June 26, 2005

Joy of First One Up

“Glory! Glory!”

Grandfather Steve was proud to be the town’s gravedigger. It was a sacred duty meriting the appreciation and respect of his neighbors.

In those days of my Missouri Boot Heel childhood, death was a community event not yet influenced by professional “undertakers.”

Every small town had its volunteer burying committee, which made sure every citizen was decently prepared to meet his or her Maker.

The first obligation was to toll the church bell slowly – as many rings as the age of the deceased.

When this doleful dirge rang out, everyone stopped what they were doing and counted.

Generally you could tell who it was by the number tolls if the dearly departed had been seriously ill, very old or of failing health.

The burying committee dropped every thing and went to the home of the deceased -- first to console the family, then to “lay out” the body.”

It was essential to wash and dress the corpse as soon as possible – before “stiffening” set in and made it difficult to handle.

“Grannies” laid out the corpse of a woman. Best friends did the same for men.

“Carpenters” built a coffin. “Sextons” dug and filled the grave.

The Ladies Aid Society brought vittles. Family members in distant places were notified – usually by telegrams. Upon request, Western Union Telegraph would deliver such dreaded messages in envelopes edged in black. Telegrams in those days usually meant bad news.

The body was washed and dressed in Sunday-go-to- meeting clothes – often having been set aside by the deceased for the occasion. The prepared body was laid on planks between the backs of two dining chairs to await a coffin. Candles were placed at the head and feet.

Arms were “crossed” to signify the deceased had been baptized. Sometimes a small bible was placed in the hands. Flowers were placed in the hands of children and of young women who died in childbirth.

Quarters were placed over the eyes of adults – nickels for children – to keep the eyelids closed and to pay the spirit ferryman for a safe trip over River Styx. It puzzled me then that the charge was so little for so important a service.

Coins on the eyes made a tremendous impression on me. In flickering candlelight, the coins gave an appearance of the eyes opening and closing.

Mirrors in the house were turned to the wall, or draped with black cloth, so Angels hovering about would not get disoriented.

Folks, who could, came for the “sitting” – a vigil with the body until the funeral. From time to time, someone would be moved to softly sing an old hymn.

Everyone joined in., Favorite songs were “Amazing Grace,” “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” “Just a Closer Walk With Thee,” and “Will The Circle Be Unbroken.”

Hearing those old gospel tunes – sung in the middle of the night by candle light – was a powerful, emotional experience. The hymns still tear me up.

* * *

Burying was a somber business that everyone took very seriously. Occasionally, however, a strange turn of events would overshadow the orderly routine of a funeral and become a yarn outliving memory of the deceased.

Like the time Buck Garver “rose from the grave.”

Buck declared disbelief in Heaven and Hell. Yet, he was mighty happy to be on the side of the Lord when the chips were down.

Folks referred to him as “The Shiner.” When in his cups, he would exclaim: “When I go to the Promised Land, I’ll shine as bright as any man!”

Buck was the town drunk, -- a sobriquet not totally derogatory – and an acknowledge expert in the fine art of sinning. Mostly, though, he just liked to get sloshed.

On those few occasions that sobriety overtook him, Buck filled in the chinks with card playing, womanizing and poaching.

If there is a hereafter, it is certain that Buck would join his friends in the place where snowballs have little chance.

Thus, his disbelief in the hereafter was a rationalization to put down a concept of afterlife that left him with an unsettling alternative.

* * *

When Widow Anthony died, the burying committee went to work. For years, she had suffered from “fits” and had a morbid fear of being buried alive.

Consequently she had extracted a solemn promise from Grandfather Steve that when her time came to meet her Maker, a flue pipe would be rigged from her casket to the surface.

This was to make sure she wouldn’t suffocate if she were prematurely buried.

In addition, Mrs. Anthony devised a little red flag and a bell to be placed atop the breathing tube. Thus, she could activate a distress signal with a wire should she revive and need assistance.

While the burying committee made preparations for Mr. Anthony, Buck sought solace in a bottle of “white lightning” shared with a friend in the barbershop’s back room reserved for convivial pastimes.

Buck had not had the privilege of friendship with Mrs. Anthony. Nevertheless, legitimate opportunities to drown sorrow in corn squeezings were scarce.

Therefore, Buck made the most of whatever drinking opportunity came along -- deaths, births, marriages, new plows, snakebites or whatever.

Grandfather Steve and the other sextons finished digging Mrs. Anthony grave at sundown. Buck started home considerably later – weaving erratically through the cemetery shortcut to his shack.

Erelong, he fell into Mrs. Anthony’s open grave. Perhaps he tried briefly to climb out. In any event, at some time he surrendered in alcoholic slumber to his helpless situation.

* * *

Grandfather Steve returned to the cemetery early the next morning to arrange “lowering ropes” by which Mrs. Anthony in her state-of- the-art casket would be laid to eternal rest – hopefully.

He arrived just in time to hear Buck, half-awake, realize his predicament. ”If I’m alive, what am I doing in this grave?” groaned Buck. “If I’m dead, why have I got to take a leak?”

With this, Buck struggled to his feet and peered over the grave’s edge. He beheld long rows of tombstones; but the sun was shining, flowers blooming and birds chirping.

Joy and gratitude overwhelmed him: “Glory! Glory! It’s resurrection day, and I’m the first one up.”

They buried Mrs. Anthony later that day – dutifully installing her rescue apparatus.

Thereafter, we kids sometimes would go out to Mrs. Anthony’s grave and holler down the flue pipe: “Hal- loooo, Mrs. Anthony. How are you today?”

Then we would skeedaddle – afraid she might ring her bell and flip the little red flag.

A year or so later, Mrs. Anthony’s tattered SOS flag was discovered fluttering atop the flue. The burying committee called an emergency meeting to decide whether they should start digging.

The members finally concluded that the tripped signal was a macabre prank or a rusted trip wire. Anyway, Mrs. Anthony would have starved to death by then.

* * *

Buck Garver died a few years later of delirium tremens. Grandfather Steve dug his grave -- this time, for keeps.

The carpenters built Buck’s coffin and also a marker of wood -- inasmuch as Buck had no family or relatives to buy him a headstone.

On the marker, they carved an epitaph: “Awaiting Resurrection Day In Hope Of Being The First One Up.”

Grandfather Steve lived to age 87. Over the years he had buried all his friends – a sad labor of respect. Thus, when he passed away, there was no one left who followed the old-time burying customs.

His grandchildren had moved up to Flint, Michigan, to work in the automobile factories. They took up a collection for a $400 “funeral parlor” service that included $10 for use of a machine to dig his grave.

Lindsey Williams is a Sun columnist who can be contacted at linwms@lindseywilliams.org

--- 30 ---