Opinion > Star Staff
An eternal kind of love story
By Patti Pfeiffer, Life's a Trip
Only in death were they parted. Only through death were they reunited.
They were an odd couple of sorts. Bill (Wilkie) Wilkinson was young aviator cadet from Mississippi. Serving as a dance hostess for the GI's training center, Alma Conger was a long way from her New Jersey home. His invitation for a first dance in 1941 in a USO dance hall led to a romantic waltz that spanned a quarter century and ended only with an untimely death.
It was Dec. 18, 1967. Wilkie had been in Vietnam three months to the day when he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage.
"It took almost a week to get Dad's body home from Vietnam and, with Christmas upon us, Mom, my brother and I agreed it was not practical to delay a funeral service any longer in order to honor Dad's wish to be cremated," said son Dennis Wilkinson of Coppell.
They had no choice. Life had to go on for the family. Alma moved from Texas to Florida to care for her aging mother and eventually remarried a caring companion.
"All through those years, however, two things remained constant. Mom was still crazy in love with Wilkie, and she regretted that we had not honored his request to be cremated."
Eight years ago on a wintry day during a visit from Florida, Alma, flanked by her two adult sons, returned to the spot where her beloved was buried. Overcome by grief and still burning with a never-ending love, the stoic woman broke down and sobbed.
During those emotion-packed moments, when his mom again expressed regret over the burial, her son replied, surprising even himself with the words that flowed forth. "Mom, how about this? When you die, we'll have you cremated, then have Dad's remains disinterred and have whatever is there cremated. Then we'll take the two of you out and spread your ashes in the wind so you can blow across the Panhandle together forever to help wildflowers and tumbleweeds grow."
Upon hearing the suggestion, her sobs ceased. "She let out a huge sigh and asked if that was really possible. With reassuring confidence I said, 'Sure!' Then I immediately drove to the cemetery office to speak to a funeral director to find out if it, indeed, was a possibility."
Alma died last July. Fulfillment of promise was all that remained. Two days before the anniversary of his dad's death, Dennis and his wife carried the couples' ashes to a special place outside of Amarillo.
"With its beautiful canyon vistas, it was very apparent that our imagined tender, holy moment of spreading the ashes of these two crazy-in-love sweethearts was going to be dramatically modified by 25 mph cold winds and maybe even rain. What's more, as I looked for the particular landmark marking the exact spot selected for the event, my childhood memories of the place were not only vague, they were completely wrong.
"So the expected 30-minute walk to the marker turned out to be an almost six-mile round trip hike. Nonetheless, we started out on the trek with one eye on the trail and one eye on the weather. Once we were moving along the leeward side of a canyon wall, the direct wind broke into gusts and the chill was somewhat abated. Then it seemed that God began to smile on us as the sun broke through the clouds."
It took some time and careful consideration but after a while two extraordinary spots were selected, perfect places to release Alma and Wilkie so they could blow across the landscape together, prompting wildflowers to blossom and tumbleweeds to cartwheel.
"Yet, when I took the first handful of Mom's ashes to spread in one of the unique places on the lee side of the canyon wall in a moment when the winds were calm, a sudden curling gust of wind took Mom and blew her right into my face-into my eyes and ears, all over my clothes. So, sputtering and wiping my eyes to see again, I had to declare that Mom was giving me one last embrace before she and dad blew off across the Panhandle together...at last...forever."
Dennis and his wife stood there watching Alma and Wilkie swirling and twirling with eternal joy as they waltzed across the immense, boundary-less dance floor.
Turning to hike back down the path, a serendipitous sight magically appeared. There, blowing across the trail, a couple of tumbleweeds were rolling by. Maybe Alma and Wilkie offering one last good-bye with grateful hearts for a son who allowed them to be reunited, perpetually paired, dancing always, not as a couple but finally and forever melded together as one.
Patti Pfeiffer is a Star Local News columnist, freelance writer and author. She may be contacted at pattip913@msn.com
They were an odd couple of sorts. Bill (Wilkie) Wilkinson was young aviator cadet from Mississippi. Serving as a dance hostess for the GI's training center, Alma Conger was a long way from her New Jersey home. His invitation for a first dance in 1941 in a USO dance hall led to a romantic waltz that spanned a quarter century and ended only with an untimely death.
It was Dec. 18, 1967. Wilkie had been in Vietnam three months to the day when he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage.
"It took almost a week to get Dad's body home from Vietnam and, with Christmas upon us, Mom, my brother and I agreed it was not practical to delay a funeral service any longer in order to honor Dad's wish to be cremated," said son Dennis Wilkinson of Coppell.
They had no choice. Life had to go on for the family. Alma moved from Texas to Florida to care for her aging mother and eventually remarried a caring companion.
"All through those years, however, two things remained constant. Mom was still crazy in love with Wilkie, and she regretted that we had not honored his request to be cremated."
Eight years ago on a wintry day during a visit from Florida, Alma, flanked by her two adult sons, returned to the spot where her beloved was buried. Overcome by grief and still burning with a never-ending love, the stoic woman broke down and sobbed.
During those emotion-packed moments, when his mom again expressed regret over the burial, her son replied, surprising even himself with the words that flowed forth. "Mom, how about this? When you die, we'll have you cremated, then have Dad's remains disinterred and have whatever is there cremated. Then we'll take the two of you out and spread your ashes in the wind so you can blow across the Panhandle together forever to help wildflowers and tumbleweeds grow."
Upon hearing the suggestion, her sobs ceased. "She let out a huge sigh and asked if that was really possible. With reassuring confidence I said, 'Sure!' Then I immediately drove to the cemetery office to speak to a funeral director to find out if it, indeed, was a possibility."
Alma died last July. Fulfillment of promise was all that remained. Two days before the anniversary of his dad's death, Dennis and his wife carried the couples' ashes to a special place outside of Amarillo.
"With its beautiful canyon vistas, it was very apparent that our imagined tender, holy moment of spreading the ashes of these two crazy-in-love sweethearts was going to be dramatically modified by 25 mph cold winds and maybe even rain. What's more, as I looked for the particular landmark marking the exact spot selected for the event, my childhood memories of the place were not only vague, they were completely wrong.
"So the expected 30-minute walk to the marker turned out to be an almost six-mile round trip hike. Nonetheless, we started out on the trek with one eye on the trail and one eye on the weather. Once we were moving along the leeward side of a canyon wall, the direct wind broke into gusts and the chill was somewhat abated. Then it seemed that God began to smile on us as the sun broke through the clouds."
It took some time and careful consideration but after a while two extraordinary spots were selected, perfect places to release Alma and Wilkie so they could blow across the landscape together, prompting wildflowers to blossom and tumbleweeds to cartwheel.
"Yet, when I took the first handful of Mom's ashes to spread in one of the unique places on the lee side of the canyon wall in a moment when the winds were calm, a sudden curling gust of wind took Mom and blew her right into my face-into my eyes and ears, all over my clothes. So, sputtering and wiping my eyes to see again, I had to declare that Mom was giving me one last embrace before she and dad blew off across the Panhandle together...at last...forever."
Dennis and his wife stood there watching Alma and Wilkie swirling and twirling with eternal joy as they waltzed across the immense, boundary-less dance floor.
Turning to hike back down the path, a serendipitous sight magically appeared. There, blowing across the trail, a couple of tumbleweeds were rolling by. Maybe Alma and Wilkie offering one last good-bye with grateful hearts for a son who allowed them to be reunited, perpetually paired, dancing always, not as a couple but finally and forever melded together as one.
Patti Pfeiffer is a Star Local News columnist, freelance writer and author. She may be contacted at pattip913@msn.com
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