A blinding flash went off, then another, and another.
“Stand over there with Velma,” ordered the editor. “Velma, look here an’ give me a big grin! I know it’s hard for you to grin at me, but force yourself, there you go, Betty Grable lives. Okay, let’s have a shot of Percy at th’ grill. Hey, Mule, move your big rear out of this shot an’ let Percy flip somethin’ on the grill….”
“His last flip!” said Coot Hendrick.
Lois Holshouser wrinkled her nose. “Who made this cake? Esther Bolick didn’t have anything to do with this cake, I can tell you that right now.”
“Store-bought,” said Winnie Ivey Kendall, who was not having any.
“Whose hat is this?” inquired Avis Packard. “Somebody handed me this hat. Is this your hat?”
“You’re supposed to put somethin’ in it.”
“Like what?”
“Money. For th’ cherry blossoms.”
“What cherry blossoms?”
Faye Tuttle announced a relative’s sad news to Esther Cunningham. “Multiple dystrophy,” said Faye, shaking her head.
J.C. mopped his brow with a paper napkin and handed off his Nikon camera to Lew Boyd. “Here you go, buddyroe, you won that big photo contest, crank off a shot of th’ Turkey Club with Percy an’ Velma. Come on, Mule, come on, Father, get over here. That’s it, look right through there and push th’ button….”
Flash. Flash.
“Speech! Speech!”
Hand clapping, foot stomping. A spoon ringing against a coffee mug.
“I’ve made plenty of speeches th’ last forty-four years,” said Percy, “an’ you’ve done forgot everything I said.
“So I ain’t makin’ a speech t’day except to say…”
In all his years as a regular, Father Tim had never seen Percy Mosely choke up. In case it was catching, he grabbed his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
“…except to say…”
“What’d he say?” asked someone in the rear.
“…to say…”
“Looks like he can’t say it.”
It was catching, all right. Father Tim peered around and saw several people wiping their eyes. Velma pushed forward from the crowd. “What he’s tryin’ to say is, thanks for th’ memories.”
“Right!” said Percy, blowing his nose.
Applause. Whistles.
“Great speech!” said Coot.
Shepherds Abiding, Ch. 9
The Death of Uncle Billy
“FATHER?”
He glanced at the clock: four a.m.
“Can you come?”
“I’m on my way.”
Though he’d been called out in the middle of the night only a dozen or so times in his priesthood, he resolutely adhered to a common practice of fire chiefs—he kept a shirt and pair of pants at the ready, and his shoes and socks by the bed.
He was entering the town limits when he realized he’d just blown past a Mitford police officer.
No need to be surprised, he thought, when he saw the blue light in his rearview mirror.
The officer stooped down to peer in the window. “You were haulin’.”
Clearly, Rodney Underwood had begun hiring people twelve years old and under.
“I was, officer. I’m sorry.” He adjusted his tab collar, to make sure the officer noticed he was clergy. “It’s Uncle Billy.” To his surprise, tears suddenly streamed down his cheeks.
“Uncle Billy?”
“One of the most important people in Mitford. He’s dying; Dr. Harper called me to come.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Certainly not.”
The young turk shook his head, as if greatly mystified.
“I don’ know what it is about preachers. All y’all seem t’ have a lead foot.”
In his room at Mitford Hospital, Uncle Billy tried to recollect which-away th’ lawyer joke started off. Was th’ lawyer a-drivin’ down th’ road when he hit a groundhog, or was he a-walkin’ down th’ road? An’ was it a groundhog or was it a sow pig?
His joke tellin’ days was givin’ out, that’s all they was to it.
He looked at the ceiling which appeared to be thick with lowering clouds, and with something like geese flying south.
Winter must be a-comin’. Seem like winter done come a week or two ago, and here it was a-comin’ ag’in, hit was enough t’ rattle a man’s brains th’ way things kep’ a-changin’.
He shivered suddenly and pulled the covers to his chin.
Snow clouds, that’s what they was! Hit’s goin’ t’ come a big snow or worser yet, a gulley-washin’ rain.
Bill Watson! What are you yammering about?
He hadn’t opened his trap, as far as he knowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her settin’ up in th’ bed next t’ his ’un, lookin’ like a witch on a broom.
Did you say it’s going to snow?
He lay as still as a buck in hunting season, and pressed his lips together so no words could escape.
Are you talking to yourself or to me, Bill Watson?
No, dadgummit, I ain’t a-talkin’ t’ you, I ain’t said a word t’ you! Lord knows, you’ve fretted me ’til I’m wore to a nubbin. Now, lay down!
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, in case they popped open and she saw that he was awake.
In a little bit, he’d try an’ git his mind back t’ th’ joke about th’ lawyer, maybe he’d stir up a laugh or two if anybody come a-knockin’ on th’ door, like maybe Preacher Kavanagh.
He breathed easier, then, and opened his eyes and gazed again at the ceiling. The geese had disappeared.
Gone south!
“Hush my mouth?” squawked his wife.
He felt a chill go up his spine; he reckoned ’is wife was a-readin’ ’is mind!
He’d never heered of such a low trick as that!
Lord have mercy, they was no end to it.
He didn’t know when he realized he was passing up through a cloud, like a feather floating upward on a mild breeze.
There was light ahead, and the cloud felt like his toaster oven set on low, just nice and warm, as it was a long time ago in his mama’s arms.
He kept his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t see the ceiling coming at him, then reckoned he must have floated right through it as easy as you please.
The light was getting stronger now. He found it odd that it didn’t hurt his eyes one bit; indeed, it felt good, like it was making his worn-out eyes brand-new….
Uncle Billy felt a hand close over his own. It was a touch that seemed familiar somehow….
The Almighty and merciful Lord…
Now, he was in the topmost branches of an apple tree, throwing apples down to his little sister, Maisie, and over yonder was his mama, waiting for him….
…grant thee pardon and remission of thy sins…
It seemed the words came from a very great distance….
He knew only that he was happy, very happy; his heart was about to burst. He tried to utter some word that would express the joy….
“…and the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit,” said Father Tim. “Amen.”
His voice sounded hollow in the empty room.
The following morning, Mitford learned that two of their own had been taken in the night.
William Benfield Watson had died in his sleep with a smile on his face, and in so doing, had attained the chief aim of every soul who desires a peaceful passing.
Less than an hour later, Gene Bolick died of the causal effects of an inoperable brain tumor. His wife, Esther, worn beyond telling, had left the hospital only a short time earlier at the insistence of the nursing staff.
It was Nurse Herman who stood at Gene’s bedside when he spoke his last words.
“Tell Esther…”
Nurse Herman leaned down to hear his hoarse whisper.
“…to pay the power bill.”
Nurse Herman didn’t know whether to share with Esther these prag
matic sentiments; the bereft widow might have hoped for something more.
Yet her greater concern was that Esther’s power might, indeed, be shut off—not a good thing with so many family and friends dropping by.
Thus, with the blessing of Dr. Harper, she recited these last words to Esther, and was vastly relieved when the grieving and exhausted widow thanked her for the reminder.
“Are you sure that’s all he said?” Esther mopped her eyes with a wadded-up section of hospital toilet paper.
As ardently as Nurse Herman wanted to report something truly heartwarming, the truth was the truth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s all.”
Indeed, she had long kept a memorized selection of made-up last words to offer a bereaved family—but only if absolutely, positively necessary.
In this case, Tell Esther I love her would have been very nice, though basic.
Tell Esther I appreciate all the years she devoted herself to my happiness would be more flowery, but not completely believable, as Mr. Bolick hadn’t been the flowery type.
Tell Esther I’ll see her in heaven would be tricky, as it was sometimes impossible to figure who was going to heaven and who was going to the other place.
And then there was her personal favorite: Tell Esther she was the light of my life.
She had heard of people saying amazing things as they passed. She would never forget being told in seventh grade what Thomas Edison had said: “It it is very beautiful over there.”
That sort of remark was comforting to those left behind; she wished dying patients would say things like that more often.
In any case, she had told Esther the plain truth and, happy to have these odd last words off her chest, reported further that Mr. Bolick had looked peaceful, very peaceful, and had not struggled at the end.
Light from Heaven, Ch. 13
Uncle Billy’s Funeral
THR LOSS OF Uncle Billy signaled the end of an era. But an era of what? Something like innocence, he thought, poring over the burial service.
Uncle Billy’s rich deposit of memory had included a time when kith and kin went barefoot in summer and, if money was short, even in winter; when pies and cobblers were always made from scratch and berries were picked from the fields; when young boys set forth with a gun or a trap or a fishing pole and toted home a meal, proud as any man to provision the family table; when the late-night whistle of a train still stirred the imagination and haunted the soul….
He sat at the desk in the Meadowgate library and considered the jokes Uncle Billy had diligently rounded up over the years, and told to one and all. Of the legions, he remembered only the census taker and gas stove jokes, the latter worthy, in his personal opinion, of the Clean Joke Hall of Fame, if there was such a thing.
It would certainly be an unusual addition to the 1928 prayer book office for the burial of the dead, but he was following his heart on this one.
He called Miss Rose and asked permission, not an easy task right there. Then he leafed through the Mitford phone book, jotting down numbers.
What if he carried forth this foolish notion and no one laughed? Would that dishonor the man they’d come to honor?
“Psalm Fifteen,” he told the graveside gathering, “says ‘the cheerful heart hath a continual feast.’ And Proverbs seventeen twenty-two asserts that ‘a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’
“Indeed, one of the translations of that proverb reads ‘a cheerful disposition is good for your health; gloom and doom leave you bone-tired.’
“Bill Watson spent his life modeling a better way to live, a healthier way, really, by inviting us to share in a continual feast of laughter. Sadder even than the loss of this old friend, is that most of us never really got it, never quite understood the sweet importance of this simple, yet profound ministry in which he faithfully persevered.
“Indeed, the quality I loved best about our good brother was his faithful perseverance.
“When the tide seemed to turn against loving, he loved anyway. When doing the wrong thing was far easier than doing the right thing, he did the right thing anyway. And when circumstances sought to prevail against laughter, he laughed anyway.
“I’m reminded of how an ardent cook loves us with her cooking or baking, just as Esther Bolick has loved so many with her orange marmalade cakes. In the same way, Uncle Billy loved us with his jokes. And oh, how he relished making us laugh, prayed to make us laugh! And we did.
“I hope you’ll pitch in with me to remember Bill Watson with a few of his favorite jokes. We have wept and we will weep again over the loss of his warm and loyal friendship. But I know he’s safe in the arms of our Lord, Jesus Christ, precisely where God promises that each of His children will be after death.
“This wondrous truth is something to joyfully celebrate. And I invite us to celebrate with laughter. May its glad music waft heavenward, expressing our heartfelt gratitude for the unique and tender gift of William…Benfield…Watson.”
He nodded to Old Man Mueller, who, only a few years ago, had regularly sat on the Porter place lawn with Uncle Billy and watched cars circle the monument.
The elderly man stood in his ancient jacket and best trousers and cleared his throat and looked around at the forty other souls gathered under the tent on this unseasonably hot day.
“Feller went to a doctor and told ’im what all was wrong.”
He sneezed, and dug a beleaguered handkerchief from his pants pocket.
“So, th’ doctor give ’im a whole lot of advice about how t’ git well.” He proceeded to blow his nose with considerable diligence.
“In a little bit, th’ feller started t’ leave an’ th’ doctor says, ‘Hold on! You ain’t paid me f’r my ad vice.’ Feller said, ‘That’s right, b’cause I ain’t goin’ t’ take it!’”
Old Man Mueller sat down hard on the metal folding chair, under which his dog, Luther, was sleeping. A gentle breeze moved beneath the tent.
I’ve stepped in it, now, thought Father Tim. Not a soul laughed—or for that matter, even smiled. He prayed silently as Percy Mosely rose and straightened the collar of his knit shirt.
Percy wished to the dickens he’d worn a jacket and tie, it hadn’t even occurred to him until he stood up here to make a fool of himself. But if he was going to be a fool, he wanted to be the best fool he could possibly be—for Uncle Billy’s sake. “Put your heart in it!” Father Tim had said.
“A deputy sheriff caught a tourist drivin’ too fast, don’t you know. Well, sir, he pulled th’ tourist over an’ said, ‘Where’re you from?’ Th’ tourist said, ‘Chicago.’ ‘Don’t try pullin’ that stuff on me,’ said th’ deputy. ‘Your license plate says lllinoise!’”
Percy swayed slightly on his feet as a wave of sheer terror passed over him. Had he done it? Had he told the joke? His mind was a blank. He sat down.
In the back row, the mayor’s secretary giggled, but glanced at the coffin and clapped her hand over her mouth. The Mitford postmaster, whose mother lived in Illinois, chuckled.
The vicar crossed himself.
Solemn as a judge, J. C. Hogan rose to his feet and wiped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. He wouldn’t do this for just anybody, no way, but he’d do it for Uncle Billy. In his opinion, Uncle Billy was an out-and-out hero to have lived with that old crone for a hundred years.
The editor buttoned the suit jacket he’d just unbuttoned; if he was a drinking man, he’d have had a little shooter before this thing got rolling. And what was he supposed to do, anyway? Talk like Uncle Billy, or talk like himself? He decided to do a combo deal.
“Did you hear the one about the guy who hit his first golf ball and made a hole in one? Well, sir, he th’owed that club down an’ stomped off, said, ‘Shoot, they ain’t nothin’ to this game, I quit! ’”
The postmaster laughed out loud. The mayor’s secretary cackled like a laying hen. Avis Packard, seated in the corner by the tent pole, let go with what sounded like a guffaw.
The golfers in the crow
d had been identified.
Exhausted, J.C. thumped into the metal chair.
The vicar felt a rivulet of sweat running down his back. And where was his own laughter? He had blabbed on and on about the consolations of laughter, and not a peep out of yours truly who’d concocted this notion in the first place.
Mule Skinner stood, nodded to the crowd, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat. This was his favorite Uncle Billy joke, hands down, and he was honored to tell it—if he could remember it. That was the trick. When he practiced it last night on Fancy, he left a gaping hole in the middle which made the punch line go south.
“A ol’ man and a ol’ woman was settin’ on th’ porch, don’t you know.” Heads nodded. This was one of Uncle Billy’s classics.
“Th’ ol’ woman said, ‘You know what I’d like t’ have?’ Ol’ man said, ‘What’s ’at?’
“She says, ‘A big ol’ bowl of vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce an’ nuts on top!’”
Uncle Billy, himself, couldn’t do it better! thought the vicar.
“He says, ‘By jing, I’ll jis’ go down t’ th’ store an’ git us some.’ She says, ‘You better write that down or you’ll fergit it!’ He says, ‘I ain’t goin’ t’ fergit it.’
“Went to th’ store, come back a good bit later with a paper sack. Hands it over, she looks in there, sees two ham san’wiches.”
Several people sat slightly forward on their folding chairs.
“She lifted th’ top off one of them san’wiches, says, ‘Dadgummit, I told you you’d fergit! I wanted mustard on mine!’”
The whole company roared with laughter, save Miss Rose, who sat stiff and frowning on the front row.
“That was my favorite Uncle Billy joke!” someone exclaimed.
Coot Hendrick stood for a moment, and sat back down. He didn’t think he could go through with this. But he didn’t want to show disrespect to Uncle Billy’s memory.
He stood again, cleared his throat, scratched himself—and went for it.
“A farmer was haulin’ manure, don’t you know, an’ ’is truck broke down in front of a mental institution. One of th’ patients, he leaned over th’ fence an’ said, ‘What’re you goin’ t’ do with that manure?’