An Ode to “Lulu”

My Aunt Kathy died recently. She was 79.

Affectionately known by her grandchildren as “Lulu,” I knew Katherine Walbert Walker, of Oklahoma City, only as “Aunt Kathy.” Although we only saw each other a few times a year, I can’t remember a time I didn’t know and love Kathy.

As her obituary makes clear, Kathy Walker lived an extraordinary life of “purpose, grace, and generosity.” She received many accolades and held elected public office. Anchored by her Christian faith and commitment to her local church, she was also a lifelong volunteer, community servant, and leader.

She was a devoted wife to my Uncle Russ, and a celebrated mother to my cousins Katherine, Lizzy, Rosie, and Russell. Each of the kids eulogized her beautifully at the funeral service celebrating her life.

As her nephew of nearly forty years, I will not remember Kathy because of the roles that led to the awards or the appellation “Madam Mayor.” Rather, I will remember Kathy because she excelled in those roles that allowed her to be with the family and friends she cherished so deeply, namely: hostess and gatherer.

My mother and father (who is Kathy’s husband’s brother) divorced more than thirty years ago. In the wake of the divorce, I suppose I wouldn’t have faulted Kathy if she had opted to keep us on the outside looking in, opting for a kind of familial “social distancing” long before that phrase became part of our common parlance on account of COVID-19. But she never did. Despite my parents’ divorce, for more than forty years we were always welcome at Kathy’s place—my mother and my father, my brother and my sister, and, of course, me.

Kathy’s hospitality grew as our families did. In 2015, I got hitched to Abby. Abby hails from south of the Red River and earned her undergraduate degree in Austin, from the School That Shall Not Be Named. But not even a proud Longhorn could deter Kathy.

No, Aunt Kathy lovingly welcomed Abby into the fold right from the get-go. Abby and I never talked about it, but I know Kathy’s kindness and warmth meant something to her. Upon learning of Kathy’s death, Abby immediately texted the family: “I am so sad to hear this. Kathy was always so kind to me, she will be missed!” For this Sooner-born-and-bred family of ours, Kathy’s willing embrace of Abby was as compelling an argument for the existence of God as Anselm’s is in the Proslogion.

Starting seven years ago, Abby and I poisoned the family’s Sooner bloodline with offspring born of the womb of a Texas Ex, and we’ve spawned several additional little Bevo fans since then. But not even that altered Kathy’s disposition toward us: She graciously threw—and hosted—a baby shower for our firstborn, and she remained interested in all our children’s lives till her untimely death. If that doesn’t epitomize true love, nothing does.

But it wasn’t just a family thing. Over the years, the Walkers often dined with Mère (Kathy’s mother), Cousin Tom, Nat, Marilyn Meade, and Dee Colley. The Conroys and Buxtons and Berklacys always had seats and placards, assuming they were in town. Various members of the Bob and Nancy Anthony family were wont to join us, and I have faint memories of occasional sightings of the Schonwalds, the Sullivans, and the Weirs. There were countless others. One time Megan Mullally and Nick Offerman even stopped by. (For Parks and Recreation fans: No, Mr. Offerman didn’t demand all the bacon and eggs Kathy had, but I digress.)

Whether for Thanksgiving dinner, Easter brunch (epic Easter egg hunts included!), or assorted special events, truly all were welcome at Russ and Kathy’s. Always on account of Kathy’s gracious, and nearly always late, invitation.

Kathy really was the most gracious host, an exemplar of hospitality on the order of Abraham. Genesis 18 recounts Abraham’s encounter with three strangers. After making sense of their approach, Abraham immediately rushes to welcome them, offering rest, refreshment, and a feast. The lesson, as my pastor has described it, is that guests, especially unexpected ones, are not merely folks to accommodate but gifts to treasure and receive. Abraham treated hospitality not as a chore but as a privilege and joy. Kathy did too.

At Kathy’s place, meals were often served on fine China on top of crisp ivory tablecloths, and they were accompanied by gleaming flatware (including the tiniest little condiment spoons!) and lavish table settings. At Kathy’s place, Thanksgiving football games were caught by dipole antenna (into the early aughts, mind you). At Kathy’s place, guests tended to dress to the nines (apart from my father, who has been wearing his own version of athleisure for decades). Spring and summer meant bright pastels and seersucker; it was cashmere and khaki if the leaves or snow had already fallen. At Kathy’s place, craft beer and homemade cocktails were served in slightly frosted KAΘ-stamped glasses, a beverage napkin always clinging to the condensation. At Kathy’s place, we heard holiday prayers—always delivered by the paterfamilias, first by Barth (my grandfather), then by Uncles Russ—worthy of collection and publication in a volume all their own. All this and more. These are things I won’t soon forget.

Even after Kathy and Russ moved into a condominium following the sale of the Hillcrest house they called home for more than 50 years, we continued to find ourselves at “Kathy’s place.” Just this spring Kathy hosted a reception at The Commons #1 for no reason other than to “give us all a chance to visit with family and remember” Barbara, my uncle’s cousin’s late wife, whom the extended family laid to rest on a windy day last March.

Of course, things weren’t perfect—even at Kathy’s place.

Very often there were heated political debate, sibling rivalries, and overindulgence of all kinds. Meals were rarely served on time, and they often featured gourmet items my ten-year-old self could have done without. (I have vivid memories of being particularly terrified of one Thanksgiving’s chilled butternut squash soup.)

Over the decades there was an oversalted ham and an overcooked turkey or two, one of which my Uncle Russ audibly described as “tougher than an old boot” as he tried, but totally failed, to delicately carve it.

But who cares.

Imperfection is part and parcel of our lot till the Lord calls us home. Besides, it’s always the imperfections that make for the best stories, isn’t it?

My Uncle Russ, my cousins, and our extended family are still grieving. But what a joy it is to know that after nearly eighty years of life—vivid life—marked out and hemmed in by marriage, parenting and grandparenting, friendship, worship, service, and yes, much hostessing, “Lulu,” my hospitable Aunt Kathy, has been called home.

In the Lord’s providence, I trust her happiest moments in this life—gathered around a table with family and friends—will come to fruition again in the next. Although she’ll have to wait for now, one day soon she’s going to be welcomed bodily into her eternal home. Then and there, she’ll be seated at Someone else’s table and invited to feast on a meal prepared not by her, but for her.

Rest easy, Aunt Kathy. We’ll all sup together again soon.

Image Credit: Georgia O’Keeffe, “Lake George Reflection” (1922)