Deep breath.

Where do I begin?

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ~Lewis Carrol, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

I will apologize in advance to my long time readers, for I will have to repeat stories most of you all have heard before to get this all told. So let me begin by introducing you to Joe Woods. This is a little piece I wrote on him a couple of years ago for the store’s Facebook page. It paints a more descriptive picture than his concise obituary (not that there’s anything wrong with his obituary, the family is grieving and has their hands full)

MEET YOUR CO-OP!!
This week is the 3rd edition, & we couldn’t pick a more iconic figure than Joe Woods.
I sat down with Joe around 10:30 this morning. Well, “cornered” would be a more appropriate term. He is always in high demand.
I was able to extract some facts about his life over the next 45 minutes, between customers stopping by to chat and tell him how good it is to see him.
Joe was born & raised in West Tennessee, not the land of milk & honey, but of cotton & pit barbeque. Joe has never been satisfied with what passes for barbeque on this end of the state. He graduated high school in 1944, and was promptly drafted. But he was turned down, so he enrolled in what was then UT Junior College, now known as UT Martin. When the second draft came around in September of ’45, he was accepted and shipped off overseas as part of the Signal Corps. He was a practitioner of Morse Code, but by the time he eventually got over there, the war had ended. So he was placed in Labor Supervision, which amounted to “All the German prisoners the Army captured, I turned ’em loose.”
Joe returned to the states, got his degree at UT Knoxville, and worked in Northeast TN until 1964, when he came to Sevier County & was our county agent until retiring in 1989. Joe got to know just about every family involved in agriculture around the state…and some surrounding states, too. While we chatted, one of our outside sales reps came up and was asking him if he knew some strawberry farmers down in Georgia. “What are they doin’ raisin’ strawberries? They’ve got 150 acres of woods!”
“350,” Ben amended with a smile.
“Well, they’ve cleared ’em off another ridge, then.”
As the ag extension agent, he always worked closely with the Co-op. McKinley Ballard, manager in the 80’s, started asking him to speak at the annual meeting during the time the votes were being tallied. He just talked about whatever struck him, including his European vacation one year.
Joe married his wife Jean, on May 3rd, 1952 (“hey, that’s in a few days!” Joe remarked). They have two daughters, Martha and Mary Anne. He is a deacon at First Baptist Church Sevierville, where he has worshipped for 21 years.
Not long after he retired, the manager at the time, Darrell Clark, asked him to come work at the Co-op. He didn’t want to. Joe is an avid golfer (as long as it’s at least 55 degrees outside) & was ready to make the most of retirement. But he committed to working mornings, from 8-12, taking lunch, and going home. Before he knew it, he was working full time. In 1996, he had to have open heart surgery which forced him to think about his lifestyle. He wanted to scale back, but again, Darrell made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “”Come in when you want to, and leave when you want to.” Well, who could resist that? So here he still is, all these years later, still trucking along. Joe admits that the majority of farmers he knew have passed on. These days he meets the 3rd generation of these families. He’s a consultant of sorts, advising people about everything from trees, ornamentals, pond fish, soil samples, carports, and vegetables. He also serves as our errand runner. Basically, if you have a question about anything that pertains to the Co-op, Joe is our go-to. He comes in around nine Tuesday through Friday, visits customers around the county, eats lunch at Frank Allen’s, and tries to be out of here around three. It doesn’t always work that way. People want his schedule, but I can’t supply them with that, because he doesn’t have one. And now we know why. Or, as Paul Harvey would tell us, the rest of the story.

It is a cold Saturday in December here in the foothills of Appalachia. Snow flurries are still blowing. I was meeting Robin, my former work momma, at Food City so we could ride together. Her husband was gracious enough to be our chauffer. We were anticipating an enormous crowd. We were to meet around two o’clock, and I didn’t want to park way at the back of the lot because Patsy would stick out like a sore thumb sitting there all that time, and I’m not sure what there rules are on unattended vehicles. Or if they enforce them. So I pulled up at the fringe of the cluster of vehicles and looked around for one of their cars. I decide to shoot her a text in case they were already waiting. I had just hit send when this dark colored SUV pulls in next to me. I glance up, gather my things, and flounce over to their car. I pull open the back door saying, “I just sent you a text and-” I was looking at all the packages in the backseat wondering why they hadn’t moved them, they knew I was going to be riding back there, but whatever, I was getting my purse and coat situated when I look at Jerry.

Who is sporting a nose ring and spiky hair and has evidently shed about 50 pounds and 30 years.

I was paralyzed.

I then looked in the passenger seat. There sat some girl who is looking at me, completely terrified.

“You are NOT  Robin and I am soooooooooooo sorry,” I say, moving their bags back, picking my stuff up off their seat, closing their door, and skinning it back to the safety of Patsy.

Needless to say, I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I related that classic Amy story to the real Robin and Jerry when they pulled up to collect me a few minutes later. I was laughing so hard I was crying and that is how we began our Joe Woods adventure. I’m sure he was clapping and hee-hawing at me from the heavens. Because that almost makes me even with him. He went to the post office one day and saw me, and was waving and grinning and got so mad when I wouldn’t wave back. Then a cloud went across the sun and he saw that it wasn’t me he was waving and grinning at. It was some random stranger.

We get to the funeral home, and surprisingly, there is barely anyone there. I figured people would have been wrapped around the building twice. I had dressed accordingly to brave the weather, but I was pleasantly surprised. As we stood in line, I complimented the Co-op’s arrangement (a beautiful wreath), and we remarked on how gorgeous Joe’s spray was. His coffin was very nice, too, a navy blue. {I heartily approve- take note, husband}.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” I intoned to Robin as we stood close. It was preposterous. I had counted on Joe outliving us all.

“I know,” she answered. And she did. She knew exactly.

I made Robin go first, as always. She makes the introductions and it’s a smooth transition for me to be her shadow. And hopefully, if someone is going to cry, they’ll do it on her, because I can’t control my tears at all and I am not a beautiful crier, dabbing daintily at my mascara with a snow white tissue. I’m more of the squalling, hiccupping, a little spit, makeup running, digging through a bottomless purse for a wadded-up, lint-flecked tissue, red-faced variety. And the family of the deceased make me slightly uncomfortable if I’m tied up in line with one while someone ahead is having more than a two second conversation. They say “thank you for coming” to which my standard reply to every other event is “thank you for having me”, which is obviously not appropriate at the funeral home so I stand there with a small stupid smile trying to think of something to say. Heaven forbid I keep a sentiment or two handy. I usually wind up saying something inane like, “You look so pretty” when they are quite stricken with grief. Maybe I should transition to: “that color looks so pretty on you”. Hmm. Something to think about. Martha and Mary Anne both thanked me for coming and told me that Joe loved all of us and OF COURSE the logical thing would have been for me to say, “Nothing like he loved you girls, we heard about you all the time,” or, “He was so proud of you all” or anything of that sort. But no, I had to stand there and say, “Well, we didn’t give him a choice.” How stupid I am. Luckily, they are a forgiving sort and knew that Joe was special to me no matter how inarticulate and mannerless I appeared. At least I came.

After speaking to the family and watching the picture video with two senior gentlemen that I believe attended church with him, we installed ourselves into what I will call the Co-op corner.

And I began to think.

Or reflect, some would say. I was thinking about all the people who had sat in these pews and grieved. We were close to the back, but still. I looked around for tissues as a preemptive measure, but there were none. Too far back. My tissues were in the car, tucked in my coat pocket. Better suck it up, I told myself. I was thinking how peaceful it is, and how nice. Funeral homes are always nice. Or all the ones I’ve ever been in, anyway. I wonder how many people have come through those doors and it’s the fanciest place they’ve ever set foot in? Some of those back holler church going people who ain’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Do they bury their people here with Atchley’s? Do they save their whole life in order to do so? There’s only one other funeral home in town. What do they do? I remember hearing stories about how when Atchley’s started they offered a payment plan, and they could secure where you’d spend the first few days after you departed for the low price of a dollar per week and plenty of people took them up on that. But the people gathered today weren’t that backwoods. They were strictly blue collar.

I have attended a mass of funerals in my life. While working at Co-op I became rather close to a great many older people that touched my heart, so I always tried to go for one last visit with them. It became normal to “run by the funeral home” on my way home. I didn’t often stay for the funeral, just went to sign the book, speak to the family, and make my way out. You know, express my condolences. It’s not a big deal. Sometimes it’s awkward if I don’t know the family well, but lots of times I was attending the funeral for a coworker’s or customer’s parent or spouse. I hope people will say at my death, “You can say what you want to about Amy, but she was always good about going by the funeral home.” Since leaving Co-op, I have understood the draw of wanting to attend funerals. It pretty much is the only place where you see everybody. Me and Robin spent a lot of time trying to decide who people were. We figured most of them out. We read the little booklet. What do you call those things? Not pamphlet. We didn’t know the preacher or a couple of the pallbearers. I told Tuletta and Donnie the Food City vehicle mishap with Robin warning me before I started that I should probably go outside to tell it. We got through it, though, and I didn’t pee my pants.

Well, here comes Jack Denton. He did make it. And without Raymond for once, which is just as well. He tends to rub people wrong. But sweet Mr. Jack and his wife with their daughter Mary John. It’s always good to see them. Two of the Sarten brothers. One beautiful lady I couldn’t quite place until ten seconds before she came up and embraced me and told me how glad she was to see me again. She was one of my springtime ladies, I couldn’t tell you her name if you paid me money, but I loved her. Her husband played golf with Joe, and she regularly picked his brain for help with her garden. Dewayne Hodges sat down behind us, and as soon as Clint got through the line he joined us as well. And then Betty and Donnie rounded out our corner. But I was still surprised we weren’t wall to wall in there. We couldn’t figure it out. Was it the cold? Was it just the hustle and bustle of the holiday season? Co-op was open, although they had toyed with the idea of closing, but they got it worked out so the people who wanted to come for the funeral could leave, and the rest could come up and sign the book beforehand. Somebody had slipped a Co-Op pencil into the pocket of his suit jacket, which made us all smile. I hope it was sharp. Dull pencils just didn’t set with Joe. If everybody had come that had ever depended on Joe for advice, Neyland Stadium wouldn’t hold us all. But Robin speculated that although a great many people knew Joe, did they know him well enough to attend his funeral? The answer seemed to be no. Although they would have been welcome. I squeezed Sherri Crawford, who was off to visit her new grandbaby, and shook and howdied with Ann King and a few more. To pass the time, I told my Food City story again. Clint got me tickled and it’s a wonder they didn’t throw us out of there. We were both in the floor. Clint said, “Amy, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long, long time.”

So Mr. Joe brought us that.

On the whole funerals aren’t sad events until the music starts playing. That’s when I tend to lose any composure I’ve been hanging onto. Of course, it’s different if the person in the casket is young or has been taken suddenly. But the majority are just a catch up time between family and friends. The music wasn’t what I was expecting, but I don’t know why I thought they’d be playing some little jig Joe hummed sometimes. He was a religious man, and I thought back to a time I was worried about a gentleman we had worked with for a long time that was let go. I won’t say he was wrongfully fired, because the reason was solid…but it didn’t make me miss him any less. (And for those of you who think you know who I’m referring to-I’m not talking about the big redheaded guy). So anyway, this particular fellow had been a native of Sevier County, a son of a well-to-do family, and a regular churchgoer. And when he was fired, he was so ashamed, he quit going to church. He didn’t go out at all. It really weighed on me and I went to Joe about it. Because, as I’ve stated before, Joe and I generally agreed on people: who was a good egg, and who was a hoity-toity, and who wouldn’t worth the…well, nevermind. But anyway, Joe set my heart at ease when he said, “I’ll call ‘im.” And he did, that very day. The man hadn’t lost his faith, he had just been embarrassed. So Joe talked to him, and then he talked to me. “He’s alright. He’s alright,” He assured me, then patted me softly. “Thank you for worrying about him, little one.” That’s the kind of man Joe was. You could share a joke, but you could also share a worry.

The preacher began his message by saying, “We’re all here at the funeral of a man who didn’t plan on dying.” Remember, Joe was 91. But evidently he had aimed to go home Wednesday (and that ain’t code), and be driving in two weeks, and then back to work shortly thereafter. And why not? Joe had persevered through bigger trials than this.

The funeral was light, and everybody stayed strong. The preacher didn’t stray far from the subject of Joe’s faith. He reiterated that for as many smarts as Joe had, he could have had his pick of jobs and probably could have led a much more lucrative life. But he chose to stay and help. And help he did. He helped everybody he ever met, and most of us too many times to count. I’m not just talking about with grass seed woes and plant diseases, I’m talking about matters of the heart as I described above. Even though Joe more than 50 years older than me, there were few subjects that were off limits. I can’t think of any, really. I always enjoyed talking to him, and I forever came away better than before. As so many others said today, he was a good man. He was the very best.

If I were a better blogger, this is where I would conclude my tale. But that would leave part of my story untold, and I can’t stand that. And you might not want to finish with a misty eye. So here’s the rest of it.

After the funeral, I was starved. I had brought snacks, but who can eat crackers in the presence of a dead body? Joe wouldn’t have cared, he would have probably asked for one. Thankfully, Robin and Jerry were hungry too, so our day didn’t end here. We went over to Cracker Barrel, another approved station of Joe’s. When I got up to go wash my hands, I made sure to chart where our table was so I wouldn’t sit back down with strangers. I had chicken and dumplins and, of course, carrots. The cole slaw was off the charts. While we perused their Christmas selections, we ran into my good friend’s momma, Ann. I was so glad to see her. This was turning into a capital day. Joe had brought all sorts of us together.

We finished our jaunt by going by the Clark Griswold House of Seymour. Talk about off the charts. Holy cannoli, Batman. It was their entire yard and half of their neighbors they’ve struck a deal with. Evidently they have an agreement with the neighborhood to cut it all off at 10:00 p.m. The flashing would induce seizures to some with weaker constitutions, I have no doubt. It left me a little dizzy. And think of their light bill! Golly gee willikers!! 

 I know what I’d do if I lived in their subdivision. I wouldn’t even try. I’d get me one of those light up arrows, like what the old drive-ins used to have, and put “That way” in clear lights. Kinda like the “Ditto” guy on Pinterest. 

So Joe got me and Robin together for a much needed day of fellowship and good times. It’s always heartwarming to be around those you love during the holidays, especially if you haven’t seen them in awhile.

And so concludes the Adventures of Amy on the Day of the Funeral of Joe Woods.  You should always go to funerals. There’s never no tellin’ what might happen.

“If I had a gal, and she wouldn’t dance, I tell you what I’d do. I’d build me a boat, and set her afloat, and paddle my own canoe.” ~Joe Woods