We buried Aunt Jessie last month, after she died on July 4, about three months shy of 91. She was the last one alive of the six Terrell sisters of Dodson - the second of whom was my mother.

The funeral service was, well, different, but all in all fitting, given Jessie's lifestyle and personality. She was fourth of the six sisters. Youngest of the older group, or oldest of the younger, however you classify it, and always a person of her own style.

It was recounted of her that she was, in her own words, "Just plain Jessie. I'm not floosey. Just Jessie." Of course, to her chagrin, the family always called her Jessie Lee, her full name, as is often the custom here in the South. Floosey? Her understanding of that word was probably the same as ours, raised in this culture, where floosey meant, and still does as far as I know, "uppity, high class, flaunting the latest fashions" . . . things like that. (The word is not even in the dictionary, but we know what we mean.) Of course, these days you only see anything similar in the Big Media rendered as "floozy," which implies low morals, fast woman, party girl, etc.

Jessie remained single until into her thirties, worked hard as a registered nurse during her active years, and never had children during two marriages. She was not a floozy, as far as anything I ever heard mentioned, although I have the impression that she would not have smashed you in the mouth with a broom handle had you have offered her a well-stirred toddy on a cold winter evening. Smoke cigarettes? By the bushel. Fun loving? I have a mental picture of her to this day telling stories and laughing, mouth wide open, until tears came. Ornery? Well, leave that alone; sometimes she had a firecracker temper. She was short, barely more than five feet, slim, energetic, attractive but not what you would call beautiful, with her little button nose and feisty brown eyes, all in all a fun and caring lady.

Jessie was one of only two of the six Terrell sisters who didn't have a special name. Just Jessie, in her own words. The oldest, Vera, was known by the sisters as . . . "Sister," and by my generation of the cousins as "Aunt Billum." I never figured that out. My mother, known everywhere as Myrtle, was called "Grey," her second name, by the sisters, and "Aunt Grey" by the cousins. Lucille, next, was known to the cousins as "Aunt 'Cile." Not too difficult to grasp. Then Jessie. Just Jessie. Martha, or Martha Ellen as she was always called by the sisters, was known to the cousins as "Aunt Ninny." Why? Who knows? And Jeanne was Jeanne.

And now there are none. Jessie worked as a nurse at the DeRidder hospital, and at the Fitz-Faith Clinic in Winnfield during the Depression years of the late 1930s and 1940s, after taking her nursing degree in Little Rock, Arkansas. It was there that she met a pharmacist named Bill Allen, whom she later married and moved to Dallas, after his first wife's death. He died, and after a second marriage, she lived alone in Dallas, and as long as she was able, did private duty nursing with elderly patients. She lived the last years of her life in nursing homes at Kentwood, and at Rayville, looked after by children of her sister Lucille, who lived until her death on their family farm near Rayville. As long as she was conscious - until within days, hours even, of her passing, Jessie retained her independent personality.

There were eight of us, not counting the preacher and the undertaker, at her funeral, a very informal graveside event at the New Hope Methodist Church five miles east of Dodson. Quite a change from the formal affairs where a packed parlor of family and guests listens to a solemn recitation of set-piece eulogy, Biblical references, and "There! There! Don't grieve!" assurances of eternal life and induced sympathy.

This was a mini-Irish wake, with eight of us, cousins and spouses, seated in a semi-circle of funeral home chairs under a tent beside the graves of our grandparents and a few other relatives, talking, laughing, even shedding a tear of fondness, about what we remembered about Jessie. It was a sunny afternoon, and everyone was dressed comfortably. No self-consious pallbearers. No mournful music. No suits except the minister's, who mostly stood first on one foot and then the other, holding his Bible while we talked. Only one necktie, not counting the preacher and the funeral director who stayed in the background until his official duties began. Jessie was there, the breeze blowing across her open casket. Before we sat down, Shirley put a black tam cap on her head, by request of one of the absent nieces, who recalled that Jessie always wore such a topper when she dressed up. I could have sworn I saw her wink, as we sat down and began remembering.

After our reminiscing, the preacher, who made no claim to have known Jessie during her lifetime, read about three short passages from the Bible, then gave it up and said a short prayer to end it. We all walked across the graveyard back up to the church house, where one of the cousins broke open an ice chest of bottled water and cold Cokes, while the funeral director and his assistant lowered Jessie away.

Pretty neat way to go, I thought. The only thing I might add would be a short table with a fresh bottle of Old Bushmills and a setting of shot glasses, to wind it all up with a proper Irish toast.

And regarding the eschatalogical as we are at the moment, reality came home to me early one morning just a few days ago, as I was traveling on business down Louisiana Highway 4, in the rolling foothills of the Driskill Mountain range of Bienville Parish. I broke the crest of a hill and my eye was drawn to the edge of the road, where a reflective white-on-green official Louisiana Department of Highways sign points down a side road to . . . Little Hope Cemetery. Think about it. But not to worry; things should work out, as the village of Lucky is just a hoot and a holler over your shoulder from there.

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