This is for Luvada.

My mother called me last night to let me know she had passed on.

Luvada was a woman who belonged to my parents' church (which was also my church while I was in graduate school). She was a tiny woman, I remember her as coming up to about my shoulder, and she weighed perhaps 90 pounds. She had immaculately coiffed white hair and soft, cafe-au-lait skin.

I remember her as always looking very precisely dressed, very stylish. She did not follow the whims of fashion or trend, but she always looked...I can't quite put my finger on the word - she always looked RIGHT, she always looked "like she stepped out of a bandbox" in the good old phrase. She had style. She was one of the few women I knew who still wore hats to church.

She had been a milliner and ladies' haberdasher during her working life, which is probably how she developed such a killer sense of style. I mean, if I could dress like any woman I know, it would be her - she always looked good. She usually wore jewel tones - deep reds, or purples, or emerald green. You noticed her, and yet she wasn't exhibitionistic about it - she wasn't dressing that way to call attention to herself.

She was also a profoundly nice person - a real lady. She always had a kind word for people. One of the older men in the church said that when he was growing up in her neighborhood, she always had a pot of soup on the stove, and if you needed a snack, she'd feed you. And this would have been the 40s and 50s. And it didn't matter if you were Black or white - at least, to her it didn't. (I don't know for sure but I suppose she experienced some form of racism in her life. I am guessing that she met it with the same class and quiet refusal to let someone put her down that she showed when I knew her. Surely, she was a far classier person than any of the people who would say things to her, or prevent her from doing things because of her color).

She took a particular interest in me, when I was working on my graduate work. She would regularly ask me about my progress. One time, when I was having some difficulty or other, she told me to "keep on keepin' on." Good advice, words I remember when I have some difficulty now - just keep on keepin' on and things eventually work out. She was proud when I finally finished my Ph.D. and got a job - as proud, I think, as she would have been of a blood relative doing the same thing.

My mom says she often asked about me, wanted to know how I was doing. She was happy to see me when I visited and was in church.

I did notice, over the past couple years, she began to fail a little. She looked frailer, and her memory was not what it had been (she WAS over 90, after all). Then, earlier this summer - in fact, over Memorial Day weekend, when I was at home - she had a massive stroke. The first few days afterwards, while I was still up there, I steeled myself to the thought of having to go to her funeral. But she hung on. She could not speak or care for herself, but she hung on. Her children said that they thought she understood what they said to her, from her expressions as they spoke. Her son, I know, held out hope for a miracle - that she would somehow rally and improve and maybe even speak again.

It was not to be. She contracted pneumonia and they had to remove her feeding tube because of complications. She passed over the weekend. Her funeral is Thursday. (My mother called me to let me know, and also to ask if I thought it would be better for her to make sweet potato casserole or her hash brown casserole for the funeral dinner. As chicken is being served and there are likely to be children there, I suggested hash browns. Isn't it funny - even after death, in the middle of sadness, there are practical matters to attend to).

Rest well, Luvada. You will be missed here. But I will remember from you that the best accessory is a kind word and a smile for everyone. And I will always remember your advice, to keep on keepin' on.