Movies That Always Make Me Cry

What movie makes you cry every time you watch it? I mean, it doesn’t matter how many times you see it, it never fails to make you weepy. 

I was sifting through the $5.00 DVD bin at Wal-Mart the other day, when I unearthed one of my all-time favorite happy tear-jerkers – You’ve Got Mail. I actually screamed so loud that everyone turned around and stared at me. I held the movie up and shrugged with a “sorry” smile on my face. 

I love this movie! It never fails to make me cry and laugh. You see, it’s one thing when a movie makes you cry, but to make you cry and laugh – ah that’s a movie! The 1998 production starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan is actually based on a play Parfumerie by Miklós László.  You’ve got mail isn’t the first movie adapted from the play. The Shop Around the Corner, a 1940 film by Ernst Lubitsch and also a 1949 musical remake, In the Good Old Summertime by Robert Z. Leonard starring Judy Garland were first. The 1998 version updates the story with the use of email between the main characters.

Next on my list is The Waitress. This movie stars Keri Russell as Jenna, an unhappy waitress married to an abusive husband, Earl, played by Jeremy Sisto.  Jenna finds herself pregnant while working at Joe’s Pie Diner where she uses her incredible talent for inventing new kinds of pie. Her dream is to leave Earl and win a national pie contest.  Along the way she has an affair with her doctor, Jim Pomatter, played by Nathan Fillion. Her only friends are coworkers Becky and Dawn (Cheryl Hines and Adrienne Shelly), and Joe (Andy Griffith), the curmudgeonly owner of the diner and several other local businesses, who encourages her to begin a new life elsewhere. 

One of the saddest things about this movie is that Adrienne Shelly, who wrote, directed and had a small part in the movie, was murdered in 2006 before her movie was released in 2007. Initially, thought to be a suicide, Shelly was found hanging from a bed sheet tied to a shower rod in the New York apartment she used as an office. A construction worker in the apartment under her office confessed to killing her after she complained about the noise he was making. 

Having traveled to Ireland last October, I was thrilled and perplexed when I saw Leap Year, (2010) starring Amy Adams and Matthew Goode. The movie has breathtaking scenes of Ireland that unfortunately, are not geographically correct. No matter, this is one of my favorite laugh/cry movies. Adams character, Anna Brady, travels to Ireland where her fiancé is attending a medical conference in Dublin. She plans to use the Irish tradition of Leap Day (Feb. 29) when a man receives a proposal on Leap Day, he must accept it. Through many trials and tribulations, Anna tries to make it to Dublin with the unwilling help of Declan O’Calloghan. And yes, you guessed it; Anna discovers the love she was looking for is the maddening Irishman, Declan.

I must include The Upside of Anger (2005) on my list of movies that never fail to make me cry. 

I fell in love with this movie, even though I’m not a big Costner fan, but the chemistry between Kevin Costner, who plays Denny, a retired baseball player turned radio announcer and Joan Allen, Terry, a woman who believes her husband abandoned his family, is undeniable. The movies reveals through a flashback why Terry and her daughters are grieving for a man they though had run away with his secretary. It isn’t until Denny enters the picture, that Terry is able to come to terms with the choices her daughters, played by Keri Russell, Alicia Witt, and Erica Christensen, have made. Denny also is responsible for discovering what happened to her husband.

I cannot end this teary-movie fest without The Notebook, based on the novel of the same name by Nicholas Sparks. This movies never fails to appear in the journals of teenage girls when I ask my students to write about their favorite movie.

The story begins in a nursing home with an 80-year-old man, Duke, played by James Garner, reading to an elderly woman, played by Genna Rowlands. The story Duke is reading serves as the narrative for their life, played by Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. The sadness that hangs over the entire story is that Allie (Rowlands and McAdams) has Alzheimer’s disease and cannot remember that Duke is her husband Noah (Garner and Gosling). The bittersweet moment does occur, however fleeting, when an elderly Allie remembers Noah. 

These five movies are certainly not the only ones who make me cry or laugh for that matter. They are ones. I must say, I never tire of watching when I'm in one of those "moods." 

What movie makes you a bit weepy?

Farewell to Jack

On Wednesday, May 16, the garbage truck driver ran over my dog, Jack. He didn't even slow down. Thankfully, I didn't see it happen because I wasn't home, but the men who work in the cemetery witnessed it and buried him for me. You see, they loved Jack, too. He managed to show up in the cemetery everyday when they were having lunch. You can guess the rest!

Jack never turned down a scrap of food, a fact I attributed to him being a rescue dog who was underfed when he came to live with us. We rescued Jack from the pound. He from places unknown, and for the first 24 hours we were delighted with him and he with us. He was a ball of energy, and he fit right in with our other dogs, Molly and Murphy. I knew we had made the right decision bringing Jack to live with us.

Then Jack got sick. He went from this happy, rowdy dog to a lethargic puppy who could not stop throwing up. The vet said it was parvo - the dreaded virus that dehydrates and often kills dogs. Wherever Jack had lived, he had not been vaccinated, so when he was dropped off at the pound, he had no defense against the very contagious virus. The vet did all he could for Jack and I took him home armed with a syringe and Pedialyte. Every fifteen minutes, I injected a tiny amount of Pedialyte in Jack's mouth, trying to stave off dehydration while the virus ran its course. I called my principal and told her about Jack and that I would need a substitute teacher because I could not leave him. His only chance was the Pedialyte that I was giving him around the clock. She said, "Bring him with you and we will help you take care of him." I did and they did.

For three days I carried this pitiful little dog around in his little pet bed. He no longer had diarrhea or vomiting, but he was still lifeless. I believe it was the prayer and love of my fellow teachers who helped Jack come back. Because he did come back, and he never stopped thanking me. From that time, Jack was my dog. He loved with a fierce devotion that never lagged. He followed me everywhere; he sat in my lap or next to me; and he slept with me at night. His favorite place to sleep was around my neck. I would turn on my side and Jack would nestle against my back, his head in my hair resting on my neck.

Jack was only happy when we were together. When he came in from outside he ran through the house until he found me. If he couldn't find me, he would get more and more frantic until I called to him. I have had dogs all my life, and none have ever loved me like Jack.

Good-Bye my little Jackie. I will miss you always. There will never be another dog like you.
In James Still's poem about "those I want with me in heaven," I found the perfect tribute for this wonderful little dog.

 Those I Want With Me in Heaven Should There Be Such a Place

First I want my dog Jack,
Granted that Mama and Papa are there,
And my nine brothers and sisters,
And “Aunt” Fanny who diapered me, comforted me, shielded me,
Aunt Enore who was too good for this world,
And the grandpa who used to bite my ears,
And the other one who couldn’t remember my name—
There were so many of us;
And Uncle Edd—“Eddie Boozer” they called him—
Who had devils dancing in his eyes,
And Uncle Luther who laughed so loud in the churchyard
He had to apologize to the congregation,
And Uncle Joe who saved the first dollar he ever earned,

And the last one, and all those in between;
And Aunt Carrie who kept me informed:
“Too bad you’re not good looking like your daddy”;
And my first sweetheart, who died at sixteen,
Before she got around to saying “Yes”;

I want my dog Jack nipping at my heels,
Who was my boon companion,
Suddenly gone when I was six;
And I want Rusty, my ginger pony,
Who took me on my first journey—
Not far, yet far enough for the time.

I want the play fellows of my youth
Who gathered bumblebees in bottles,
Erected flutter mills by streams,
Flew kites nearly to heaven,
And who before me saw God.

 Be with me there.

The Appalachian Custom of Grave Tending

My mother and I spent yesterday afternoon tending the graves of my father and sister. Decorating family graves is as much an Appalachian tradition as eating soup beans with cornbread. Grave tending is a seasonal activity and it is especially important in the spring. When the winter snows have passed and the grass greens again, it’s time to remove the winter grave decorations and adorn the graves with spring flowers. This can be a simple affair of removing old arrangements and installing new ones, but my mother has turned it into a ritual that has become a family custom.

I met her at the cemetery; she had been there long enough to spread out her paraphernalia. At first glance, it looked like she had enough things to tend the entire cemetery, but I knew when I looked closer, I would see the following: a bottle of soapy water, a gallon of water, a bottle of baby oil, a bottle brush, various rags and of course, two large white bags that held the new arrangements.

I walked down the hill to the graves, and discovered she had added a new tool to her arsenal - a pair of small grass clippers, battery operated, and fully charged. I asked her what I could do, but she waved me away while she, “cut a little grass” around the graves. I watched her for a while, amazed at how she could bend and cut so carefully and methodically when at eighty-eight, she suffers from arthritis and osteoporosis. Her back has bowed since she fractured her spine when she fell down the basement steps eleven years ago. It was made worse two years ago when she had to have two vertebra surgically cemented together. I know she suffers pain, but it does not stop her; it merely slows her down.

While she cuts, I wander around the cemetery. I watch people come and go, replacing faded arrangements with bright spring flowers. There are many graves waiting to be dressed, their vases holding weathered Christmas arrangements. It’s sad to me that the favored flower, the red rose, looks the worst after many months of exposure. I find many arrangements whose roses are now the color of dried blood tinged in gray, and I want to change them to spring pinks, yellows, and oranges.

Half an hour later, my mother is ready to clean the grave markers. She lets me pour the soapy water over them and use the soft brush to scrub away the dirt, taking special care to get inside the letters of the names. Mother watches me, instructing me like I have never done this before and I get the sense that she is making sure I know what to do when her side of the marker she shares with my father, bears not only her birth date but the date of death. Then it will be my job to carry on the tradition of tending the family graves.

When the grave markers are rinsed and dried, she lets me apply the baby oil. This is her special trick to make the bronze markers shine. I rub it over the entire surface, taking special care to get inside the letters of the names. When she is satisfied, I step back and let her put the flowers in the vases. I have not earned the right to do this, not yet. She makes the arrangements herself, and they are beautiful. They are full and lush, but not too tall, so the spring winds won’t blow them away. My sister’s and father’s arrangements are just alike, and in my mind’s eye, I can see bent over her work, counting the orange tiger lilies, pink mums, yellow and orange zinnias to make sure there are equal numbers in each arrangement. There are sprigs of greenery and ivy, baby’s breath, and her signature touch – long green blades that look like sea grass.

I stand by her like a nurse ready to hand instruments to a surgeon, while she uses pieces of Styrofoam and strips of florists’ green tape to anchor the flowers into the vases. At last, she stands back to observe her creations, wondering aloud if they are secure enough and if the flowers have moved out of place. I know it isn’t time to pack up yet because she spends another ten minutes checking the flowers, moving some around, and generally fussing over the arrangements.

At last, she stands for a minute in silence, then picks up a bag and starts packing her things. I help her put everything away and then carry it to her car. I walk back for her and together we walk to our cars. When we get to the road, she turns and looks down the hill at the graves she has spent the last two hours working on. She doesn’t comment on them, instead points out the kaleidoscope of colors that the cemetery now boasts. When she is finished, I help her get in her car, seeing the pain on her face as she uses her hand to pick up her leg. We don’t talk about it because she does not complain. The aches and pains of age she bears in silence. She puts it alongside the grief she’s born for twenty years after losing her oldest child, my sister, and newest grief of two years now, for the loss of her husband, my daddy.

I watch her drive away and go back to the graves we’ve just tended. I sit down between the graves. The wind whispers in the trees and I turn toward it. I breathe deeply and my hair blows back from my face. I imagine the wind says, thank you. After a while, I stand to leave and see others moving about the cemetery. I feel such a sense of peace like I have just experienced a church service. My heart is full with the blessing of it. I go to my car and drive home, knowing before long, it will be time to repeat the ritual.

Remembering

I will remember February 2012 as the month I lost two people who were precious to me. My Aunt Hettie, ninety-one, slipped away, and two days later, Mike Mullins, only sixty-three, died of a heart attack. One death was expected; one was a kick in the teeth.

Aunt Hettie was the oldest of fourteen children and a sister of my eighty-eight-year-old mother. If you lined the siblings up by age, my mother is number three and the last one living of the first six, a fact that weighs heavy on her heart. The first four were girls: Hettie Mae, Elsie, Gladys, and Myrtle Victoria. Why she gave the first and fourth daughter middle names but not the second and third remains a mystery. The longest time between those four births was eighteen months between Gladys and Myrtle, the shortest was ten months between Hettie Mae and Elsie.

On the way home from the funeral, my mother reminisced about her sister. She talked about how Hettie had married at sixteen to a man who was thirty-one, and set about raising eight children while her husband worked in the coal mines. Eventually, they bought a farm in Chilhowie complete with cows and pigs. While her husband worked in the mines and came home on the weekends, Hettie raised tobacco and an enormous vegetable garden. My mother said she had seen her sister get her children to bed and stay up most of the night cleaning her house. Needless to say, it was always spotless.

My Aunt and Mike were buried on the same day, so I didn’t make it to Mike’s funeral, a fact I deeply regret. Without hesitation, I can say there are few people I respect as much as I respected Mike Mullins. His obvious love of Hindman Settlement School tops a long list of reasons why. I remember being intimidated by him the first time I attended the Appalachian Writer’s Workshop. Being a teacher, I recognized the administrator’s, no nonsense, personality. He was the overseer and nothing, and I mean nothing, got past him.

I had the pleasure of being at Hindman for four summers, and I like to think there were times I saw through Mike’s supervisor’s shield. I never heard him talk about the late James Still without tearing up. To Mike he was always “Mr. Still” and I’ll never forget the time Mike arranged for everyone at camp to go to Mr. Still’s house. I’ll also remember, as I’m sure everyone who attended the writer’s workshop will, Mike’s “beware of snakes” tale that was always part of the opening night speech. He also loved to remark how those of us at the workshop “loved to eat” and was fond of saying, “It don’t matter what we put in front of them, they’ll eat it!”

At last year’s workshop, I had the pleasure of sitting one evening in the dining room with Mike and Amy Clark. Mike sat down for a minute and started to leave, when Amy mentioned her children. That was all it took. Mike started talking about his grandchildren, and the stalwart director melted right before my very eyes. There was nothing more important to Mike Mullins than his family, and to say he was a proud grandfather is an understatement. He adored his grandchildren, and recounted tale after tale about them. He especially loved it when they came to stay with him and Frieda.

The loss of these two people has reminded me of what is important in this life – family. It’s the people we love that matters most at the end of the day. All of our achievements in life pale next to the success of our relationships. My Aunt Hettie and Mike Mullins both got it right. It was the people in their lives, family, that mattered most to them. What a wonderful legacy!