aunt Ruth passed the last week of March, riding home around quitting time on the rays of a late afternoon sun, her work on earth done.

Daddy was the fifth of six children. Uncle Max, the baby of the family, married Annie Ruth Kidd in January of 1954. She’s the last of that generation to pass, closing the chapter on that familial rock of Gibraltar, leaving me thinking about days gone by. It’s been a minute since I attended a Homecoming or dinner on the grounds, and the loss of Aunt Ruth and wax paper swathed hot dogs reduces the likelihood that I will re-engage in the practice.

My family of origin attended the church that my mom grew up in. Homecomings involved travel across the county, to congregate with Daddy’s side of the family, which may be why I regard those away games with conversation, food, laughter, and fun. Sort of like the State Fair minus the Ferris Wheel, plus a sermon and gospel sing.

Homecomings involved a walk through the graveyard and memories of loved ones passed to the other side. My parents were good at pausing in reverence. They spoke of the grave dwellers with adoration, as though they were within ear shot. Most of the people had passed on before I was born, but I loved those ancient tombstones, with fancy fonts and carefully chosen phrases – grandmother, mother, aunt, niece, daughter, friend. Some had poetry or Psalms, “Thy remembrance shall endure into all generations” or “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

There was an occasional glossy cameo photo inset into the stone featuring a young soldier or a child size grave, positioned small and awkward among the others. I had many questions about all of this, but my parents were experts at shushing curiosities. This isn’t meant to be a slight toward them – I am the fifth child and the most energetic and inquiring of my siblings. God bless their souls; I would have shushed me too.

These days I’m not a regular church goer. There are specific reasons for the decision to seek alternative forms of worship in this season of my life, and though Sundays feel a tad bit amiss without the ritual, God and I are just fine.

Smokin Hot Love Biscuit and I live in an old town filled with historic graveyards. The one down from our house often hosts owls hooting from the steeple. If I weren’t witnessing the phenomenon in person, it might feel somehow orchestrated, but I doubt it. I was taught from an early age the magical faith of believing, even when I don’t behold with my eyes.

If heaven is as I imagine, Aunt Ruth has made it through processing and been fully onboarded into the spirit realm. Uncle Max has been parked at the south side of the pearly gates in his pick-up truck since Wednesday afternoon, waiting on his woman. When at last they were reunited, I suspect that Aunt Ruth crawled into her seat on the passenger side and they bugged out for Homecoming, with dinner on the grounds, kicking up gravel along the golden streets, “When We All Get to Heaven” blaring on the radio.