Time Passes. Dreams Dim. Lives End. Now, Our Link to Them is Slipping Away.

When I first knew my grandmother, she was a powerhouse of a woman in both size and mind.

At 5-foot-6 and taller when she was fuming about something, she was as wide as one of our Jersey cows before milking. But was she ever fast. Once, with shotgun in hand, she stared down a rabbit in her garden on our rocky Tennessee farm and grabbed it with the other hand. After giving it one of her forceful admonitions, she let it leave, alive, though it was never seen again.

Her name was Ursula “Sula” Rawls Moss.

Born in 1898, she had earned her master’s degree at 19 and spent her career as principal at one of Nashville’s then elite public schools, Ross Elementary.

And of all my memories of Sula, I never saw her happier than on Sunday afternoons flipping through her big Bible reading me old crinkly news stories about when her parents, brothers and sisters passed away, highlighted by tales of all the things they did before they headed up to Heaven.

Those afternoons would always end with her telling me that she would never up and die.

Rather, one day she and Jesus would decide it was her time to “fly away.”

And the years pass by ...

I did my best following Sula's path.

My best was a far cry less than the mountain of "firsts" and other amazing things that she plowed through with such determination.

The single thing I consider close to a match was to get an education. With an "education" major (she says I could always teach if nothing else), I added English and a double major.

I must admit I wanted to run screaming through the streets and state lines before spending my life in a classroom.

As fate will sometime do, I did a minor internship at The Tennessean's, then Nashville award-laden giant of a newspaper.

And to everyone's surprise led by my own, I was hired as a news reporter the day I graduated from college

I didn't even know how to type--but don't tell my old editors, please!

And that brings me to the heart of the matter:

Writing obituraries was considered the worst of the worst assignments.

Except me.

Too many memories of Sunday afternoons with Sula had turned "obits" into magical writing where the soul of an individual's life is captured in black and white forever for all the unknown family members of the future get the shade or flavor and maybe even the heart of family members moved on.

It was evident to my editors.

While I wrote tons of other stories as all newspaper reporters did--and a handful still write today.

But my "obits" were special to me, and at least in some cases, many families I would never meet.

After a dozen or so years, I realized my newspaper career was a fleeting life as mumers then scream of this new thing called the "Internet" began taking over the news.

Alas, as the presses from the "Golden Age of Newspapers" began grinding into useless metal covered in jet black ink, my co-reporters moved on.

Trust me. None of us wanted to.

Then today came along...

An old friend called. His mother had passed away and the family did not have enough money to pay hundreds of dollars to write and place her memories in the Classified sections of the few newspapers still printing.

A sad pain couldn't help but hit me where all gut punches go when you know something is very, totally wrong.

So I wrote the obituary/story about his mother. Every one of her children got together and sent me flowers.

I felt worse.

Then the calls from other people and friends of old friends and on and on until I was writing more obits than I had as a reporter.

It felt fabulous.

Then came reality...

I surveyed the interest for real businesses to refer the caller to. Surely, I thought, somebody was picking up the slack. And in a way they are. But it's more of an "announcement" type of obits... for tons of money.

Only recently I realized that death is about the last thing most businesses or business donors want to talk about--until someone close to them passes away.

From Sula to my newspaper days to my more recent obit writing between other writing projects to pay the bills, I had a genuine plan... start on reasonably priced service to write obits for anyone who has a Bible with a place for a tribute to a lost loved one.

And that is my passion.

One last thing...

In 1991 at the age of 92, Sula had a talk with Jesus and decided to it was her time to "fly away."

I wrote her obit.

After everything I could fit into the story, I closed it with these words:

"Oh, and Sula, I sure hope you had a great flight."