Mirta Meade Coleman
Thu, 09/11/2014 - 6:00am
News Staff
Wise in her compassion and zest for life, she approaches any conflict with the leather and lace of the Southern Lady. Classy in appearance, hair coiffed in white gentle waves that frame her face, makeup evenly brushed on olive skin and patted subtly with blush, eyeliner outlining deep brown eyes, eyebrows arching with a symmetrical curve to each eye, lip liner and lipstick lifting a mouth from which issues calm and centered love for her audience, she speaks with that depth of Life. Yet, I am afraid. I sat with her the other evening on her front porch — one of those perfectly calm, sunny, warm, windless June Gunnison evenings — watching her world go by. She offered a glass of wine and I gladly accepted. We raised our glasses to each townie that road past her front porch, and we waved to the little kids playing with the dog in the median of Boulevard. And then she began to talk. Her stories were told with the gender-bias of the 1930s and yet with the lilt of a Christmas morning. “Ohhhh, that swimmin’ hole! The Buffalo River in the misty summer heat of the Ozark Mountains where I grew up was where we kids would climb the cliff, pawing our warm bare hands and feet into the worn footholds of the smooth rock, until we sidestepped across the high ridge, behind the waterfall. You had to be surefooted because crossing behind the waterfall was slippery and we knew we could fall to our deaths. But there we stood, giggling with glee, being sprayed by the sweet cool mist of the waterfall. I’ve never been so petrified and so excited in my life. “Bobby, my brother, bought an airplane in the ‘40s — a real airplane made out of paper and wood sticks. He and Bobby Brown, his friend, worked on that plane all spring. Running out of gas over the field they’d have to crash land. They had more fun in that plane. He took me up once and I remember how loud it was. I touched my finger to the side and it was paper! Paper! That plane was made of paper and sticks! After the Korean War, when Bobby got home, he went to Bobby Brown’s barn and that old plane had fallen to dust. Right there in the barn was a pile of dust, a wooden propeller and an engine. “Oh, but the Arkansas evenings! If you could bottle ‘em up in a mister — There’s a heavy quiet in the dense air of a Southern summer night — the fireflies would dance around Mother’s sweet peas like Christmas lights, and the katydids joined in chorus to lull the moon up in the sky. It’s quiet and peaceful there in the Southern Nights.” Here I was sitting with this tailored, beautiful Southern woman, listening to her stories of her youth, proud in her independence, smiling that long-ago memory, when in an instant, sipping the wine of the present, she embraced the conflict: “Jody. I don’t care if the tomatoes freeze tonight; in fact, I don’t care about a lot of things anymore. I’m dying. I’ve lived my life. I’m done. If you could take me fishing out on the lake one more time…” I was shaken to my core. The next day, we went fishing on the Blue. I understood. My mother lived a private spiritual life that only she and God understood, just as she was private in other things. And so, Friday, Aug. 22, at 9:50 p.m. , at her home in Gunnison, she took two last, small breaths and died, leaving this world with all the lace of a Southern Lady, in peace. Mirta Meade Coleman was born into the Coker family on Feb. 7, 1931, in Harrison, Ark. As a young girl, she was groomed in the beauty of Southern grace, and while she became an accomplished pianist, Homecoming Queen and winner of beauty pageants, she grew from her disciplined childhood into a strong, independent woman. She earned her Associates Degree from the college in Harrison, Ark. She married Paul Coleman, Jr., the love of her life, in Augus t of 1951, who has preceded her in death. They moved to Conway, Ark., where Paul taught at the State Teachers College and where their first child, Rob Wallace, was born in 1954. Within a year, they moved to Denver, where Paul was employed at East High School, teaching math and coaching football and basketball. In 1957, their daughter, MartaJo, was born in Denver. By 1969, the Coleman family moved to Gunnison, where Paul was employed by the college, and Mirta worked for the accountants Yale and Yale. Soon after, Mirta was employed by Western State as an administrative clerk and eventually as the Purchasing Agent. She is survived by her older brother Bobby (Betty) Coker of Little Rock, Ark.; her younger sister, Carol Ann (Ambrose) Walker of Fort Myers, Fla.; her son, Rob Wallace (Diane) Coleman of Cheyenne, Wyo.; and her daughter, Marta Jo “Jody” Coleman of Gunnison. “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4: 6-8 Mirta’s wishes were not to have any memorial service. Any gifts in the memory of Mirta Meade Coleman may be made to Gunnison Hospice, The Paul Coleman, Jr. and Mirta M. Coleman Scholarship at WSCU or a charity of your choice.
