I’m so sorry to learn of the loss of your mother.  I remember her working at the fabric store in Jax Beach, when Christy, Wendy, and I were all going to Fletcher.  Christy, you and I would visit her at work, to see if you could spend the night at my house, or vice versa, so we could figure out what mischief we could get into!  I loved spending the night at your house because it was always so fun being around you all.  

Your mom brought four beautiful, kind, and caring girls into this world.  Thank you Myra, for my high school best friend.  Rest peacefully.  You all are in my thoughts and prayers.  

Christy, if you’re up to it sometime, let’s get together.  Even if it’s just for a hug.  You, too Wendy!  Unfortunately, I am locked out of my FB account, but you can email me at the address I am providing to this site.

Big hugs to you all.  

H. Folsom

Myra LOVED Christmastime – every sparkling, embroidered, baubled, beribboned, wrapped up, lit up, jingle-belled, over-the-top, ho-ho-ho bit of it, spreading joy.

Come Christmas she’d gather her girls to decorate mounds of cookies, banishing anyone who wasn’t part of "The Coven."  And let’s not forget she made one-of-a-kind Christmas stockings only for those boyfriends she deemed worthy of her daughters. She did approach mothering with style. Unconventional? I say uniquely Myra. That style of determined mothering amazed me.  Like supporting her girls selling door-to-door on a bicycle she peddled all over town, bags of Avon swinging from the handlebars. And I’ve never seen anyone finagle the teenage psychodrama years like Myra. 

One year Myra, Beverly, and I were shopping when Myra spotted teeny, one-inch tall Santas. Creativity struck her. Each of us had to craft clear ornaments with some beach sand, bits of sea glass, tiny shells, and a teeny Santa inside. We walked the beach with our pails, the breeze blowing our hair, the sun warming our backs, stooping and gathering our tiny treasures. Then we worked at the kitchen table, delicately decorating the clear balls with a mini Santa scene, glueing them shut with festive ribbons. Grand! But once finished, we saw as the sand shifted the teeny Santa flopped amongst the sea glass and shells, looking like he’d washed up on the beach after a hard night of too much egg nog and reindeer games with Mrs. Claus and the Elves. When one of us quit laughing, another’d grab an ornament, shake it, hold it up, and we’d be laughing again, poor Santa head down in the sand.

Yesterday, as I have for decades, I hung the three Christmas ornaments that Myra, Beverly, and I made on the Christmas tree in a special place. You know what I remember most of that day?  It was Myra's giggle, ringing out clear and true above all our girly babble and rabble. If you knew her, you knew that giggle. Like jingle bells, spreading joy to all around her.

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Myra Ellen Lewis

April 6, 1942 – December 4, 2023

Beaches Chapel by Hardage-Giddens

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