A soft, gentle, much needed rain will be falling this morning at the gravesite of Mr. Ralph Newman. Maybe I should call it a “mourning rain”. Ralph might’ve got to Heaven & made that his first order of business, ’cause he sure knew we needed it. My heart is with all the Newmans this morning as they lay David’s daddy in the earth. Many of you know him, have bought hay from him, have seen him working in the fields. I loved Mr. Newman. He was one of the first farmers I ever waited on when I came to work at Co-op. He was patient with me as I hunted item numbers for his requested feed and baler twine. He has been patient with me over the years as I tracked down the right bolts, seeds, shoestrings, oil, vaccines, and information for him on herbicide & pesticide application rates. I’d spot him ambling along the aisles of the store & I’d break off from whatever I was doing to go speak to him. Well, go holler at him, is more accurate. We got along good because his hearing had been sub par for several years & I tend to talk loud. ” Hello, Mr. Newman!” I’d bellow, & he’d grin ear-to-ear. “Hello, Amy!” He’d holler back. Or sometimes he’d call me “sis”. It’s been a long time since he’s called me ” little’un” but we won’t go into that 😉
Mr. Newman was a tall, wiry man who wore glasses, checkered button-up shirts, & overalls without fail. He is exactly who you picture when I say “farmer”. He was always smiling with his lips AND his eyes. He had a great laugh that I will miss as much as anything. He spent 87 years on this earth, 63 of those with his wife, and I reckon that’s long enough for anybody to grow weary & desire to go home.
I went to see him in the hospital about a month ago. It was a dual-purpose visit for me. A good friend had just had her baby earlier that afternoon & so it was convenient for me to make my rounds with everybody that evening. I stopped by Ashley’s bedside first & it was wonderful, as all newborns are. Everybody was joyous & laughing & having a great time celebrating this new life. I stayed for awhile then bid my fare the wells & took the elevator up to Mr. Newman’s floor. I wasn’t sure what to expect, David had been telling me his daddy was “not doing good”, but that can mean several different things. Clearly, for him to be kept in the hospital he was under the weather. But I was unconcerned, as only the truly oblivious can be. I boldly walked into the room & my courage evaporated & abandoned me on the spot. For one thing, I was alone. It was just me & Mr. Newman, who lay motionless on the bed with his eyes & mouth open. Oh, what had I gotten myself into, being so fearless to come by myself? “Mr. Newman, you awake?” I called, loud enough to probably wake the people down the hall. No response. I sat down in the chair next to him & began to cry alligator tears. I couldn’t stop. I finally decided this wasn’t doing either one of us a bit of good & stood up to go. I was barely patting his shoulder & telling him goodbye when he turned his head towards me. “Whattya doin’ sis?” He croaked out. I bout had a heart attack. He had been sleeping with his eyes open. Some people do that. Especially servicemen. I apologized for waking him & collapsed back into the chair, after helping him with his applesauce & water. “Everybody’s left me, ain’t they?” “Oh, I’d say they’ll be back,” I assured him. “It’s suppertime,” I added, after glancing at the clock. Then I sat there sniffing, trying to dry up my tears. I was afraid I was going to upset him with all my crying I couldn’t seem to get a handle on, but he was unperturbed. I guess after 80-some odd years you become accustomed to a woman’s tears. He didn’t have on the TV & didn’t seem to want it on & all my crying was getting on my own nerves so I had to tell him goodbye. I watched my tears hit his sheet. I was sorry to leave but I couldn’t help it. I cried all the way home, that awful hiccuping type that children have after you scold them. I knew I was fortunate & blessed to see “new beginnings & near departures,” as one of my eloquent friends described it. That Friday was profound and I am thankful for the experience.
I guess that’s why I didn’t cry last night at the funeral home. I was all cried out for him. I was relieved I didn’t get emotional. I have been known to be more torn up than the closest of kin, just because I’m a crybaby. (I know one thing, I would make a crummy funeral director) Funerals are awkward for everyone. The family standing with the departed don’t know everyone, the people coming through the line don’t know the family. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” is the general platitude, but it seems so removed. “Thank you for coming,” is the general response, but if you were close to the person lying there, or to one of their loved ones, where else would you be? Funerals are an obligation when you become an adult. Although I am noticing a decrease in the number of people my age who attend. I don’t know if it’s a general act of disrespect or if they just weren’t taught better. You have to buck up & swallow your fears & at least go sign the book even if you can’t bring yourself to walk up to the casket. I know to some of you it probably seems like all I do is go to the funeral home. Shug made the comment not long after we started dating that I seem to go a lot. But I can’t imagine NOT paying my respects. The presence of people in your life makes your life your own, does that make sense? If someone influences me, then I owe them a little something. The person who died may not know we were there, but the ones that are left notice. And it matters. Do you understand that love is all that matters? That’s what Jesus tries to teach us. We take them our best home-cooked dishes after they bury their loved one to give them comfort & ease their way back into real life. We send them flowers so their hardest days will have something beautiful in them. And we give them our ears & our arms for their voiced fears, tears, and memories. The rain kept me from the graveside this morning but I hope Virginia and the rest of the Newmans are comforted by the words I have left here. Thanks y’all for the kind words. I want to tell you about Mr. Newman’s last hour too.
He was completely lucid till the end. He ate every day. After a rough weekend of coughing & not getting much rest, Monday came & he didn’t want breakfast. He was argumentive about the hospice nurse coming. His granddaughter came & changed his pajama top & socks. They finally got him talked into allowing the nurse in, & she was getting him cleaned up & was going to change his shirt & he let her know real quick she wasn’t going to. Told her that his granddaughter had put it on him, & that’s where it would stay. And same went for his socks.
They finally got him settled & he laid back & closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and was gone. Just like that. Quick & peaceful. Isn’t that what we all wish for? The family has been with him pretty much full time for about two months now, and I think that’s the best many of us could wish for.
Postscript: Sometimes I think it would be nice to be so far from my family. But then we’ve lived clustered in our little compound for so long, I’m pretty sure part of me would wither up & die to be separated so long from any of them. I can’t imagine not being able to look out my kitchen window & not see the fields I’ve spent countless hours riding horses or playing with my dogs.
Y’all settle in.
There are a few places in this world where life gets real. You know what I mean. Where rubber meets the road. Hospital rooms, church altars, courtrooms, gravesides, and bars at two a.m, to name a few.
Delmar Maples was my co-worker for my cumulative years at Co-op. He didn’t say much, but that’s ok, because what he said counted. He always, always, said “Good Morning,” (which seems to be becoming less common these days). If yes or no was adequate, that’s what you got. I think the first time we ever really had a conversation was when he was showing off his first grandson, he carried him all over the store, grinning ear to ear. Delmar was a small man, with ropy muscled arms, dark eyes, and a scraggly beard. He was never without a mesh-backed “old man” hat that he carefully folded down in the center, essentially making a crown around his head. He traveled with a limp & a whistle.
Delmar changed the oil in Patsy many times, & filled a bunch of propane tanks for me & the rest of Sevier County. He didn’t complain or ask for a break in the rain & sleet & snow. He simply bowed his head to the weather & kept working. He crushed boxes too, & I’m ashamed to admit how many times he saved me from losing inventory…I tend to get in a hurry & throw out boxes that still have product in them. Oops.
His longtime companion, Margaret, would call & ask to speak to him & you would think their house was burning down & everybody they knew was in it by the way she carried on. I would take the message to Delmar & he would just shake his head & trudge in to call her. I got used to her after awhile, nothing was ever wrong, she was just excitable. Delmar was exactly the opposite.
We all began to worry about him when the knot came up on his neck & began to grow…he seemed to think it was gout. Do you think this tough little man would go to the doctor? No. He waited until he couldn’t swallow anymore. He clocked out & that was the last time he did.
Delmar was a very sick man, and we all knew it. I visited him in the hospital not long after that, and honestly, I wouldn’t have given him ten minutes, let alone more than a year. But the day following his hospital stay, he got up, put his uniform on, gathered his lunch box & was headed out the door when Margaret caught him. Devoted to work till the end, he would plead to stop by the store to and from their trips to doctors in Knoxville. Co-op was his family, it was in his blood. He told everybody it was “the best damn job he ever had”.
I didn’t know until the obituary was printed & hanging on the time clock that he served with the Marines. He went to Vietnam. I gleaned the information that he earned several medals while fighting. That explained a lot, as Joe Woods observed. We all learned something. He was buried in his dress blues, with his Co-op uniform shirt & black cap by his side. David Newman (fuel truck driver, among other things) officiated last night, and had visited Delmar frequently since he became sick. He was quick to reassure us all that Delmar was right with the Lord because…well, sometimes it was hard to tell. But for someone who saw things that nightmares are made of & kept them inside all these years, it ain’t no wonder.
But they sent him off right. The singin’ was pure & clear, old hymns that the mourners joined in on, the preachin’ was true and reassuring, and the prayers were heartfelt & humble.
I never knew the feeling of driving in a funeral procession until today. It touched my heart, seeing everyone pulled over with their lights on. Through my tears, I noticed one man had even gotten out & put his hat over his chest. That means a lot.
We traveled to Caton’s Chapel, a beautiful drive, especially coming through Mitchell Bottoms & the line of grievers wound our way through the old mountains. The cemetery covers the side of a steep hill, overlooking the gorgeous panorama of farmland & the Smokies. We stood in the shade of an old oak as the last rites were said over our quiet friend. The honor guard fired their 21-shot salute, the trumpet was played, and Margaret wailed in her grand children’s embrace. Brion squared his shoulders while mine shook. The flag was presented to his son. The doves were released and that was the best dang burial I ever attended. I hope Delmar approved.
Last Sunday I was driving down Boyds Creek & I saw these two old ladies out in the yard. One was pointing to a particular plant in her flowerbed, and the other was peering at it & nodding sagely. They wore polyester pant suits, it looked like to me, with their hair sets & big-enough-to-notice-but-not-big-enough-to-be-tacky necklaces. I slowed, and resisted the urge to stop & watch them, or better yet, join them. They reminded me SO MUCH of my great-grandmother, my Mamaw. I was fortunate enough to have her next door until I was in high school. She loved her flowers. There were several flowerbeds surrounding her home, taking up most of the yard. She had a huge sage patch, and she grew dill, and tended the biggest aloe plant I have ever seen (For those of you that have seen mine, think x3). She also had this magnificent Christmas cactus that blossomed so hot pink it didn’t look real. Anyway, any time she had company, that was part of the ritual: touring the gardens. No matter how many times you’d previously visited, or how recently, you still had to observe the growth of her “cannies” (gigantic leafy red plants with enormous stalks I always thought were hideous), her prizewinning elephant ears that I could hide behind until I was ten, her millions of tulips, the weeping peach tree she was so proud of…the list goes on & on. The inspection could last an hour or more. She had cherry trees, a crabapple tree, shamrocks, a rosebush that served as the border for the vegetable garden (the front field where I rode my horses in later years), and some weird pampas grass stuff we never did really figure out what it was. Anyway, the irises are blooming in profusion now & remind me so much of her. I always wanted so badly, in my childish way, to pick them all & put them in a vase to enjoy inside. She always gently reminded me they best thrived outdoors and we could enjoy them longer out there. She would make me a banana milkshake & let me watch whatever I wanted on her TV. She was a feisty old lady, never failing to speak her mind. She traveled to Hawaii once, bringing back a pallet of pineapples & muu-muus for us all. Plus hundreds of strands of silk-wrapped beads. She adored Hawaii with all their exotic flowers. Her favorite song was “The Battle of New Orleans”. She always had a passel of cats, all outside, and all underfoot. She had a white Persian inside for awhile that would sit on her lap after she bathed it to be dried with a blow dryer. That was the only cat that would not tolerate me for any amount of time.
Spring makes me think of Mamaw, and smile.
I could not have been more wrong.
I bit into what I thought was a delightfully sweet red pepper….and immediately my eyeballs began to sweat. I thought, well, I can fix this by eating a bite of mozza…rella & tried repeatedly stabbing it with my plastic fork. It refused to be impaled. Desperate now, I pick it up with my fingers & popped it in my mouth.
It was a plump clove of garlic.
Gary is watching all of this transpire from two feet away with a mild expression, much like a cow chewing its cud from the safety of its pasture while the farmer is electrocuted by their fence. I had no water because who needs water with mozzarella salad? I dash to the fridge in the small engine department. Luckily, I had both water & mountain dew stockpiled. I gulped at both as soon as I got the lids off. Shooooweeee!!! I will be more diligent in my shopping next time.
Most women, I think, grow up dreaming of having a baby. They think about it all the time, starting with a fantasy about what their husband will look like, where they will meet & fall in love, what type of fairytale princess wedding gown they will wear & the flowers they will carry…then where they will make a home. Depending on their husband’s profession, these women may be envisioning a plush apartment in the city, or a colonial with a picket fence in the suburbs. They may even be aspiring to a grand greek revival mansion on the river. I can identify thus far. But when they start thinking about the little ones…and they’ve got the names picked out & what order they may have them, & how they’ll decorate their bedrooms…well, that’s where my dreams always ended & another one started.
As surely y’all know about my proclivity to devouring books, it should come as no surprise that I dreamed of my own library. Walls of books. Stacks & shelves towering on every available surface, too many to count. Books of all types: old, classic, leatherbound editions; mass produced paperback fiction; history books; college textbooks; journals; coffee table photographic books, you name it. I wanted them ALL. I wanted a red wall, & a warm rug, & a leather chair. I wanted a Tiffany lamp & a box of kleenex when emotions were running high. I wanted a cozy blanket & a candle to burn.
And guess what?
I got it.
I’ve had such a room since I cleaned out the spare bedroom about four years ago & pulled up the carpet to reveal the honey colored hardwood floors underneath that I bruised my knees on for two weeks. I would come home from work & pull staples & scrape at rubber carpet mat that was stuck to it from years of being covered up & walked on. I scrubbed with pine sol & brillo pads & wax to get it presentable. I grunted & groaned & strained to bring in my bookshelves, followed by my collection of books & then I bought more. I have hauled in more as the years progressed & my cases are jam packed & the shelves sag under their weight. I am proud of my library. It is like my life’s work. Laugh all you want, & I know it’s not the same as creating another human being & raising it up right, but I’m not destined for that. Here is home. And here I have sat all day, nestled in my cocoon of books & favorite possessions, & I have been content & happy. It has been quiet, no lollipops stuck in anyone’s hair, no pancakes to fix, no shoes to be tied. If this sounds lonely, I have painted it wrong. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to fix supper, or take a shower, or go to bed. I want to stay right here. I don’t get to enjoy this room nearly enough. It never fails to bring me peace. Build your happiness with what you may.
Upon returning from lunch, I retrieved from my purse all the essentials for coloring my lips back in & laid them on my desk. I had a few customers walk up, so I was waiting on them & here comes Gary. Not everyone knows Gary, so allow me to paint you a mental picture:
Bull in a china shop.
Does that do it?
Alright, so here he is, hovering. “Did that guy come in & pay for that trailer?”
“I don’t know, I just got back from dinner.”
“Well, he said he might be in today, or he might wait till next week. He ain’t pickin’ it up till one day next week anyway, here’s his title. It’s an 8×10–”
“Let’s write the item number on here, what is it?” I asked, reaching for a pen.
“Three-zero…no wait, let’s see…three-seven-zero-zero…hey! Wait a minute! What IS this?!???!” Unbeknownst to me, he had picked up my Clinique lip liner, thinking it was an ink pen.
“Gary! That’s my lip liner! Dang!”
The customers were hee-hawing & I was too. What a Gomer. Have a nice day.
I am an intact human. My body is reluctant to part with any of its apparatus. I still have my wisdom teeth, tonsils, gall bladder, & appendix. But not for long! February 20th I will be bidding farewell to my wisdom teeth. (I hope I don’t lose my smarts in the process) Naturally, I’m terrified.
Two funerals in two days is too many. It makes you think about your own mortality, that’s for sure. Rex Pitner was killed on his tractor Tuesday evening, but by all accounts he went quickly & doing what he loved. I will miss Rex. He was a big man, which if you judged by looks alone you would think he was easily riled. That was not the case. He had an easy smile & loved to kid me. I dished it right back out. I never saw him angry, which is something, because he was in the stor…e at least twice a week (& despite our best efforts, we typically end up eventually ticking you off one way or another). He never ever ever had an ink pen & always wrote a check. I didn’t mind loaning him my pick-of-the-litter ink pen because he never failed to give it right back. If it hadn’t been disrespectful, I’d have liked to slip one in with him tonight. Hate for him to be unprepared 
😉 Happy Trails, Mr. Pitner.
Most of you remember him as “The Mule Man” at Silver Dollar City and later, Dollywood. Somewhere, my mom has a picture of he & I together in front of the mill, me grinning like a mule eating sawbriars. Later, when I came to work at the Co-op, I was astonished when he came walking up to buy sweet feed. I hadn’t thought about him in twenty years, & thought he was long gone to heaven. He was OLD when I was little! But here he was, just acting like a normal person, shopping at th…e local feed & seed. I remember after he left, I was beside myself! I had just been in the presence of a real celebrity!!! Gary & Judy were laughing because he was just a regular mountain man to them, & unbeknownst to me, had lived right over the hill from me “in the valley” years ago (& missed it desperately, as he would tell anybody that asked).
Red, indeed, was a regular customer, I came to know soon after. I was always dazzled to wait on him & would engage him in conversation every time I had the opportunity. He worked at The Mine in Governor’s Crossing for awhile & would regale me with stories of the tourists who remembered him from their vacations in years previous, taken with their parents. And now here they were with THEIR kids, & had to have a picture with Red 🙂 I adored him and his wife, a sweet soft-spoken woman that reminded me so much of my great-grandmother. She has light grey hair that she wears in little pincurls, & printed polyester blouses, & carries a change purse. Just like my mamaw did. They knew my great-grandparents, & during one of my last chats with them we got to talking about my family. It was a nice visit. Red said, “We-ellll, we better git on outta here & letch yew git back t’werk. It was nice seein’ ya, there.” & he was gone. You can see Red at the Paul Murray gallery, or you can ask just about anyone in Sevier County for their story about him. Or any kid who went to Dollywood in the ’80s. He will be missed by many, including me. It’s never easy to lose a customer, especially one you have 30 years of memories with.
