Years ago, but not too many, when three of my now four grandchildren still resided in Hardin County, we had a Sunday evening ritual.  We’d all meet for supper at the local Mexican restaurant where the kids would have cheese quesadillas (with a side of chicken for Anderson) while I’d consume whatever the waiter thought I wanted that evening.  We’d been there so much they basically knew what I wanted even if I didn’t.  Then I’d load the kids up in my van and take them home.  On the way, Hall of the Mountain King (composed by Edvard Grieg in 1875) and Moonshadow (as performed by Cat Stevens) were required listening.  Unusual musical selections given the fact that the oldest two were like eight and six . . . or less.  Once we arrived at our destination on Hard Rock Road, it was time for several rousing games of Hide and Seek.

My favorite hiding place was in the closet under the stairs.  For some reason they never thought to open that door—and I’d always wait until they were looking in another part of the house before I stepped out so they could “find” me.  All in all, those were wonderful times, brought to a temporary end by their move to Memphis in 2017.

But now, whenever they come to our house or the magical cabin, one of them—usually Anderson—will look at me and ask “Mona,” (‘cause my first name is Lisa so . . . Mona Lisa . . .) “can we play Hide and Seek?”  And if I can possibly muster up the energy (which seems to be a scarce commodity these days), we will.  I generally try to arrange it so I’m “It”, which means I don’t have to crawl under any beds or hide in any small, enclosed, poorly ventilated spaces.  On one trip not long ago we were all at the cabin and, of course, Anderson asked about Hide and Seek and I said yes . . . if I got to be “It”.  And so it began.

At this point I should probably mention that the cabin has two floors, an upper level with a den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and a lower level that consists of one large room with a bath, a smaller room and a decently sized storage closet—plus access to a garage that you can’t park anything in because, if you do, you can’t back out without ending up in the pond/lake.  I know.  You’d just have to see it.  We had put two double beds in the large room that the stairs flowed into from above, and that was where the boys slept whenever they stayed the night.

As I mentioned two paragraphs ago, in this particular game, I had managed to claim the “It” position and everyone else had managed to hide somewhere inside the house.  Hiding outside the house is strictly forbidden since I have no desire to play a game requiring search dogs and helicopters.  I had managed to find Cora first (which is usually the case . . . that doesn’t mean she’s bad at hiding, just predictable), and then Wilson.  But all my looking for Anderson was in vain.  The child was nowhere to be found.  I checked under all the beds, in all the closets, in every available nook and every conceivable cranny . . . and nothing.  No Anderson.  Anywhere.  At least not anywhere I’d looked.

As I stood on the stairs, suspended between the first and second floors, pondering whether or not the child had found a cloak of invisibility, I remembered something I had seen—but not really seen—while  searching downstairs.  The pillows from one of the double beds were in the floor, shoved underneath said bed but not quite out of sight.  But there were still pillows on the bed.  At least there appeared to be pillows on the bed.  That little mongoose had hurriedly thrown the pillows as far under the bed as he could and then used himself as a pillow substitute, complete with the quilt tucked underneath him like it is when you make the bed.  It just hadn’t registered my first time through because I was looking for Anderson.  Not out-of-place pillows.  It was only when I took that clue and added it to the appearance of pillows on the bed that I knew where to find the little stinker.

I gave Anderson the title of Master of Hiding after that night.  He had shown great creativity and ingenuity in his choice of hiding places . . . a hiding in plain sight kinda moment.  And, as I’m sure you’re aware, there are others who could also qualify for inclusion into that lofty society, one group in particular being those who are grieving.

There are some folks who wear their emotions on their sleeve, so to speak.  You will always know what’s going on in their lives because they don’t try to hide their sorrows or their joys or the chaos either can create.  But there are many who are not so transparent, and there are a variety of reasons for that when Death is the culprit.  Maybe they don’t want people to worry about them or to be a burden to anyone.  Perhaps they are extremely private individuals and the thought of someone seeing their deepest emotions is, quite frankly, terrifying.  And maybe, just maybe, they’ve been told often enough to get on with their lives that they’ve decided something must be wrong with them . . . or they understand the problem is with the other person and silence is simply their best offense.

Whatever their reason or reasons may be, there will still be those tell-tell signs that something is amiss . . . the pillows under the bed, if you will.  There will be those moments when they grow quiet and their eyes look vacantly into the distance.  There will be those moments when they lash out over something that is small and insignificant . . . to you.  When they quietly cry or burst into tears with no apparent cause.  Whatever their “tell” may be, if you are their friend, you will recognize it.  And, if you are their friend, you will gently ask a question that can give them permission to open up about their grief.  They may choose not to and that’s all right.  It doesn’t mean you should never ask again.  It doesn’t mean they won’t talk about it later.  It does mean they know someone noticed and that someone cared enough to ask . . . and that can be the difference in overcoming instead of being overwhelmed.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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