No Grey Suites -...

December 31, 2007 Please do not reproduce for commercial purposes

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No Grey Suits

End of life as a team sport

Jack Manning & Friends


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Dedication

For Ben and Will, because you mattered the most and still do

To Marion, who showed me how 30 years ago

To all of you who were there

And to Ann


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Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter One Our Hero

Chapter Two Why?

Chapter Three Ann’s Rules

Chapter Four At Home, at Peace and with Grace

Chapter Five Three Grey Suits

Chapter Six No Grey Suits

Chapter Seven March 18th

Chapter Eight The Obituary

Chapter Nine Ann’s Coming Out

Chapter Ten Our Own Service

Chapter Eleven Until Death do us Part

Chapter Twelve The Memorial

Chapter Thirteen Living with it

Afterword

Appendix I Jim’s Research on Home Grown Funerals

Appendix II The Memorial Service Program

Appendix III The Homilies

Appendix IV Cost Summary


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Foreword

Months later, across steaming tea in a small café, came the right words from a dear friend

of Ann’s: ―It was magic,‖ she said. Confided a favorite aunt, ―It was the coolest thing

I’ve ever done. I was sooooo depressed when it was all over.‖ From yet another who

helped make it all happen, ―My life is now defined from March 18th

.‖

And then simply, ―You have amazing friends‖ from an acquaintance not involved in all

of this when I told her the story, her jaw slightly agape. Indeed. What the heck did we

all just do that left such an afterglow?

Well, we said goodbye to a really neat lady. You know, the real goodbye. Ann died on

March 18th

, 2005.

This is our story.


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Chapter One: Our Hero

This book is a love story, or more correctly, a story of love. And

how a bunch of friends and family came together to celebrate the

end of life and help each other get through the loss of their

friend, mother, wife, daughter, sister and colleague.

And so, we can start at the beginning with the end. On March

23rd

, 2005 the following obituary was printed in the Burlington

Free Press:

Ann Elizabeth Noecker Manning, 46, died on Friday, March 18

th, 2005 in Jericho, VT at

home, at peace and with grace.

Ann was born in Huntsville, Alabama on December 7, 1958 to John and Carolyn Martha

(Schriever) Noecker. She attended school in Hudson, NY, graduating from Hudson High

School in 1977 and Columbia Greene College in 1979. Ann completed her Bachelor’s

Degree in Plant and Soil Science from UVM in 1981 and throughout her life was always at

peace when her hands were in warm soil and around green plants.

At UVM she met her future husband, Jack (John A.) Manning while the two were residents

on Officer’s Row at Fort Ethan Allen. Their first date, appropriately (according to Jack),

was on his 1973 750cc Triumph. They were married shortly after graduation and the

marriage, like the bike, appreciated in value to become a true classic over the passing

years.

Ann’s life was expressed in the themes of children, art and a guided spiritual journey. She

never regretted trading a professional career for raising her two sons, William Alexander

and Benjamin John. Ann’s greatest gift was her ability to gently, but firmly, empathize with

kids and guide them in their development while still having a sense of fun. For 5 years she

was a Board Member at the Saxon Hill Cooperative Preschool in Jericho, three of which

she served as Co-President with her husband Jack. Those associations have formed the

basis for some of the family’s dearest friendships over the years. In middle school, Ann

actively supported her sons’ Odyssey of the Mind and Destination Imagination teams both

as a parent and coach. Each of the boys had the opportunity to participate in the Global

Finals in Tennessee.

Ann facilitated Will and Ben’s association with Catamount Family Center where they both

have pursued a passion for mountain biking that has evolved into counselor internships and

employment. She was an active supporter of the MMU XC and Nordic teams. Nothing

pleased her more than watching the boys bike, run or ski in one beautiful Vermont setting

after another.

Ann found her artistic eye first as a floral designer, later in quilting and fabric art, and still

later in mono-printing and other painted media. Her gardens, of course, always spoke

volumes of her gift for combining color, depth and texture. Ann was at her best when she

pushed the edges. Over the years she collaborated with area quilters and artists in formal


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and informal circles. Those collaborations often resulted in her richest forms of

expression. An extensive exhibit of Ann’s art will be the backdrop for the family’s calling

hours noted below.

Ann dealt with cancer for 10 years, making concessions only when necessary and ultimately

only on her terms. It is this struggle that allowed her to fully understand her path in the

world. She embraced and integrated both Western and Eastern healing philosophies. Ann

was blessed to have Dr. Julie Olin as her lead Oncologist for 10 years and found great

comfort in the complementary, spiritual care of Liz Fukushima, Martha Whitney and Susan

Grimaldi.

In addition to her parents, husband and sons, Ann is survived by her brother Dr. Robert

Noecker, sisters Molly Noecker Levenson and Sarah Noecker Collier; their spouses

Georgette, Danny and Mike respectively; and nieces Jen and Hannah, nephews Erik, James

and Robby. She also leaves many additional Noecker family members from Ohio, some of

whom made the trip to her wedding 23 years ago in Vergennes, and will now make the trip

again for her memorial service. She is also survived by her in-laws Marion Manning,

James Manning, his partner Richard and son Sam, Marcia Manning Zweerink and her

partner James, David Manning and his wife Christa and their sons Eric and Sean.

The family is eternally grateful to the many, many friends and family that have lent a hand

over the years, and continue to do so. Please join us for calling hours at the Underhill

Town Hall on Monday, 3/28, from 4 until 8 PM. A memorial service will be held on

Tuesday, 3/29, at 2 PM at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Burlington with a reception to follow.

A meditation labyrinth will be constructed in Ann’s memory at a location to be determined

in Jericho this spring. Memorial contributions can be made out to the Ann Manning

Memorial Fund and mailed to PO Box 220, Jericho, VT 05465.

And everyone agreed that that was our Ann.

Ann would never have considered herself a hero, but that is what she was to us. After all,

who is a hero? Someone who faces a difficult challenge and conducts themselves in a

way—often an extraordinary way—that the rest of us would hope to do as well in a

similar circumstance. Most heroes aren’t aware of their acts at the time. It is through the

lens of others that this profile emerges. This was the case with her.

I’d known Ann for 25 years, and we’d been married for 23. She once remarked that

while other couples went through mid-life crises of one sort or another that pulled them

apart, we did cancer. The blessing, we figured, was that it brought us together in a way

few couples experience. And, like most things in our marriage, we were pretty good at

dividing up what needed to be done and putting a shoulder to it.

Ann wrote journals during the last years of her life. Reading them is having her speak to

me from across the other side of the river. They are an amazing legacy and a gift beyond

words. Difficult and wonderful to read, it is there where I know who she ultimately

became and the roles and relationships she valued most. No surprise that I came third

after God and our sons. I was, however, her best friend and guardian. Sam to Ann’s

Frodo, if you will. In one passage, written a few months before she died, she noted a

comment I had made that pleased her deeply. I had said to her something like ―I

wouldn’t trade any of this.‖ Neither she nor I would have wished this suffering on us or


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anyone else, but she and I made a great team, and I was happy to be on it with her, no

matter what.

For the funeral program, I had toyed with printing the words from the song Some Kind of

Love from an obscure album called Wingless Angels by John Stewart (1975). It never

made it into the program, but to know love, as Father Dan, our Episcopalian minister

pointed out, is all you can really ask for in life.

Some kind of love is like gold

That is the hardest to hold

For it catches the eye

Of each thief passing by

Some kind of love is like gold

Some kind of love comes too soon

That kind of love heals your wounds

When your wounds are all healed

And you’re back on your wheels

You say that kind of love came too soon

Some kind of love tears your heart

When you knew it was wrong from the start

Try to explain

A moth to a flame

Some kind of love tears your heart

Some kind of love starts as friends

That kind of love never ends

For it comes on as slow

As flowers and snow

Some kind of love starts as friends

Some kind of love never dies

That is the hardest to find

Through laughter and rage

It mellows with age

Some kind of love never dies

Some kind of love

Some kind of love

Everyone’s looking

For some kind of love


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Chapter Two: Why?

I am neither a scientist nor a saint, but I dabble in

both worlds. Happily, I am equally at ease talking to

my friend, Dan, the physics professor about quantum

gravity as I am with Carol, the feng shui practitioner,

about dowsing for the right spot for Ann’s memorial.

Mind you, I don’t pretend to understand either subject

in a full and meaningful way: I simply accept that

both represent truths in our world, depending on your

point of view.

And, I take a keen interest in both of them.

Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus—in Jack-world they are all spiritual

athletes keeping their souls in shape using different ―sports‖. Single universe, multiverse,

string theory, M-theory—in Jack-world the cosmologists are simply peeling back the

layers of the scientific onion. When they are all done peeling, the cosmologists will have

come face to face with the theologians and God will hold up the mirror that shows they

have all been talking about the same thing for a long, long time. All I know for sure is

that nobody knows for sure, and I take great comfort in that.

So, extending that logic to caring for someone passing to the next world, I figured I could

do the right thing by Ann as long as I reflected (prayed, if you will) on what I thought

was right and stayed open to solutions presented to me along my path.

Cancer sucks. But you do get to think and talk about things for a long time. You know,

those things. (―Would you like to be buried or cremated dear?‖… ―Not sure, pass the

sugar, please.‖) Ann and I had a chance to talk about a wide range of things over the

years, especially toward the end. While the overriding intent was to help Ann pass to the

next life as best we could on her terms, I think she trusted me to fill in any of the gaps

where we might not have talked about various details.

And so, I began to form a vision of how to do this thing—this end of life thing. And I

wasn’t going to do it alone. Our privacy had been wonderfully respected over the years

of her illness, but in the end I wanted—I needed—my family and friends around me.

What I didn’t want was a bunch of people who did not know her or me involved. You

know, the funeral home guys, the guys in the grey suits. While I wasn’t entirely sure

what ―it‖ would all look like, I knew that I would recognize it when I saw it.

The ―it‖ turned out to be a lot of small steps and some key decisions that let us take

control of the entire process and include everyone who wanted to help. And when it was

all over, we wondered what we had done that was so special, and so seemingly different.

We felt that the collective effort from these very helpful, and here is that word again—

loving—people, needed to be written down someplace.


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And so, with gentle pushing and support from that same circle, No Grey Suits was born.

The chapters herein are organized more or less by theme or topic and cover decisions and

approaches we took in those areas. Chapter Three, for example, highlights what I knew

to be Ann’s beliefs and wishes. Chapter Eight is how the obituary was done and why we

liked it. Some are pretty personal, some are a bit utilitarian, some are very sad, and

others are a chuckle.

In each chapter I created the summary to the best of my recollection and then asked

family and friends to embellish with their experience, perspective and advice. We offer

this narrative as a reminder to ourselves that there are always choices in life and that you

can do just about anything if your heart is in it.

Your job is to view our story of caring for Ann like a Monet, the great French

impressionist. Understand the technique, and then—when your time comes—get your

own paints and brushes and create a vision that is not….grey.


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Chapter Three: Ann’s Rules

If someone asked you how you’d like your final arrangements to

be made, what immediately comes to mind are the basics: burial

or cremation; church service or not; maybe organ donation or

some other medical philanthrapy. Ultimately, however,

somebody has to put it all together and make it happen. This is

often done with funeral service providers who can handle the

mechanics, but clearly have zero idea whose spirit lived in the

body they are ―managing‖ for you.

When cancer comes the first time, as it did at age 36 for Ann, it

was horrifying. Her kids were seven and four, she was in the

prime of her life, was very fit and had taken very good care of

herself. Ann’s lump was expected to be benign. All indications

were that she’d have it biopsied, and we’d move past the scare.

Of course we would make all the obligatory commitments to

live life for each day, but then essentially move on. Sitting in the surgical oncologist’s

waiting room that fateful day, I remember flipping through the magazine entitled Coping

with all of its articles on surviving cancer, foods that don’t make you puke after

chemotherapy, where to get scarves and wigs, when the next walkathons or

whateverathons are to raise money for cancer and so on.

All of a sudden, that was our world.

Lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation followed. Ann recovered well, but was left

with permanent lymphodema in her right arm. The monthly oncologist visits then

became bimonthly, then quarterly, then yearly. Five years is kind of the magic milestone

to pass. At five years, they start using the other ―C‖ word—cured. Sometime in that fifth

year, just as we began to let ourselves think we were out of the woods, Ann’s arm blew

up with fluid. The disease was now in her lymph nodes.

When cancer comes the second time, especially after you allow yourself the luxury of

thinking you might be rid of it, it is the worst. No other subsequent diagnosis compares.

Told you have cancer the first time is devastating, but once over the shock, you play to

win. Told the second time and that the disease is now metastatic, you play to live long

enough to try to die from something else.

After Ann’s second diagnosis, bad news came in roughly half-lives; now it’s in more

remote lymph nodes, now it’s in the bones, now it’s in the liver and so on. And with each

diagnosis our event horizon—the cosmological term that defines the edge of a

gravitational black hole where light can no longer escape—became closer and sharper

into view. Our world shrank and the circle of family and friends that mattered most came

into very clear focus.


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There was, however, a repelling force to the closing event horizon, and that was Ann’s

spirit. The more Ann had to endure, the stronger her spiritual side defined and expressed

itself. She sought out and found a great network of alternative caregivers—

acupuncturists, shamans, dowsers and others—who helped her spirit blossom on her

terms. Ann wouldn’t use these words, but she was finding ways to look beyond the event

horizon and see where her spirit fit, and might be going, in the great scheme of things.

During this time her artwork took on new forms with greater intensity of expression, and

she worked at an amazing pace given her health. Her journals are filled with reflection,

introspection and living the moment.

While Ann did her best to transcend her illness spiritually, I was the feet-on-the-ground

guy. In the end, Ann’s disease progressed more or less as the oncologists had expected in

terms of survivability. In my engineering-trained brain, I pretty much always knew

where we were on the curve and what might be coming next—and when. Cancer gives

you time, but it has its own schedule. Over time, several major themes emerged for Ann,

for us, and for me that I drew upon to make the final arrangements and to call on our

circle for help.

It was not the sort of subject we could talk about all at once as it was just too painful,

scary and surreal. It turned out to be a series of short discussions over many months, and

in some cases years, where Ann and I talked about our wishes for end-of-life care. We

approached this in the context of ―no guarantee you are going first‖ perspective, rather

than just assuming it was for her. It made the discussion easier and more like a dialogue

rather than a checklist of this and that. Importantly, another friend of ours died of breast

cancer the month before Ann’s second diagnosis. She died trying to give chemotherapy

another try in the hospital and not looking at all like herself at the end. That made a

major impression.

So, we were pretty clear on the following points. The first two were the most important

to her and repeated often:

She wanted to die at home and not the hospital.

She didn’t want to die doing chemotherapy.

We both liked the idea of cremation (I’m not sure ―like‖ is the right word, but it’s

what we both wanted compared to burial.)

We talked a bit about where ashes end up. It was clear to me that Ann’s love of

the ocean would come in to play and I recall she just smiled when I mentioned

this. She would let me figure out this one on my own.

I thought a service at the Episcopalian Cathedral in Burlington would bring things

full circle. We had met with a minister to discuss our marriage there many years

ago and I had proposed to Ann across the street at Battery Park overlooking Lake

Champlain. Either that or Ira Allen Chapel at UVM, where we both had been

students. Ann thought those options would be fine.

So, basically, my marching orders were to make sure she was home, off chemo, etc. and

that her cremated remains were cared for appropriately. Everything else was pretty open.


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Chapter Four: At home, at Peace and with Grace

As with all terminal diseases, there comes a point where

you have the final discussion with your doctor where she

tells you it is time to get ready to die. For us, this was in

early March 2005, about 3 weeks before Ann died. Most

people are surprised to hear that this was not a traumatic

or overly emotional meeting. It was the beginning of the

end and there was simply acceptance and understanding

by all three of us in that dim hospital meeting room that

we were entering the final phase of this journey.

We had had the same oncologist for all ten years and she

always made time to make sure we understood all of our options and that our questions

were answered. In many ways she had become a dear friend, but she, and we, could not

afford to let down too much of our professional guard. Sooner or later the conversation

comes to this final place and no doctor can have so many ―friends‖ die regularly and still

function. In turn, patients reserve the right to lash out at their doctors who seem only to

give grimmer and grimmer news over time. Julie was a gifted oncologist who walked

that line daily and was a master at it.

And so, Ann voiced emphatically what she had said all along: She wanted to die at home

and not doing chemotherapy. I don’t recall the ride home, but I’m sure we did a few

normal things like pick up a few groceries or whatever. After tough doctor visits, a cup

of tea at Barnes and Nobles, followed by a few easy-to-do normal things was a reliable

coping mechanism for us.

We always had the same pattern with the boys when there was ―news‖ to share, either

good or bad. Rule No.1 was that they knew everything before anybody else. We did not

want them hearing things second hand through the grapevine or overhearing

conversations on the phone. If it was good news (Mom had a good check-up today and

doesn’t have to go back for six months) or not so good news (Mom needs another surgery

and will be in the hospital for three days), we tried to be direct, answer questions, give

them a hug, and then let them live their lives.

My father died of lung cancer when I was a senior in high school. What I keenly

remember from my experience losing a parent at age 17 was that I wanted more than

anything to keep doing normal teenage stuff. All the adults might be misty-eyed and

wanting to hug me, but I only wanted to be with my buddies (and girlfriend of course)

and do normal things. Through it all, I was growing up faster than my peers and was

called upon to fill in for my dad and help out. But I was still doing all the usual high

school activities and if Mom looked okay, then I was okay. I always tried to reflect on

that when dealing with our boys.


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But nothing prepares you to tell your children you are going to die. Through ten years of

this crap1, that was the toughest thing we had to do.

But, the boys, too, had their own ―professional‖ sides. They understood, didn’t really ask

for too many clarifications, and each gave Ann a hug for the ages. And then, as only kids

can do, they shifted effortlessly back to the here and now. Yes, I told them, your job is to

just be you and do your normal stuff. We’ll keep you informed and I will be here the

whole time. But, you should be prepared for a lot of crying, saggy-boobed ladies wanting

to hug you. The boys went to school for a few days and then decided to be home for

good. They hung out, played on the computer, helped around a bit, sat with Ann, and

more or less were part of the end-of-life vigil.

Hospice and the Visiting Nurses Association are angels on earth. They know their

business and know how to support families support end of life at home. In Ann’s case,

we really didn’t need too many accommodations. It was mostly basic stuff and

appropriate medications. Blessedly, Ann needed no IVs those final weeks at home. The

VNA folks checked in every day to make sure things were okay, but overall gave us high

marks for how prepared we were and what a great setting it was for Ann and for us to

care for her.

After the last visit with the oncologist Ann had final visits from siblings (one with a

brand new spouse), parents, relatives and others. She would rally to greet them, chitchat

as best she could, but more and more towards the end, she did not want any more visitors.

Susan, her Shaman, explained to me that death is hard work. When I heard those words,

it just all made sense to me. As the oncologist had repeatedly told us, Ann was a young,

very healthy person who had a terminal disease. Of course dying would be hard work.

Ann was not some 90 year old whose heart muscle was down to tissue paper. But

Susan’s words rang deeper…in order to die, one has to let go. And for Ann, I knew that

meant letting go of her sons. In a quiet moment I told her it was okay to die and to try

and save me a spot. She only asked that I take care of those boys of hers, that I take care

of myself and told me she loved me once again. We were on the same page.

Our bedroom became a sanctuary with only a

limited number of visitors. It was March, the

snow was about gone, the days getting longer.

The room glowed with a soft yellow sun for

most of the days and we could crack the

windows and allow in some fresh air. The

boys took turns sitting with her, a few very

close friends came for a minute or two each,

and the last few days her dear sister, Sarah,

came to stay through the end.

Our world was now closing in.

1 Yes, crap…that is the other ―C‖ word.


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Chapter Five: Three Grey Suits My father died when I was a senior in high school. Our mom was ahead of her time—at least here in the U.S. sense.

He died at home, was cremated, and she used a minimal of funeral home services. I asked Marion to write a few words

about her experience after she reviewed an early draft of No Grey Suits. My brother Jim’s experience losing his

partner Richard in Chapter 13 paralleled my own. He and I wanted Mom to get in the first words on how she and our

dad minimized Grey Suits long ago to properly set the stage for our stories.

―You set the precedent with Dad’s funeral, Mom. You

were 30 years ahead of your time,‖ said son Jim at a

recent family reunion. That may be true but that’s not

what his Dad and I set out to do.

I remember making funeral plans when we were both in

good health. We were on the way home from Dick

Malkasian’s funeral. The Malkasians were close friends

at Brown University and Dick had died suddenly in

Belmont, Mass in 1967. So we talked about funerals, never dreaming that in five short

years we would be having one of our own.

Putting four kids through college was always Bill’s big concern and more than once that

day he said, ―The cost of a funeral will support one kid through one year at college.‖ So

we agreed to be cremated (saving the cost of a casket) and not to use a funeral home for

calling hours but our own home.

When Bill’s cancer finally won in November 1972 the scenario we had talked about on

the Mass. Turnpike was almost perfectly enacted. Bill died the Saturday after

Thanksgiving and my brother-in-law, M. Jay Goodkind, who is a doctor, was with us so

we did not have to bring in medical strangers. We had made prearrangements to have the

body removed so two grey suits carried him down the stairs.

That night we had private family services at Grace Episcopal Church—no grey suits.

Monday there were calling hours at our home and the house lent itself to that: Callers

could come in the front door, turn left, greet all of our family and then exit via the center

hall. No grey suits.

Tuesday was the funeral itself at Grace Episcopal Church. One grey suit drove us to the

cemetery (where ours was only the third cremation burial in the new Dalton cemetery)

and then to the church, waited during the service and then took us home where close

friends and relatives had gathered.

So maybe these minimal three grey suits were in Jack’s mind when he wrote No Grey

Suits for Ann. Maybe it was in Jim’s mind when he remembered Richard. But I know

Bill Manning is sitting on his pink cloud, rubbing his hands together and happy that all

those kids got to college!

Mrs. William H. (Marion) Manning : August, 2007


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Chapter Six: No Grey Suits

I had been working in India for many years and Ann had always

wanted to go. Unfortunately, it never happened. Most Americans

are overwhelmed by their first visit to India: The sights, smells,

and poverty, juxtaposed with information-technology wealth are

an assault to our senses and domestic view of the world. Over

time, I have enjoyed wonderful friendships with many of my

colleagues and learned a lot about the culture, not the least of

which is that death is still viewed as part of life. Families take

care of their own. Funeral homes, and the separation of life from

death that they represent, are not common. In the U.S., of course,

death is very much removed from us.

Shortly after we had announced to our inner circle of family and friends that Ann was off

of chemotherapy for good and was within weeks of dying, our friend Benita stopped by

with incredibly sad news. Steve, husband of Ann’s friend Patty, had drowned while on

vacation with their family in the Caribbean. The funeral was as lovely and moving a

tribute as one could want, but the community was devastated. Bad as cancer is, it gives

you time. Patty had no time. The boys and I attended the service. No one would have

questioned our decision if we hadn’t, but in my mind it was a dress rehearsal for them.

We would be next.

Patty had to use guys in grey suits. She had no choice. I did.

I have learned that death, whether sudden or anticipated, creates a sense of helplessness

in the circle of friends and family who repeat sincerely ―what can I do to help?‖ After

Steve’s funeral, I figured it was time to deploy this army that would do anything asked of

them and be thrilled to be doing something. Our catch phrase was ―everybody gets a

job.‖ This was going to be end of life as a team sport and, if possible, with no grey suits.

Jim, my longtime running and drinking buddy, was my first stop. A trained IBM

manager with a keen sense for business and a tough negotiator got the cornerstone

assignment: how do we do this without grey suits? He was back in just a few days with

a thoroughly researched white paper on what options were available to us. I have

included his paper as an appendix. One read through this and the light bulb went off:

We could do this without a funeral home involved AT ALL.

As we looked at various options, Jim lined up The Plan. All I had to do was call him

when Ann died, and he would put it in motion and manage the whole process. Like the

lady said in the Foreword, I have amazing friends.


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Here is the plan Jim and I created:

When Ann died, I would call Jim.

Jim then would call our neighbor George, a local physician and friend of the

family who, among other things, delivered our second son.

George would come to pronounce Ann dead and sign the death certificate.

Jim had filled out the necessary paperwork to be a deputized Registrar for the

Town of Jericho and so could then sign the death certificate. I would sign as

funeral director and we would fax the necessary forms to the VT Medical

Examiner to get the permits for cremation and allow us to move the body. All of

this paperwork could be done at the kitchen table with Jim, George and myself.

We would take whatever time we want, or need, to prepare Ann’s body for

cremation. Could be hours, it could be a couple of days.

The body would be placed into a cardboard container for transport. Families

some times construct ―hope chests‖ (coffins) for this, but I felt wrapping her in a

quilt was all that mattered. The container would be cremated along with the body,

so I did not feel a strong desire or need for a fancy box.

And then, talk about full service, Jim got his family’s blessing to use their old

Dodge Caravan to transport the body to St. Johnsbury for cremation. It would be

a two-hour trip and he would call ahead to let them know we were coming.

After delivering the body, I would return in a few days to pick up the remains. As

there are no ―cremation police‖ I was free to disperse the ashes whenever we were

ready and wherever we had permission (if necessary) to do so.

And - look ma - no grey suits.

My aunt Helga, a soul mate of Ann’s, had lost her husband a few years earlier and had

gone the cremation route with his remains. Helga lived on the coast in Maine and was an

artist herself. She got the job of finding an urn for Ann’s ashes. She sent a couple of

photos of suitable vessels from local potters, which we hung on the fridge for a few days.

The boys and I picked the one we liked, and Helga brought it with her to the calling

hours.

We were ready.


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Chapter Seven: March 18th

During her last days, Ann was over on ―my‖ side of the bed.

Now, we’d slept together for all those years and I don’t think

we ever swapped sides. However, it was a bit easier to

attend to her on my side of the bed and that is where she was

the night of March 17th

. But, it meant I didn’t really sleep

well, and I was very much aware of Ann’s every breath.

Around three in the morning, I heard her breathing change

and felt the chill in her extremities. The end was very near.

Alone together for the last time, I held her and whispered

what came naturally after 25 years of sharing life. She died

at 3:25. We had done it. She died at home, at peace, and

with grace.

I decided to wait until the sun came up before waking my sons; first Ben, then Will. And

then Ann’s sister, Sarah, who was staying with us. It was around 7:30 when I started

making my calls, including Jim, the deputized Registrar for the Town of Jericho.

There was no rush, and it all worked as planned. While Jim contacted George and the

others that we would need for the day, Sarah attended to the boys and later joined me as I

spent time with Ann’s body. After a simple sponge bath, we dressed her in what we

thought might be appropriate. First was a cream colored, long-sleeved, t-shirt from one

of the World Finals Destination Imagination teams she had coached. And then a simple

housedress I had bought for her in Hyderabad. It was very colorful and she had often

worn it as a sundress while working in the garden. Ann and I had the same size ring

finger, and I slipped her wedding ring on to mine. I removed all the sheets and bedding

and laid her out on our master bedroom quilt which she had made many years ago.

Ann looked beautiful in death.

When it was time to move the body, Jim, George, another friend (also named Jim) and I

each took a corner of the quilt and brought her downstairs. Ann’s friend, Sue Ellen, had

the forethought to dress up our shipping container with colorful fabric, and we placed the

body in it. George got a few throw pillows to nest in around the body to keep it secure.

The only requirement for the crematory was that everything must be combustible.

Having bathed and dressed her and wrapped her in our bedroom quilt, it mattered not at

all to me that we were using a cardboard box. All that mattered to me was that after 25

years together, 23 of marriage, 17 with kids, 10 with cancer, and three weeks preparing to

die, I was not turning the last part over to some guy in a grey suit. Nobody touched Ann

except people who knew and cared for her.


18

Jim had taken the seats out of his old van, and he and I, with Ann in the back, drove to

Mount Pleasant Cemetery and Crematory (MPCC) in St Johnsbury. George and Jim #2

followed. The ride was into the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont in early spring,

otherwise known as mud season. Lots of frost heaves with the ice not quite out at Joe’s

Pond. Two hours later we met Leslie Blodgett who was the Director at the MPCC. Best

I could figure, his day job was on a dairy farm. A very pleasant and genuine fellow, I

immediately liked him. There was not a grey suit for miles around as far I could tell.

The building looked like a tiny church, complete with stained glass windows (covered in

plastic for winter on the inside – typical Vermont).

Leslie wheeled out a well-worn gurney to aid in the transit of the body inside the

building. The light was a surreal late afternoon, early spring yellow that glowed through

the windows. I wrote a check for $200, got my receipt, and kissed the box to say the final

goodbye. On the outside of the box, Leslie had used masking tape and a marker to write

―A. Manning BB‖. When I asked about the ―BB‖ he simply replied ―Blue Box‖. Unless

you leave an urn, you get the remains in a blue box. The Sears shopvac in the corner,

which could only really be used for one thing, gave us a chuckle. A warm smile with a

firm handshake, and we were on our way.

I felt an elation I can’t really describe. I just loved the whole thing and felt I had handed

off my dear Ann to a real person—a real Vermonter, no less.

Jim and I listened to The Who’s Quadrophania at very high volume on the ride home.

When we got there, the gang—friends, family, kids, a dog and 4 cats—was there with

UVM men’s basketball on the tube. The team had made it into March Madness for the

first time in years. Tears, hugs, some wine and background cheering was just what the

doctor ordered. March 18, 2005 was a complete success.

As a side note, in subsequent years, I have celebrated Ann’s Death Day (as does Nearly

Headless Nick, for you Harry Potter fans) on March 17th

. It was, after all, the last day she

was alive. That’s when I reflect on her the most.

March 18th

is reserved for reflecting on my amazing friends and family.


19

Chapter Eight: The Obituary

Well, if you think funeral homes are a rip-off,

wait until you find out what is waiting for you in

the obituary business. In short, they don’t give

those column inches away. You’d think you’d

at least get a few ―free‖ paragraphs given that a

death is, well, newsworthy. No so. The

obituary you read in Chapter One cost $535.

When there’s only one major paper in town, you

are really stuck.

However, if there is one time in your life to not

worry about money or being scammed, writing

an obituary is it. I can think of no greater honor

than writing a summary of someone’s life in a few paragraphs.

What I really wanted to do was communicate to the world who this person was and what

her life was all about. Reading obituaries—specifically those involving terminal

illness—often give the headline to the disease. So-and-so died on such-and-such a date

surrounded by her loving family after a long battle with cancer. This person lived 50

years and cancer gets top billing? No!!

Marion, my mom, had been a small town newspaper editor for years. Growing up, we

had read our share of headlines and bylines. Cancer, I decided, was not getting top

billing, but would be buried in the ―continued on page X‖ part of the story. But, I still

needed a lead. Scanning other obits gave me no inspiration. The word ―grace‖ had been

used many times by friends to describe how Ann carried herself. And she had died at

home, which was a major wish of hers. And—I was there, remember—she died in peace.

So, the headline was a natural from there:

Ann Elizabeth Noecker Manning, 46, died on Friday, March 18

th, 2005 in Jericho, VT at

home, at peace and with grace.

The rest just flowed from some simple themes. My sister, Marcy, helped edit the piece

and I had Ann’s family review it for their okay and to fill in missing pieces. I’ve never

been prouder of anything I have ever written. I found a picture of her in the kitchen

preparing a pre-marathon meal for some gaggle of us runners a year earlier. Her smile

and glow just seemed to lift off the page.

To buy some time, we had a simple death notice inserted in the paper on Sunday (March

20th

), noting that a full obituary was to follow. Once again, we were buying time. Ann

was dead. There was no rush.


20

A week or so after the Burlington Free Press obituary, the exact same obit just appeared

in the local weekly. At first, I was stunned and angry. They had not asked; They just

lifted it word-for-word (putting a few things in the past tense) and published it! It was

then I knew I needed some real downtime. These wonderful people had published this

obituary as a community service for no fee, the way I thought it should be done in the

first place.

Interestingly, I found myself reading obituaries for a while afterwards. I’d quietly assess

whether I thought the writer had captured the person’s life or whether it was a bit

cookbook. One day while scanning through the notices, I saw a lead in that went like

this:

―So-and-so died on such-and-such a date, at home, at peace and with grace.‖ I liked it.


21

Chapter Nine: Ann’s Coming Out

Ann was not everybody’s cup of tea. (She would

agree, by the way.) Ann chose her closest friends

carefully. As her illness progressed and she had less

and less energy to spare, this became more and more

important to her. A mentor of mine once said that he

felt an individual should be judged by the people with

whom they surround themselves. I think that is a

good standard, and Ann’s inner circle was a

wonderful measure of her.

This is not to say she did not have an extended network of friends and

acquaintances. We had lived in the area for 30 years, raised active

kids in one school district, and she got involved in things, lots of

things. And, when you die at 46, all of those friends and

acquaintances are still alive. Go to calling hours for someone 92 and

they’ve probably outlived all their friends. So, I was faced with a

dilemma. Ann’s inner circle had a glimpse of her true spirit, but others

did not have a full measure. I wanted our calling hours and service to

give our community and family a better glimpse of who this lady was.

It was clear to me for a long time that her artwork was

the best way to do this. It turned out that I was floored

like everybody else when I saw the body of work she

had done. I think she would have been too. All of it—

the quilts, the monoprints, the fiber art—were mostly in

boxes and storage. Some, of course, hung in our home,

but that was the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

I asked two of her friends to lead the effort to select artwork, mostly

from her quilts (Amy) and monoprints (Martha). Amy had done

years of Quilt Guild with Ann and vividly remembered much of her

work. Martha, a close friend and her yoga instructor, had taken

monoprinting classes with Ann from another artist named Carol. All

I could do was point these women in the general direction of our

stash of Ann’s work and ask that they select samples to exhibit. It

was a daunting task really. There was so much to choose from and

it was very, very emotional.

It turned out I couldn’t have asked two more qualified friends. Martha took several

boxes, and together with Carol, chose samples representing everything from simple

colored arrangements to sharp, angry images depicting her loathing of cancer and

chemotherapy. Similarly, Amy assembled a wonderful assortment of Ann’s fabric art.

They prepared the following flyer that was handed out at the exhibit/calling hours.


22

Ann E. Manning Quilter and Artist

Ann has been a quilter for over 20 years. In her early years of quilting, Ann built a strong base

in traditional quilt making, precisely cutting, patiently hand-piecing, and perfecting her quilt

stitching. She was proud of the awards she received from the Champlain Valley Quilt Guild.

Over the years, Ann expanded her quilting skills and began exploring new and daring ideas,

techniques and fabrics. Yet, she often returned to the simple traditional designs. As Ann’s

quilting knowledge expanded, she realized that the gathering of ideas, study of color and the

design of the quilt were just as important and satisfying an experience as achieving the final

product.

Ann had a profound fondness for fabrics of all kinds. These included traditional prints, Bali and

African fabrics, prints of the 30’s and 40’s, the bright and bold contemporary fabrics, and most

especially – flannel fabric. She would thoughtfully caress the fabric to get the feel for the texture

while absorbing the colors with her eyes and letting design possibilities spin in her head. You

would know when the fabric was right – you would see a small, slow smile come across her face.

The quilts here today represent the range of Ann’s quilt making from the first two quilts she made,

to the colorful flannel quilts she made for Jack, Ben and Will for Christmas this year.

Ann expanded her artistic expression with monoprinting in 2000. Monoprints are unique prints

made by the direct transfer of an image using etching inks and oil paints. Images are created on

flat thin, metal or plexiglas plates.. The plates are then placed on the bed of an etching press and

covered with a sheet of printing paper. The bed is rolled through the press and the pressure

transfers the image onto the paper. The print is always the mirror image of the plate. What is left

on the plate is referred to as the ghost and is substantially lighter than the first pull. This can be

worked further and reprinted, which accounts for many of the series of images that Ann has

developed. Flat objects and textures such as leaves, grasses, twigs or cut shapes can be inked and

laid down on the plates to create images. A wonderful ghost will often happen after the first pull

when you pick the object up off the plate and can then print the image of it left in the ink.

Ann was a colorist. She could make colors sing and loved the mixing process. As in her quilting,

she used cut shapes, meticulously designing, inking and assembling them. There is a beautiful

simplicity to her work that is quite complex to achieve. She was able to process much of what was

going on in her life and with her illness through this art, expressing the anger and pain as well as

the love and joy.


23

Ann’s friend, Tammy, had the task of finding a

place to hold calling hours. Obviously we

weren’t going anywhere near a funeral home, so

that left various civic options like libraries,

schools and such. In the end, it was Sherri, the

Town Clerk in Underhill, who said ―of course‖

and we had found our spot. This was not just

any spot. The Underhill Town Hall is right out

of Vermont Life magazine. Over 100 years old,

the churchlike building boasts a large open

room with a slightly elevated stage at one end, a

series of raised box seats at the other, a kitchen off to one side and a back room. In was a

perfect place for an open gallery with plenty of nooks and crannies for people to sit,

congregate or simply contemplate.

Easter was early in 2005 and it fell on the second Sunday

after Ann died. So, we figured we’d do calling hours on

that Monday, with the memorial service the next day. That

way, people would have some time to make travel

arrangements, celebrate Easter, and travel Monday to

Vermont. Calling hours were set for 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. But,

we asked immediate family to come starting at 2 p.m. so

we could have some time alone together with Ann’s art.

Our friend, Cindy, arranged various accommodations

for travelers, and many arrived Easter Sunday night.

While many were scattered among various inns, friends

and family, Cindy found a wonderful B&B for all of

Ann’s out-of-town relatives. I think this was a big help

to them.

Monday morning found the Calling Hours Crew at the

Town Hall midmorning. We had a diverse group of

artists, carpenters, helpers, kids and whomever along with boxes of sorted Ann Art. As

they started doing the introductions and comparing notes and Ann’s work, I realized I

couldn’t stay. Somehow, they’d have to figure it out. I was out of gas and ideas.

Friend Judy had the flower assignment. She brought buckets

of cut flowers to the Town Hall along with corsages. The cut

flowers were arranged in all manner of vases and placed

around the hall and gave the place a gardenlike feel, another

of Ann’s artistic passions. The corsages were worn by

family. It was a nice way to know who was who in what


24

later became a large crowd of visitors. My brother, Dave, and his best friend, Steve, set

up to play guitars in the stage area. They had played at our wedding and so it felt full

circle. We also set up a Clavinova piano for other musicians to contribute a gift of music.

Around 1:30 in the afternoon, my son Ben and I

arrived to an empty Town Hall. All of Ann’s Art

Elves had gone to get dressed and ready. Ben and I

had the place to ourselves. What we saw when we

walked in that door was almost beyond words. A

―blaze of color‖ as my mom’s friend, Pat, later said.

Somehow, someway, the elves had pulled off a

masterpiece of an exhibit in just a few short hours.

Most of these people didn’t know each other when

they walked in the door that morning. Ben walked

around with eyes agape. He wandered around, first up on the stage and then to the far

end of the hall with the raised seating. ―Dad,‖ he said, ―I know it’s weird to say this, but

this is kind of fun!‖ Could I have ever asked for more? It was fun. It was Ann’s spirit in

full spring color. But ―fun‖ fell a little short as a descriptor….it was magical, just like

Martha later said over steaming tea.

I’m sure somewhere we have a record of how many

people attended. It was a lot, and I’m pretty sure I

greeted them all. There was no receiving line, only

people milling around looking at art, mostly

dumbstruck by the quality and quantity of Ann’s

work, all talking and laughing and hugging. It was a

true celebration and a genuine coming out for my old

buddy. No one could leave that exhibit without being

moved. This was both the Ann they knew and the Ann they had only glimpsed in life.

It was simply……glorious. When it was time to leave, I had no voice left.


25

Chapter Ten: Our Own Service

We had been members of a small New England Episcopal

church when the kids were younger, but had not attended

regularly for several years. It was really more my thing

than Ann’s and, as we found our time together more and

more precious, Sunday mornings were spent at home or

doing things together.

But, I was raised an Episcopalian, we were married in an

Episcopal church and Ann had no objection to the religion

whatsoever. Say what you will, but the Episcopalians are a

very inclusive bunch. Our family has several gay couples

and holding her funeral service in a welcoming Christian

denomination was comforting to me.

Over the years, Ann had connected with Father Dan, our local minister and well-

respected medical doctor. I called my friend Chuck, one of the church elders and close

friend, and asked for help in contacting Dan and the folks at St. Paul’s Cathedral in

Burlington to do the service. The local church would have been lovely, but way too

small. In short order, Chuck had Dan and the Cathedral lined up for us.

I discussed the service with Dan and requested that it include the following if possible:

A more or less traditional Episcopalian funeral service

A homily in place of a sermon, to include multiple speakers

Inclusion of Ann’s Shaman, Susan, as one of the speakers

His only constraint, he said, is that ―I am a minister in the name of Jesus Christ, and this

is a Christian church. So long as no one in the service takes issue with this, we are open.‖

He made recommendations on various readings and the overall service. Music and

preparation of the homily was up to me, more or less. Dan would officiate the service

and Chuck would join as layperson. We opted for no communion, which is normal for

this type of service, as it would make it quite long.

I used my sister, Marcy, as music consultant. In her day she was a gifted pianist and,

along with brother, Dave, on guitar, I figured we could pick out some good stuff. What I

didn’t want was Amazing Grace, a lovely tune, but too much like something the grey

suits would choose. There were five musical pieces overall. As the cathedral had a huge

pipe organ, it was recommended that we use the local organist.

We selected the following music:

Prelude (music before the service) — Dave and friend Steve playing guitars.

o I liked Jorma Kaukonen and they played several tunes from Quah.


26

Entrance Hymn — organ

o The Strife is O’er. A familiar Easter tune.

Second Hymn — organ

o Morning has Broken. Cat Stevens’ version of this tune was on the radio

when Marcy and I were discussing music. Bingo.

Third ―Hymn‖ — guitars again with friend Jim (great voice) leading.

o The Garden Song by John Denver. We printed lyrics in the program.

What a song for the occasion and in a key everyone could sing.

Recessional Hymn — organ

o I Bind unto Myself this Day. A family favorite from my youth and sung at

my father’s funeral.

Cindy worked with me on the program,

which is attached in the appendix. Once

again, we wanted something a little

different. She did a lovely job with the

layout and we splurged on color printing—

we had to. Ann was all about color and we

included a few of her monoprint images.

We also added the obituary write-up and a

nice picture of her which seemed fitting.

I asked our niece, Jen, if she would carry Ann’s urn up to the altar as part of the

procession. I think she was quite pleased with this job as she and Aunt Ann had a special

bond over the years. Jen’s brother, Erik, a strapping young man and accomplished

football player, gave her hints on how to cradle the urn and not ―fumble‖ it if she tripped.

I loved that helpful hint. (Erik later admitted that when he saw the urn on the kitchen

table the night before he thought it was a cookie jar and was tempted to see what was in

it. The day of the service, when he realized what it was, he was slightly unsettled, until

his mom told him I had only transferred the ashes that morning.)

Many of Will and Ben’s friends were given the job of ushers. Each had a boutonniere,

wore a jacket and tie, and looked quite the part as they handed out programs and seated

people. I asked our friend Diane, who had orchestrated enough meals over the years to

feed a small army, to do one of the readings.

We also arranged for the reception to be at the cathedral after the service in a large, open

room overlooking the lake. Marcy and Sue Ellen contracted with a local restaurant that

specialized in nice breakfast and lunch fare. In the last weeks of her life, Ann’s appetite

had fallen way off, but she could still enjoy Penny Cluse’s tangerine juice. This was not

just any tangerine juice, it was freshly squeezed and a signature item at the eatery. In

Ann’s last days, Sue Ellen would bring some by every night after work. They were the

perfect pick for catering the reception—another connection.

The centerpiece of our memorial, however, was the homily—saying goodbye in many

voices. I had thought about Ann’s memorial service for years, actually, mostly on long


27

runs when my mind would wander and I would toy with visualizations of what should be

said. As with the calling hours, I wanted this to be an opportunity for the assembled

community to hear a bit more about Ann below the surface. The only way this could

work was to have many viewpoints and assemble a stitched fabric of shared memories.

Professionally, I do my share of public speaking. I felt I could hold together the homily

as the master of ceremonies, so to speak. But, I knew I’d be asking people to stand up in

front of an emotional crowd and they would need my support. In the end, I asked various

people to speak for various reasons. I could have asked many others, but the crew that

signed on gave a wonderful account of Ann and I could not have been happier. Their

homilies, and the letter I sent them asking for help, are attached in the appendix.

For me, the hardest part was standing up and getting started. I had only scribbled a few

notes and had the general order of who would be speaking. God has given me the gift of

gab and after years of PowerPoint presentations, my voice did not fail me that day. I

opened by saying that an early mentor of mine—an engineer no less—had two pearls of

wisdom about people.

The first is to be judged by those people you surround yourself with. I asked the

congregation to look around and agree that this was a pretty good measure of Ann.

Secondly, when things are really tough in life, see who is there in the foxhole next to you.

So many in our circle had been there in our time of need, that all we could say is ―thank

you‖ one more time to those faces in the congregation.

I offered that there must be a God, because no engineer could possibly write Ann’s

obituary (included in the program) without divine intervention. A nice chuckle from the

congregation washed over me, and I simply relaxed. I asked each speaker to come up,

and while they were doing so, offered some perspective on their relationship with Ann

and our family and why I had asked that they speak. You’ll never meet a braver crew. I

stood with each as they spoke and I got to gaze out at the congregation as they read. It

was wonderful.

I gave no homily, but did offer my closing thoughts. We had

heard readings from the Old Testament and from the New

Testament and now, I said, I had a reading from the Book of

Suess. I glanced up at Ann’s urn, so beautiful on the altar,

and finally choked up uttering the words from my favorite

childhood book, Horton Hatches the Egg:

I said what I meant and I meant what I said, an elephant’s faithful,

one hundred percent.

My sister looked me in the eye later and quietly said ―That was about your life with Ann,

not just taking care of her through illness, wasn’t it?‖

Yup.


28

Chapter Eleven: Until Death do Us Part

There was never much doubt in my mind that I would spread Ann’s ashes in the ocean.

The seashore was her place. Interestingly, she was not a great swimmer. We found out

on our one and only trip to warm, tropical waters that she really had high bone density

(she was always very fit and toned with never a flabby inch) that caused her to sink rather

than float easily. Her husband didn’t have the problem, having a reserve of, uh, excess

buoyancy.

But to see Ann at the ocean, especially during her illness, was to see someone at peace

with the world. Had our future allowed, we’d have moved near the ocean after the kids

were through school. That was our little dream of retirement. So, the ocean was a given.

But how, when, where, and with whom?

Aunt Helga had been down this path and, in addition to her urnary duties, she happened

to have some views on remains and ashes that made sense to me. Her husband, John, had

died a few years earlier and she had donated his remains to a medical school program. It

was a year or so before John’s remains were returned to her. So, she had lots of time to

think about what to do with ashes and shared those thoughts with me. She believed there

was no reason all the ashes had to go in one place. After all, sooner or later, over time,

they would disperse in to whatever ecosystem one chose as a starting point.

John was happier in the mountains, so some went there. She then spread some in front of

her place on the ocean in Maine, and the rest were placed in an urn that she simply

labeled ―Ashes of Dead Lovers.‖ Aunt Helga always rolled her own. And, since she was

a dear friend of Ann’s, I figured I was covered if I followed her gentle guidance.

Over the summer, Ann’s urn sat quietly on the nightstand on her side of the bed. It was a

beautiful urn and matched the colors in our bedroom to boot. Again, there was time.

What was the rush? I’d know when the time was right. And sure enough, while

thumbing through websites for distance runners, I discovered the Maine Marathon and

Half Marathon was to be held in Portland the same weekend as our wedding anniversary.

The race was Saturday, October 2nd

and our anniversary was the 3rd

. Running had been

my constant companion over the years and it seemed fitting to run the half marathon and

then head to Helga’s for broadcasting of Ann’s ashes on our day.

My companion for the trip was Myles, our ten-year-old black lab and seasoned marathon

training partner. He had logged hundreds, probably thousands, of training miles with me

over the years. We arrived at my cousin Hilary’s on Friday night, and I ran the race


29

Saturday morning as planned. I knew no one, but the course wound along the Atlantic

and I just enjoyed the sea breeze and my health. Around noontime I was back at

Hilary’s, had some lunch and a nap, picked up Myles and off we headed to Spruce Head

with Ann on the front seat, pretty as you please.

At Helga’s we walked out to a little island connected by a causeway. Very quiet, very

pretty and very Maine. As if a realtor showing property, Helga offered options with

various views, settings, and so on. We laughed a lot and then found The Spot. Open to

the broad Atlantic on classic Maine coast, this would do just fine. We went back, had

some dinner and, in the morning after breakfast, went back with Ann, Myles and an

Episcopalian prayer book.

Helga asked to broadcast some ashes, and then said it was my time

to be alone (who was I to argue?) and headed back to the house.

The day was stunning. Deep, deep blues in a brilliant, warm, fall

morning sun. A light breeze and very gentle swells. Ann would

have sat there for the whole day. I set the urn on a suitable stone

and just left the top off. Myles swam around as I took pictures and

absorbed this place. This was where I was going to bury my wife,

my friend, my lover. I was at peace.

The Episcopalian wedding service is short and sweet, with the

traditional lines of commitment, which I repeated one more time

out loud for Ann and with Myles and a few sea gulls as witnesses:

―In the name of God, I, John, take you, Ann, to be my wife to have and to hold from this

day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love

and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.‖

There wasn’t a dry eye on the shore.

Cremated remains are the consistency of sand on the Maine seashore, which is to say not

really sandy like the smooth beaches on Cape Cod. They are gritty, like ground up

seashells along with fine powder and various textures. There was a light breeze and it

took a while to spread her remains around. It was low tide, so I felt I could let her enjoy

some sunshine on the large boulders before being finally washed to the sea.

It is a moving experience, to say the least. Myles, fittingly, provided the comic relief.

When I was nearly done, he came up behind me with those black lab eyes and big pink

tongue hanging out. It looked like he was made up in blackface. The light powder from

the remains had coated him across his wet face and fur. Perfect. I threw a few sticks in

the drink and he came clean, but I’m sure he’s still got a few specks somewhere just for

himself.

I broadcasted about three quarters of the ashes before heading back to Helga’s. I then

stopped at the narrow beach overlooking the bay (now known, of course, as ―Ann’s


30

Bay‖) and added some sand and shells to the urn. I figured it would be good to have

some Maine shoreline mixed in with wherever Ann’s remaining ashes ended up.

When I returned home, we put the urn in our office with a nice picture of ―Ann’s Bay‖ on

that small island. A year or so later, her sister, Sarah, and I spread a few ashes at her

memorial at Mobbs Preserve (described in Chapter Twelve) and Sarah then took the rest

home to be with her and her mom and dad. At a family reunion in Camden the following

summer I took the boys out to see the spot on the Island.

A ring is a powerful object. When Ann died, I wore her wedding ring with mine for

many, many months. My friend, Mary, smiled at me one day and said that someday,

somewhere I’d simply take them off. She was right. I can’t remember when or why, but

I did. But it was sometime after repeating our marriage vows for a second time on the

Maine coast. Both rings are now in a small, jeweled box that speaks of a successful

marriage. Our vows kept from our wedding day until the end, with all the bumps,

bruises, joy, and happiness in between.


31

Chapter Twelve: The Memorial

In the obituary, we put the following

placeholder:

A meditation labyrinth will be constructed in Ann’s

memory at a location to be determined in Jericho this

spring. Memorial contributions can be made out to the

Ann Manning Memorial Fund and mailed to PO Box 220,

Jericho, VT 05465.

Ann became quite enthralled with labyrinths

later in her life. They are an ancient geometric

form and are often associated with meditation,

reflection and prayer. I am certainly no expert on the spiritual side of labyrinths, but as

an engineer given the assignment of building one in our yard, I became a bit fascinated

with how the shape is constructed from lines and arcs.

And so, in the summer before Ann died, we made a 30-foot walking, meditation labyrinth

in the side yard. It was a labor-intensive project built from pavers and native Vermont

stone. The boys, of course, referred to it as our own crop circle and you can see it today

if you go to Google Earth and zoom in. Ann walked it most days and it gave her great

comfort. It’s pretty cool, really, and I find myself wandering through it now on occasion.

There are also ―finger‖ labyrinths, which are simply patterns on a piece of paper or other

media one can trace a finger around as the ―walk.‖ When not well or in the hospital, for

example, Ann would walk such a labyrinth with her fingers. She and I had talked about

donating a walking labyrinth for one of the local land preserves. Not so much as a

memorial, but just as a cool community service thing to do as a thank you to all who had

helped us.

So, it was a natural for me to think such a memorial

in her memory would be ideal. I had no intention of

getting anywhere near a cemetery: More grey stone

to go with grey suits. But, the idea of something

that would be reflective, enjoyable and meditative

sounded right. The two questions that needed to be

answered were what and where. Judy and Cindy

helped make contact with various local parks and

conservation groups. In the end, the Jericho Conservation Commission (JCC) was the

perfect partner. Among other things, they oversee a wonderful tract of land in Jericho

called Mobbs Preserve. We prepared two alternate proposals for the JCC. The first was

a walking labyrinth like the one in our side yard, the second was a ―sitting‖ labyrinth that

would essentially be a stone bench with a finger labyrinth engraved. The sitting labyrinth

became the logical choice due to low impact to the site and essentially no maintenance.


32

With the aid of Ann’s friend Carol, a dowser, we walked the land and found the perfect

spot. A south-facing bank of a stream bed, somewhat nested into the hillside looked

perfect and dowsed well. To this day, anyone who has been there agrees that this is the

spot.

So, the where was done. The next task was the what. Ann had become friends with a

local stone quarry family. The son, Chris, had set up a studio to sell his sand-carved and

sculpted natural stone art. His wife, Kim, coincidentally was on the JCC board. I had to

look no farther.

The memorial, as it turns out, was no ordinary project. First conceived in the summer of

2005, it was spring 2006 before it was done. Chris, you see, is no ordinary artist. He is a

man of, and with, stone. Walk in a field with a biologist and you get a narrative on all

things living. Walk the hills of Jericho with Chris and soon all you see is potential in

stone.

Never have I worked with anyone so dedicated to

the mission at hand. Over several weeks and

months, Chris and I discussed the sitting labyrinth

concept. Should it be a table, a bench, a stool?

We decided on a bench/table shape in natural

stone (versus a block of granite, for example). A

natural outdoorsman, Chris kept an eye out for

just the right stone for our project. Keeping an eye

out to him meant investigating, networking, and

searching various construction sites, farmers

fields, and so on. This was not an off-the-shelf project.

In the meantime, we discussed various images to be used along with the labyrinth design.

We agreed on the following:

An 18-inch right-handed labyrinth

Two images from Ann’s monoprints; one representing rest-in-peace and the other

the four of us as a family

An image of Horton from Horton Hatches the Egg

A simple ―For Ann‖ to identify whom this was done for. I didn’t feel a need to

inscribe born, died, mother of, daughter of, etc.

Chris and I finally found the right slab up on Cilley Hill on the Davis Farm one cold

wintry morning. He had contacted the farmer and gotten permission to look for an

appropriate stone for a small fee. Somehow he got it to his studio and literally built a

small heated tent off of his main shop to work on it. The thing weighed several tons, I’m

sure. It was an absolute labor of love. The boys and I stopped over to see progress at

various times, and Chris made sure we approved of every step. When it was done, it was

fabulous.


33

In many ways, the best was yet to come. Given that this was a nature preserve and the

site was at least a half mile from the road through fields, trails and woods, using a piece

of heavy equipment didn’t seem appropriate. Ever resourceful, Chris struck up a

conversation with a fellow logging with a couple of draft horses on the roadside one day.

In short order, Jim, the horse guy, agreed to bring a couple of teams and pull the stone

down from the roadside to the site. On the appointed day in early spring 2006, the stone

was moved and placed at Mobbs. It took a good part of the day, and Chris, Jim and Dr.

Tom, who chaired the JCC, had helpers from all corners stop by to lend a hand. The

whole experience was really something special.

In November later that year, Ann’s sister Sarah and her family were up for Thanksgiving.

We went to Mobbs to show them the site and to spread a few ashes from Maine. By then

the vegetation had grown in nicely and the stone slab had a nice nested quality to it.

Today, when I need to connect, this is now where I find Ann.

As an adjunct project, and in collaboration with the JCC, we had a local printer scan a

couple dozen of Ann’s monoprints from her calling hours exhibit in very high resolution,

many of which are reproduced in this manuscript. We then printed and packaged them as

note cards, and made some full-sized reproductions. The cards were a big hit and have

been carried by a local gallery as a fundraiser for the JCC. Not megabucks, but a nice

thank you to an organization that went the extra mile to work with us. The printer, by the

way, was the husband of Ann’s friend Carol, her monoprinting instructor. Once again,

we were able to keep it all connected in our circle.

I used the proceeds from donations to the Ann Manning Memorial Fund to seed the

printing work and create some inventory for the JCC to sell. The sitting labyrinth I

considered to be a commissioned work and paid Chris directly. It pleased me to

negotiate him upward a bit on the final amount—artists have to eat too. It was so very

poetic to me that what some people have to spend on a funeral home and related grey suit

expenses, we gave to a local artisan to help him sustain his very Vermont studio.


34

Chapter Thirteen: Living with it

After outlining the approach to this essay shortly after Ann’s

death, I did not really begin work on it until nearly a year

later, in early 2006. And then I put it down again. Like

muscles in physical rehab after a major accident, you can

only do so much so soon. Wonderful, but painful at times, I

set aside the document until I felt the urge to write again.

Then, in the early morning hours of January 3, 2007 I had a

dream that left me shaken and sobbing. I was in a student

apartment and saw a young woman sitting on a couch upset

and beside herself. Somehow I knew someone had hurt her deeply, and I began to talk to

her. After a fashion she was laughing at my jokes. It was Ann. She was there in all of

her youthful health and vigor, but in serious need of a friend. Not surprisingly, I seemed

to know intuitively what to say, how to comfort her and how to make her smile. And as

we held hands, I was overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding—I knew the entire body of

her life from that time forward, including the end. She had no clue. I could only think of

the short story Our Town and how you can never go back as much as you would like to.

Somehow, some way, I needed to move on.

I’m not sure if that dream was merely indigestion, a vision, or a visitation from Ann

releasing me to get on with my life, but in the morning, I started writing again. It was

great to be getting it all down on paper with a clear head and happy heart. I was ready to

finish what I had started—a book about what we did to share with our family and friends.

That February I received a call from my brother Jim. His partner of seven years, Richard,

had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor and had only months to live. It turned

out to be more like weeks and Jim pulled off No Grey Suits v2.0. As we compared notes

through his ordeal, I finally found someone to talk to who knew, at the most primal level,

what this was all about. Jim picked up on many of the same themes and ideas our

mother, Marion, had used 30 years ago and that we had used with Ann.

We had some great conversations and he did a fabulous job caring for Richard and

providing a wonderful memorial, with a theme of food and Mardi Gras similar to Ann’s

art exhibit. Life is stranger than fiction. Richard died at home, at peace and with grace

on March 18th

at 3:30 in the morning, two years to the day—and hour—that Ann had. Go

figure.

It was then I realized that I was finally coming up for air. My mom used to say that

going through the death of my dad was like wearing deep sea diver boots. You can only

take one, slow step at a time. I knew that sooner or later I would see the surface again

and my life would begin what my brother Jim and I chuckled over as Jack 3.0. Jack 1.0,

of course, was before Ann; Jack 2.0 with Ann; Jack 3.0 was after Ann.


35

To finish Jack 2.0 has been a journey in and of itself. All of the things we have written

about herein have been an outlet for grieving, for joy and for mental health. Writing this

manuscript is the capstone of letting go.

In the early summer of 2007, my sister, Marcy, pushed me a bit to try some on-line

dating. Until then I had no urge to do so. But after Richard’s death and the work on this

project, I felt very open to it and knew that the time had come. I also knew I was not

looking for another Ann and that she would not expect me to be alone for the rest of my

life. In fact, she would probably cheer me on. I realized this to be true because I am at

the point where I know I could do it for her. Ann has released me and I have released her.

I have no ghosts.

My only real obligation is to finish raising our sons to full manhood. She was there for

most of that—the hard parts by the way—and the guys would clearly make her proud.

But, the job is not through until the paperwork is done and, in this case, the paperwork is

a college degree. So, these days, we are a bit like roommates and I get teased as much as

anyone about dates and girlfriends and whatever.

Part of letting go is physical stuff too. Ann was a big Feng Shui fan and we spent several

years clearing clutter out of the house, painting walls yellow, placing fountains here and

there and so on. A few months after Ann died, I had her friend Carol, the dowser, come

to ―clear‖ the house as Ann had done on several occasions. It felt right and Carol gave

me some very basic and sound advice: This needs to be your house now. And so, slowly

but surely, Ann’s things have been sorted out and moved on. Some things have been kept

as family treasures, such as her artwork, but mostly I’ve taken my time finding good

homes or donations for it all. Her studio is now our office with views of the mountains,

and I have someone come and tend her gardens in the summer.

And for me? Well, we now have an insulated garage with heat where friends of mine

come over in the winter to restore old British motorcycles. I own six bikes and our little

club, donned the Classic Bike Cooperative, lives by a simple quote Ann had taken from

somewhere:

Surround yourself with people you love being yourself with

That, in a nutshell, is the mission statement for Jack 3.0.


36

Afterword

Once I had finished the basic narrative for No Grey Suits, I provided

copies of the manuscript to an ever-increasing circle of family and

friends. I asked that they simply reflect on all that had happened and

provide clarifications, reflections and comments on whatever piece they

experienced. The general idea was the more independent views we had,

the better for others to pick and choose what might work for them when

the time came.

Of course, I started with Marion, Will and Ben. I figured they should get

first dibs. Then on to Jim, Jim, George, Sarah and Sue Ellen, who

anchored the March 18th

team and who had early on encouraged me to

write it all down. Later to family, Ann’s Art Elves and everyone else

who helped pull off the calling hours, service, and memorial. And

finally, to a select number of new friends who could read the story for the

first time and give their impressions. Overall, many views with a few

recurring themes.

In the end we felt we had captured a story worth sharing, but with whom?

The answer came from Lisa Carlson of the Funeral Ethics Organization. She had been

the key contributor to Jim’s March 18th

plan and I wanted to return the favor somehow.

One look at our manuscript and she immediately saw the potential as an internet based

document. In that form, she argued (convincingly), it would be available widely and

immediately to anyone who could use some end-of-life ideas.

Frankly, it took a while for me to be brave enough to consider putting such a personal

narrative ―out there‖. But, when Jim, the Deputized Registrar for the Town of Jericho,

asked to forward early drafts to members of his family as they faced end-of-life, their

comments and appreciation tipped the scale. This was a noble cause or, as our new

minister, Father Harrison, gently suggested, a worthwhile ministry.

And, well, if we were going to go live with NGS, then we should do it right. I first asked

everyone who was mentioned or referenced in the document if it was okay to go on-line

with it. To a person, they enthusiastically supported the idea. Friends Mary and Sue

spent many hours editing and helping me rewriting sections and brother Jim gave me a

website 101 lesson getting www.nogreysuits.org up and running. Once again, it was

helpful people, in our ever-expanding circle, lending a hand.

A real team sport.

http://www.nogreysuits.org/


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Appendix I: Jim’s Research on Home Grown Funerals

As noted in Chapter Six, my friend Jim had done some great research on what options were available to us.

This is the verbatim summary he sent to me that got the ball rolling. Over the course of a few long runs, we

worked out the pieces we wanted to use for our plan. Great friend, eh?

Cremation container ($75.00)

Crematory requires that the body be delivered in a combustible container.

Container dimensions are 2ft wide x 12 inches deep x < 6ft long.

Lisa Carlson has cardboard containers you can purchase for $75.00 and has one on hold for you. They come in a flat package and then you assemble into a box.

These containers are craft colored and one option, as we discussed, is that this container could be decorated any way you would like - you could have some of the friends in Ann's art circle or the boys decorate this.

Let me know if you would like me to drive to Hinesburg to pick one up for you. I could do this Thursday, Friday or over the weekend.

Documentation; must have three documents

Death Certificate: No charge for original. $7.00 per copy for certified copies

- This must be signed by the attending physician.

- You should tell the visiting nurse and Ann's doctor ahead of time that you are

providing your own funeral services and they can then give you the death

certificate. They will have the form.

- It will be filed with the town clerk, in the actual town where death occurs, when

you apply for a Burial Transit Permit.

- You can have certified copies of the Death Certificate made for a nominal fee ($7

/ copy ?).

- You will need copies for various reasons (life insurance, social security benefits

for the boys, etc).

- Because you are doing the funeral yourself, you will put the word "Spouse" next

to the License.

- On the death certificate, you will sign as the Funeral Director.

Burial Transit Permit ($10.00)

- This is the document that allows you to transport the body to the crematory.

- This document must be present in the vehicle during transport and will be given

to the crematory.

- The BTP is issued by the town clerk or a deputized registrar.

- You must submit the death certificate to get a BTP.

I am going to the town clerk on Thursday or Friday to be deputized as a registrar so that I

can sign the BTP and that will take out the hassle of having to go to the town clerk or if

this happens over the weekend when the clerk is off duty. I will then file the death

certificate myself. I'm doing this just in case - I'm a belt and suspenders kind of guy.

Feel free to deal directly with the town clerk. You won't hurt my feelings.

Permit to Cremate ($10.00)


38

- This document is required by the state and the crematory before the body can be

cremated.

- It is issued by the State of Vermont Medical Examiner and must be signed by

regional medical examiner - no one else can sign or issue.

- The attending physician (Ann's doctor or George Till) must call the ME to notify

them of the death and cause of death. In Ann's case, the ME will not likely need

to inspect the body because the cause of death will be cancer - nothing sudden

or suspicious.

- The attending physician can fax a copy of the completed and signed death

certificate to the ME. The ME will verify that the death certificate is complete and

accurate.

- The ME will then fill out a Permit to Cremate and will fax a copy to the crematory

and then mail the original to the crematory. The crematory must have this

document on file as part of their official records.

Crematory: $200.00

Mount Pleasant Cemetery, St. Johnsbury

Director's name is Leslie Blodget

Hours: 7 AM - 3:30 PM M-F. Available over the weekend if needed (can call or page).

Fee: $200.00 if you pick up the remains yourself. $225 if you have the remains mailed

to you.

Typically, the body is delivered and then is cremated within 24 to 48 hours, depending

upon how busy he is. People do not wait around while the cremation take place.

You must fill out and give him a "Family Authorization to Cremate" form. He is going to

mail this to my house - it should be there by Thursday.

He is also going to mail me a one page list of instructions on other details.

Obituary: Average = $300.00

Free Press charges a flat $30.00 fee plus $3.50 per line.

The guy I spoke to at Elmer-Corbin funeral home says the typical obituary runs $300.00.

Other Points

The body will not decompose immediately so there is no rush once death occurs. You

will have 2 to 3 days to make final arrangements, have visitation services, etc.

If you would like, I will rent a vehicle to provide transportation to the crematory and will

drive. You won't hurt my feelings if you decide not to take me up on this offer.

Budgetary Cost: $600.00

Cremation: $200.00

Cremation container: $75.00

Burial Transit Permit: $10.00

Permit to Cremate: $10.00

Death Certificate: no charge for original, $7.00 each for certified copies.

Obituary: $300.00 average


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Contacts / Phone Numbers:

Lisa & Steve Carlson, Funeral Advocacy

Phone: 802-482-3437 (Lisa) or 802-482-2988 (Steve)

Address: PO Box 145, Hinesburg, Vt 05461

Jericho Town Clerk: Jessica Alexander

Phone: 899-4936

Hours: 8 am - 5 pm, M - Th, 8am -3pm Friday

Vermont Medical Examiner

Regular hours: 8am - 4:30pm, M-F

Phone during regular hours: 802-863-7320

Off duty dispatcher: 888-552-2952

Mount Pleasant Cemetery and Crematory, St Johnsbury, VT

Director: Leslie Blodgett

Regular hours: 7 AM - 3:30 PM, available on weekends for emergencies

Telephone: 802-748-3063

Cell Phone: 802-535-5305

Pager: 802-283-3530


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Appendix II: The Memorial Service Program


41


42

Appendix III: The Homily

This is the letter to those I requested speak at Ann’s service. I wanted to give them an idea of what they

were getting into. Only one or two had real experience with public speaking, but I think letting them see

how they fit into the mosaic we were trying to create allowed them to have some strength in numbers at

least!

Dear friends,

Thank you so much for accepting the offer to speak at Ann’s service. I know it is both a

wonderful and difficult thing to do. However, as with her quilts, multiple, pieced fabrics

present a more interesting final product than a single pattern.

The intent is to have the Homily last no more than 30 minutes or so and essentially takes

the place of a traditional sermon – so we each should plan on no more than 5 minutes.

We will speak after the Gospel and I will introduce each of you as speakers and provide

some frame of reference for the congregation. The order will be as follows:

Jack MC Opening remarks

Robert Noecker Ann’s Brother Remarks on behalf of the Noecker family

Julie Goodkind Jack’s Cousin Remarks on Ann as a role model

Michele Campbell Saxon Hill School Remarks relating to Ann’s role at SHS

Sue Ellen Walsh DI Parent Remarks relating to Ann as DI Coach

Mary Bibb Mother of sons Remarks relating to raising teenage sons

Susan Grimaldi Shaman Journeywork with Ann

Father Dan Minister Final thoughts

Father Dan Riddick would appreciate advanced copies of your prepared notes and/or

some insight into your comments so that he may reflect on same ahead of time.

Thanks again for you willingness to participate.

Jack


43

Robert’s Homily: Robert is Ann’s younger (and only) brother. I had asked the Noecker family to select whomever they would

like to speak on behalf of Ann’s family and he got the short straw. Amazingly, he wrote much of it the

night before the service.

Remarks from the Noecker Family about Ann

March 29, 2005

Thank you all for coming out today and giving me the opportunity to speak to you. I am Ann’s

little brother Robert. When we went to the event with Ann’s artwork last night in Underhill, I had

several thoughts.

Not being from Vermont, my first thought was, ―This is a town hall?‖ My second was, upon

entering the hall, was ―this is beautiful and impressive- this is what my sister was up to all of the

time.‖ As the many friends and well wishers came through over several hours, I said to my

beautiful wife Georgette, ―this is what I would like my wake to be like.‖ To which she replied ―I

don’t think the crowd will be as engaged by your glaucoma power point presentations and

cataract surgery videos.‖ She’s right – I need to get a hobby soon.

I was most impressed at the quality and number of friends and supporters that showed up and we

had some great conversations with the many of you. It warmed my heart to think about all of the

people that cared about Ann so much.

As a Noecker, I would first like to take the time to express our gratitude and thanks to Jack, Will

and Ben for being such a caring and wonderful husband and sons to Ann. You were always the

most important things in the world to her, and you made her very happy which in turn made us

very happy.

In our family, for my generation, Ann was the trailblazer. She was the oldest in my immediate

family and she was the first grandchild. She was the one from whom we younger family

members learned what to do and not to do (or at least what the anticipated outcome of doing

something might be). According to my parents, she was a quiet and happy child, who tricked

them into believing that all children were that way- a myth shattered by the rest of us.

We benefited from her being the oldest child.

She was never hesitant to shower attention or affection on her grandmother and great aunt, and

started the tradition of one of us kids from New York getting to Ohio in the summer to stay and

visit.

Another benefit came from the time she made a deal with my dad to get a new bicycle- she

agreed to go on a 40 mile bike trip to Tanglewood, which I think was the last bicycle trip he ever

took ( by my time it was motorcycle trips!!!)

She was the first to get a job to save up her money so that she could go to UVM.

She was the first to go away to college- out of state and graduate.


44

She was the first to get married- to some guy who was always trying to fix up junk vehicles.

She was the first to have a child, and become a mom.

She was the first to get sick at a young age.

She was the first to have to deal with chronic illness that compromised her quality of life.

She was the first to die.

When I saw Ann 12 days ago, the day before she died, I realized that she was the same old Ann,

doing things on her own terms, dying with dignity. As Georgette and I sat in her bedroom, I once

again found myself saying, I want to do it like Ann did- with self- respect, in my own way.

So, while there is a lot we admire about Ann- what I will miss most is Ann the person- the sister,

daughter, niece, cousin, wife, mother and friend to all of us.

The images that I will always have in mind are:

The cheerful gaze of the baby in my mom and dad’s lap

The patient gaze of a teenager helping her brother finish his paper route

The determined look of a young woman going off on her own for the first time at college

The ecstatic expression of the new bride coming out of the church in Vergennes

The satisfied look of the new mother with her children

The proud countenance of a mom watching her boys thrive and grow into young men

The angered look of a woman whose body is ravaged by disease

The eyes, the same eyes I have, of a person ready to die on her own terms

These are images I will always have of Ann and we’ll always miss her.

Julie’s Homily

The following was a letter I received from my cousinJulie that arrived after Ann died. It just seemed so

perfect and I asked Julie to speak for the Manning family and to use this letter as the centerpiece.

March 18, 2005

Dear Jack and Ann,

I am sorry that it has taken me so long to write this letter, but I have been agonizing over what to

say, and break down every time I begin.

Even though this is mostly for you, Ann, I am writing to both of you because somehow I just

can’t think of you as anything other than ―Jack and Ann.‖ You see, it is your marriage, and the

beautiful way that you have raised your sons, that I have always emulated. I am forever amazed

when I see how Ann can direct her children will just a whisper. Ann, you are the most wonderful

mother, and should know that you have raised two incredible boys. That is your legacy, and we

will all see you in them as they grow and prosper.

As a single Mom, I know especially well how difficult it is to ―do the right thing‖ when it comes

to your children. I often think ―what would Ann do‖ when it comes to making difficult decisions.


45

All we ever want is for our kids is that they grow into happy, healthy, good citizens. It is what

pervades my whole world, and I know that you have made this your life priority as well.

Although we never had time to get to know each other closely, I will miss you more than you

know. You have been the positive, warm and loving center of your family and of our whole

family as well.

I know that you have fought and struggled against this dreaded disease for so long, so that you

could be here long enough to mold and raise your sons. Please know that you have done just that

Ann, and that they will grow into great men that will make you proud.

With love and prayers,

Julie

Michele’s Homily

Ann & I probably learned more about raising kids at Saxon Hill School Cooperative Preschool than any

place else. Michele is the senior teacher and matriarch of the school and we had become good friends

when Ann and I were the school’s co-presidents for several years. Michele had seen a lot of parenting over

the years and I felt her insights would be very unique.

Celebrating Ann Manning

Our friendship began fourteen years ago, through Saxon Hill School. One of my most vivid

memories, was my first Home Visit to William. I arrived at the Mannings, and Ann was outside

working in her garden. What a garden! As I was oohing and awing about the colors and textures,

the mix of vegetables and perennials, I was suddenly aware of my purpose----William. "Where is

he?" I looked back at Ann, whose eyes were gleaming and she said, "You'll have to find him."

After a while, I did. In the midst of this amazing garden was a teepee made out of pole beans and

morning glories and in it was William, waiting patiently and quietly for our visit.

That surprise was the beginning of my "Ann understanding"--- that the more time I spent with

Ann, I would realize, the less I knew about her and her many gifts. A saying from my childhood,

"Still waters run deep." described this woman.

Ann had many passions! First and foremost always, were her "boys." She knew their strengths,

their needs and their interests--be it dinosaurs, rescue dogs, space travel and rockets, or fire

fighting. She really got that work is play and play is work, when it is your passion! She was

always coaxing, coaching, making costumes, helping with props, and supporting their interests.

She shared many stories of her boys and how they extended our day together into hers. She was

always coaching me, too!

Ann and Jack served as Co-Presidents for 3 years. I always thought of them as: Jack, the MC,

and Ann, the choreographer. They made things happen! I found a letter from them to our

membership, written in 1995, where Jack said he deals with the "strategical stuff"--he was

working at Martin Marietta at the time, and Ann deals with the "tactical stuff." Whatever, it

worked for them and for us. Their continuity and service provided leadership to our community.

We made giant leaps in development of needed policies, a new and improved Parent Handbook,

and we became more cost effective in our ways of doing business. Their teamwork provided us


46

all with a model of how to be caring, yet, be responsible and solve problems for the good of

children, families, staff and our greater community.

I would like to thank Ben, Will, Jack, their families and friends for sharing Ann's amazing

artwork yesterday. As I drank in the beauty, the bold color, the texture and design of her quilts,

her monoprints and fabrics, and as I listened to the stories---I felt her grace, her courage and her

strength. Ann shared her TIME--a most precious gift, the hours and days on this planet with us

all.

Sue Ellen’s Homily

Sue Ellen and Ann had become friends when the kids

were in middle school, and knew Ann only during her

illness. She also worked near where Ann received

chemotherapy and would pop in during those

sessions with a big smile and lots of kid stuff to talk

about. I thought she had a great handle on what

Ann’s closest friends saw in her.

My words could never do justice to the coach

my daughter had nor the friendship I shared with

Ann, but I’ll do my best, which is just what Ann

expected from her Destination Imagination team that Andrea had the pleasure of participating in.

I came to know Ann when my youngest daughter had just started middle school. Transitioning

from elementary to middle school can be tough & if there were ever a way to ease that transition

for our children, we’d all want to try it. One night, we received a call inviting Andrea to join a DI

team coached by Ann & Diane Kingston. I didn’t know much about the team or the coaches, but

my instincts were Yes, Yes, Yes!

Well, it became one of my greatest joys as a parent watching my child find her place on this team

of truly wonderful kids working together under Ann & Diane’s guidance. To see these kids in

action with Ann was just so impressive. Her willingness to let them explore their ideas, to

encourage them ―to think outside the box‖, and to be creative was a gift that they will carry with

them throughout their lives. And one that I am forever grateful for. The skills they learned while

working with Ann—I say working, but they really had so much fun at their meetings—

overflowed into other aspects of their lives as well. I saw school projects being tackled with far

more creativity and independence. I saw far more confidence and leadership on the soccer field.

I saw a work ethic that came out of kids working together to accomplish a common goal. And I

see this again and again with not only my daughter, but with the other members of the team as

they all strive to do their best in school, in sports, and at home. Which is all Ann expected.

Ann gave them permission to try out their ideas in an effort to solve a ―problem.‖ She taught

them how to work cooperatively & have fun doing it. She respected them and their ideas and

they in turn respected and admired her. She fostered a sense of trust, of bonding, and of just great

camaraderie within this team while encouraging them to explore the ideas of each member. Ann

insisted on a positive experience and that’s exactly what it was. Ann’s work with this team was

amazing. She was so comfortable with them, communicating in a way that did not intimidate.

She would quietly give them a few instructions & they would listen intently and then just take off

with the development of their solution. I feel so blessed that Andrea had the opportunity to be

coached by Ann and that I had the chance to get to know Ann.


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Not only was she my daughter’s coach, she was also my friend. I only knew Ann when she was

dealing with her illness, & throughout it she handled it with such dignity and grace. I will miss

the walks Ann & I use to take when she would come in to Burlington with Ben. Working right

around the corner from where Ann spent a lot of time recently was a blessing for me & I felt so

lucky to be able to zip over and help her to pass the time and get a quick hug in as well. Ann’s

hugs were the best, but they never were really quick, because I didn’t want to let go. We’d catch

up on what our kids were up to, & we were both so excited that we were going to be able to see a

lot of Nordic ski races together, with 4 of our kids racing for MMU. Ann thrived on watching

Will & Ben race, and despite the bitter temperatures, and sometimes long hikes from the parking

lots to the start of the races, she would do everything in her power to be there.

And I know that she will continue to be there, right here, in our hearts.

Mary’s Homily

This was a letter Mary had written to Ann a few days before her death. When I read it, I

immediately wanted to ask if she would share it at the memorial service. Our sons were best

friends with two of theirs and on any given laundry day at either house, it meant extra sorting

15 March 2005

Dear Ann,

This was the best I could do on a card from Hannaford’s. No card can express the feelings that I

have for the special mother of Stefan and Connor’s true, loyal (and funny!) best friends.

I have so many wonderful memories of you in the past couple of years that my boys have been

friends with your boys. Windy lacrosse games in St. Albans, track meets in Essex So.

Burlington, everywhere. XC meets all over the state with your ―porter‖ (that’s Jack) and your

chair, and the mostly awful weather Nordic ski races this winter, wrapped in blankets at Lamoille,

Sleepy Hollow, races that were so hard for you to go to. One fond memory I have is the Harwood

XC meet that Will won. I was still waiting for Connor to come down the hill out of the woods,

and turned to say something to you. You had walked, quicker than I thought possible with your

back pain, over to watch Will cross that finish line. I remember your determination to get to

everything that the boys did that you could possibly manage. I’ll miss our phone calls and talks

about our sons so much. My only regret is that our sons didn’t become friends with each other

sooner. I’ll be cheering just a little bit louder for your boys in the years to come, trying to make

up for the fact that they can no longer hear you…

Andy and I were cleaning out the basement a few weeks ago, and found a phone we’d put down

there. The answering machine is fried, but the phone still works. We kept it so that Stefan can

take it to college. He needs it so he can talk to Will, wherever he is. Oh, Stefan may grace his

other friends, his older sister and brother, and maybe even his parents with an occasional phone

call, but there is no doubt in my mind who he’ll really be running up his bill with! And, I am sure

that Connor and Ben will continue to live at each other’s houses. When I came in last Friday

night from visiting a mother and a baby, Andy told me that Connor was sleeping over at your

place. I said, ―Well, he didn’t take anything with him.‖ Andy replied, ―Connor said he’d find

stuff,‖ then added, ―He can use the clothes he left over there last time.‖


48

We’ve all seen those WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelets. I think that your boys will be

―wearing‖ a WWMD (What Would Mom Do) bracelet for the rest of their lives. What would

Mom love me to do? What would Mom insist I do? What would Mom nag me about until I do

it? And, would Mom be horrified if I do this? Your physical presence will be gone from their

lives, but they’ll carry you with them forever. I think you’ll be watching them from heaven. This

is something that I truly believe in. I believe that we’ll be ―found‖ again some day with the ones

we’ve ―lost.‖ I believe that Jack, Will and Ben and all the rest of us will join you when the time

is right for us.

I need to pull myself together and finish this letter. I wanted to write this letter while you are still

well enough to read it, saying all the things I wish I could say to you in person, but can’t with the

lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes. I don’t think that our friendship will end with your

death. You’ll be in my heart forever. Love, Mary

Susan’s Homily

Susan was Ann’s Shaman. Not surprisingly, when I called and asked if she would speak at the service, she

said she had had a vision to do so.

Ann as a Whisper, Ann as a Breath

Oh, what Wonder

Singing, she Weaves Feelings into Fibers,

Tears into Oceans

From her Center she Dances,

A Mother to her Sons,

Loving; Respecting her Husband

Making Family, Life.

I saw her Grow a Crown of Wisdom

Finding Compassion, Finding Forgiveness

I saw her go to the Fullest Edge of her Being

To View the Panorama of her Life.

Knowing Clearly the Precious Nature of Loving,

And of Being Loved.

Ann is the one, Full of Appreciation

For her Sons, her Husband, Family and Friends,

Grateful for the Moments.

Her Gentle Kindness,

Finding Ways to Help,

Where Others Never See,

Boldly and Carefully.

Let us Remember, Dying is Natural.

Acceptance Brings Us Understanding.

Once, as we were talking about Dying,

Ann confided that the hardest part for her would Be,

To have to say Goodbye to her Sons.


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She will now be the Mother in Your Hearts.

I call on you,

Be unburdened of your grief.

Dream your Futures.

This is her Comfort.

Awaken to the Force of Life,

Around You, within You.

Know of her Tenderness.

With Courage, Ann Found her Way,

Pass Fear, to Trust,

Touching upon the Mysteries of Life.

And in Surrender, Ann Found Peace.

Now, She is Willing

Now, She Walks Directly

Into the Light,

Without Hesitation.

She is Flowing,

Called Back into the Glow.

It is here, she is Going,

Come Together and Remember Her.

Let the Light of her Love Live On through You.

Let us Remember:

Ann as a Baby,

Ann the Child.

She is the Girl.

Now, she is the Woman, the Wife,

The Mother, the Mother

The Friend.

Now, Like the Red Cardinal,

She has Arrived.

Let us Notice the Light

Of the Love she has Given Us.

Our Hearts Beat

Threaded, by a Love that Joins Us.

As we keep this Love,

There, Meaning will be Found.

Flying as she Goes,

Clearing the Clouds,

Cleaned by Eagle,

Carried by Hawk.

Moving Light ward

In the fullness,


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In her Glory, her Feathers Spread,

Her Soul Smiling.

A Good Life

Full of Love

This is Ann, Everlasting.

A Farewell Rattle

The Rattle Shakes

Sparkles from the Sun.

The Water Glistens,

Lit by the Orange,

Fire of Sun,

Sending Streamers of Assurance.

Onward,

Sliding to the Heights,

Finding Balance and Perfection,

She Comes into the

Pulsation of Eternal Bliss.

Ho


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Appendix IV: Cost Summary

Traditional funeral costs are based on price sheets with itemized ―features.‖ Depending

on what you want (or more correctly, what you are sold), the costs can accumulate

quickly. I think most people end up paying at least $5000 and often $10,000 or much

more, depending on how calling hours, cremation or burial, etc. are handled.

As a side note, one of the reasons costs are high is that there is overcapacity in the

industry; i.e., there are many more funeral homes than there are dead bodies to service.

So, utilization is not ―optimized‖ and there is a lot of unbillable overhead is rolled into

the service rates. One of the advocacy websites Jim sent to me had a lot of this kind of

information. Once you read it and digest it a bit, it makes sense.

The cost summary below covered everything except the memorial done by Chris Cleary.

Ann's Exhibit and Service Costs

Cremation

Permits & Certs 30

Container 75

Crematory 200

Urn 100

405

Calling Hours & Exhibit

Exhibit Materials 100 Mounting, and hanging materials

Flowers 590 Flowers for exhibit, family corsages, home decoration

Refreshments 30 Cups, coffee, etc. - rest was donated food

Town Hall Donation 200 Donation

Guest Book & Flyers 50

970

Funeral

Organist 125

Cathedral Donation 200 Gave the Sextant a Home Depot Gift Certificate

Catered Reception 1000 Penny Cluse

Program printing 180 Color

1505

Miscellaneous

Food, beer, wine 330 On hand at Manning household for three days of visitors

BFP Announcement 50 Sunday

BFP Obit 525 Tuesday

905

Grand Total $ 3,785


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Ann E. Manning

December 7th

, 1958 – March 18th

, 2005

No Grey Suits is the story of family and friends who pulled

together to say goodbye to their mother, wife, daughter,

sister, colleague and friend – and in the process found they

had created magic.

(BACK COVER)

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