On April 25th, 2014, I visited two bedsides at the local hospital. One belonged to a friend who had just delivered a baby, the other a friend who was slipping from this world and reaching for Heaven. One room was joyful, with friends and family packed in among flowers and balloons, the other, quiet and nearly barren.
That was a difficult day. But one of my more eloquent friends so gracefully reminded me that it was a great blessing to witness both new beginnings and near departures. So I’m remembering those wise words today.

Yesterday afternoon, I was fortunate enough to witness my good friends’ daughter march across the stage, composed but jubilant, in her Valedictorian robe. There was much celebration and a few happy tears for this new adventure in Lindsey’s life. Lindsey is no slacker; she’s been brought up to be kind, first and foremost, and to study hard and work harder. Hard work pays off, and the little squirt is sitting on $50,000 in scholarships, not least of all from our beloved Patron Saint Dolly Parton. Next stop Rocky Top, as her mortarboard proclaimed. 5′ 2″, 105 pounds, and solidly 4.0 (even though she’s really a 10), FFA president and counter help at the Co-op, Lindsey is top of her class both literally and figuratively. She’s went from a timid little grasshopper of a child, to a poised young lady I would be proud to call my own. She’s decisive and sharp as a tack, giggly and gracious, unique and sweet. There are so many opportunities just around the corner for her, and the sky truly is the limit…but I think she’s gonna ground herself with conservation!! She job shadowed me one day this spring and with her potential and drive, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve got an engineer or soil scientist in our midst. I don’t care if she becomes a frog gigger, I’m proud as punch for everything she’s accomplished thus far. Please join me in congratulating Linds and praying for her in her next endeavor.

But this morning found me in the graveyard. It was hazy and working up to hot. Hayfield weather, and many gathered among us had already been there and were headed back after the prayin’ and the singin’ were silent. The cemetery, like most cemeteries around here, is laid out on a hillside, down a winding road that leads directly to the lake. The encroaching pines and blackberry brambles are barely held at bay across the narrow path.
You don’t notice graveyards driving down the road. You rarely know they’re there until you’re standing in them. I appreciated the passing motorists who took note of the vehicles parked on both sides of the road and coasted by, quieting their engines and radios until around the bend and over the hill. Had it been evening, a month from now, the preacher would have needed to shout to be heard over the katydids and locusts. But barely a breeze rusted the boxelders as Ray Ball and family sang a few for us. The preacher was a neighbor, a classmate, a friend of our Willie’s, someone who knew him well. “He’d find a way to fix it,” he said, ‘if he didn’t have the part, or couldn’t get the part, he’d make the part.” Yes, he would. But none of us could fix Willie when he was broke.
I suppose that’s just the way it goes.
There were over 200 of us there, by two different men’s count. There was no guestbook, no receiving line. There weren’t stands and vases and baskets of flowers set everywhere to lift the mood. There was no freezing cold funeral parlor air pushing through vents overhead. There was no video with snapshots of a life well lived. There was just-mowed fescue beneath my bare toes, and swallows diving for bugs, and a mockingbird that treated us to a song. There was a bumblebee that did a fly by and a little girl in a ruffled onesie that crawled at our feet. There were farmers, construction foremen, brothers, secretaries, linemen, and so many people who had worked with Willie during his 44 years in the tractor bay. Many of Sevier County’s blue-collar stock in clumps, some holding hands, some holding it together by a shoestring. There were 200 of us sniveling over Amazing Grace and the final words spoke over our good friend Willie.
When the largest farmer in the county takes time to shower, put on dress clothes, and drive himself in the middle of hay and planting season to the funeral of the man who worked on his tractor tires, you know the man we are laying to rest was more than a mechanic.

I hadn’t attended a high school graduation since my own, but, as you know, I attend funerals on the regular. Both hold a certain degree of anticipation for me. Funerals like this one were old home week. It made me remember all the times I took around various cards at the store. Could have been sympathy, or birthday (we celebrated Joe Woods’ every year, ’cause you just never knew….plus he liked a fuss made) or retirement. The mechanics never wanted to sign- “You sign it for me, my hands are greasy.” Me: “Oh no, you don’t. A little grease just shows that you’re doing your job. Here’s the pen.” {For the record, Willie always had his own, a red clicky Co-op one}.

Thank you Chris Cox, Smoky Mountain Farmers Co-op manager, for seeing that Willie deserved this farewell with the doors locked and the gates closed. Friday was always Willie’s day off, and I was glad to give him a Friday of mine. At least I got in the right car this time.