Chapter 5
THE STING OF DEATH.
(My
dear young Mother’s death in March 1954)
In
those days (more so than today), parents kept many family matters (especially
sensitive matters) secret from their children (especially from small children).
I vaguely remember both of my parents announcing to us children that
Mother was to go into the hospital for an operation. That was about all that
was told to me at the time. I now know that the doctor had urged her for some
time to have needed surgery. From dread of it and lack of money to pay
for it, she kept putting it off until it became absolutely
necessary. Likely Daddy and Mother had no insurance to pay
any part of doctor and hospital bills.
Recently
a hospital had been built at Vernon (and was somewhat “in the rough” in several
ways). Mother said she would have her surgery there for convenience (close to
home). Some of my uncles and aunts urged her to go to Fayette Hospital, a
better choice. Had Mother gone into the Fayette Hospital, likely she would have
lived. But her mind prevailed over other people, and she went to Vernon
Hospital.
My
little simple mind simply took this news in simple stride,
thinking that Mother would simply go to the hospital, have the operation
(of which I knew nothing of what the operation entailed), and come home in a
few days in much better health. That would be the end of this simple
matter. And our family life would continue on as usual
(or even better).
Mother
and Daddy made all the necessary preparations as best they could. Mother
entered the hospital on Friday or Saturday. On Sunday morning Daddy attended
church with us 4 children. Likely when the church service ended, Pastor and
Sister Cobb told Daddy to bring a few extra clothes for Joe to church that night, and leave him at their house for them to look after
5-year-old Joe. (They lived in the parsonage next door to the church.) Then my
family left church that Sunday morning, and drove to
the hospital to visit Mother.
We all
5 went into her hospital room. I recall only one thing she talked of as
we stood by her bed. “This morning, I wanted so badly to roll over onto
my side and look out the window to watch our car go by as you all went to
church. But with this needle in my arm, I could not move enough to do that.”
Those sad words of regret were the last words of my
dear Mother that I remember.
Her
hospital room’s large window faced County Road 9 from 400 yards (or more) away
across farm fields. We lived on that road and always drove it
going to church. The sight of the bottle on a pole with a tube leading
to the needle in her arm frightened little me.
We 5
journeyed on home and had our Sunday dinner and supper without Mother in an
atmosphere of subdued silence. We attended Sunday night church,
and left Joe with Pastor and Mrs. Cobb. The following day (Monday),
Janiece, Sid, and I went to school. Mother had surgery. Daddy was quite busy.
We children did not get to visit Mother that day. Tuesday, we 3 kids again
caught the school bus and went to school as usual.
Tuesday
afternoon, as time neared for school to dismiss,
the Elementary School Principal, Mrs. Smith, came to the door of my classroom
and called Mrs. Duke out into the hall. There she whispered to Mrs. Duke that
my Mother had died, and that my uncle had come to the
school in his car to get us 3 children. Keeping a composed smiling tender face,
Mrs. Duke called to me from the classroom doorway telling me to come to her. “Your
Uncle Luther has come to take you home today. So, get your notebook and jacket,
and go to him waiting in his car right outside here out front.”
Uncle
Luther Cash was Mother’s youngest brother. I got my few things from my desk
that I normally take home, walked out to his car and got in. Sidney was already
in the car. As we waited for Janiece to come out, I asked Uncle Luther, ‘Are
you going to take us home?’
“Yes,
but we are going by the hospital first.”
‘Oh,
so he is going to take us by the hospital to see Mother,’ I thought to myself. ‘Good!’
Years
later when I was a young adult, I once sat in Uncle Luther’s living room with
him and Aunt Marjorie, reminiscing about this day. ‘I got into the back seat
and when I asked you that question, you just kept staring out the front
windshield of the car as you replied gravely with so few words and not looking
back at me. Do you remember acting that way?’
“I
sure do remember. I was afraid I would break down crying if I talked much or
looked at you kids.”
Soon Janiece
came out of school, got into the car with us and we 4 headed for the hospital
less than a mile away. Just before school soon dismissed for the day, each of
our 3 teachers solemnly announced to Janiece’s and Sidney’s and my
classmates that our Mother had died today at the
hospital.
Arriving
at the hospital, Uncle Luther led us to Mother’s room. One or two nurses and
one or two other adults were standing in the room, most solemn, in a quiet
hush. I didn’t notice that everyone’s eyes were red from crying, nor could
I know that they were terribly dreading the revealing that was about to take
place. Daddy was sitting in a chair on the far side of the room against the
window that Mother wanted to look out 2 days ago to see our car passing by on
the way to church. The people present sort of silently ushered us 3 kids over
to Daddy. I looked into his most sad
face and saw that his eyes were red.
To get
to Daddy, we kids had walked around the foot of Mother’s bed where her lifeless
body lay completely covered (hidden) by a bed sheet. I saw that “form” on the
bed and everyone’s sadness. Still, it didn’t register on my little
mind that anything was wrong. I didn’t think about the possibility of
Mother’s corpse being under that sheet, nor did I even ponder
where Mother might be, tho I saw her not.
Upon
the people silently ushering us 3 up close to Daddy, he spoke pointedly,
announcing to us. “Kids, we don’t have a Mother anymore.”
As he announced that sad news, he took the top edge of the bed sheet in hand
and pulled it down to reveal Mother’s lifeless face to us. I recall seeing the
blue areas that had formed on her face after death. The realization that Mother
was dead now instantly hit me clearly,
and likely I was the first to burst out bawling, as I quickly turned
from Mother’s lifeless form trying to bury myself against Daddy seated there,
somewhat trying to hide from the tragic reality that Mother was dead. Everyone
else present in the room set
in weeping.
Soon
we 3 kids walk back to Uncle Luther’s car with him. As
we are driving away from the hospital, we meet the hearse driving
in to the hospital. “That hearse is coming to take your Mother,” Uncle Luther sadly announced to us. That
sounded so final.
I don’t
think our Pastor Cobb was present in Mother’s hospital room at this time. And
though he did come to the hospital, I think Sister Cobb kept Joe at their house
this day. I don’t think they brought him to the hospital to view Mother as we
other three kids did. Daddy went to the telephone operator’s house in town,
gave her the phone numbers of his and Mother’s relatives who had phones. Most
who had phones lived in Fayette, Tuscaloosa and Birmingham, Alabama, and around
Columbus, Mississippi. The operator called each number, told each relative the
sad news, and Daddy paid her for each of those long-distance calls. Likely none
of Mother’s many relatives in Lamar County had a telephone yet. Someone had to
drive to each of their houses to inform them.
Uncle
Luther drove Janiece, Sidney, and me home. Relatives, friends and neighbors
were already beginning to gather at our house. Daddy was not there now. I was deeply
saddened, but (more so) most dazed, shocked and stunned.
Little Boy Richard had never thought about the prospect of anyone in my
immediate family dying any time soon. Why, I had just recently
started life, and subconsciously I deemed it would be many, many
years in the future before Death paid a visit to any one of my immediate
family members. But suddenly, Mother was gone, never again to return to
our house. It did indeed stun Little Me.
Having
come home now, in my daze, I set about to do my necessary daily evening
chore of feeding the hogs up in the hog pen past the toilet. By this time,
Daddy’s younger brother, Uncle Raphael Yerby from Fayette, had arrived at the
house. I ignored the several adults that had arrived by now, (and on my own initiative)
took the 5-gallon metal bucket from the back porch, and
headed toward the corncrib in the barn to fill the bucket with corn on the cob
to take to the hog pen. I had been taught to faithfully do my daily
chores, no matter what. Those hogs will get hungry and want their supper
as usual, no matter who dies. Upon seeing what I was doing, Uncle Raphael came
to me. “I’ll feed the hogs for you…How many ears of corn do you give them?...Do
you shuck it or leave the shucks on the corn?”
I
answered his questions. He took my bucket from me, went to the barn to get the
corn, and following my instructions he fed the hogs for me. It seemed so out
of place to me, for Uncle Raphael (an adult living in town, a “city slicker”,
to my mind) to condescend to the dirty, lowly chore of feeding hogs for little
ol’ me. Still, I didn’t really feel bad that he did it. Actually,
I sort of felt like, ‘I sure would like to keep him on, full time.’
People
flocked in with food, which we ate for supper as
several of them joined us for supper, eating their
good food they had brought. This was Tuesday night
and we 3 children would not attend school again until the following Monday.
The
next day (Wednesday), a good number of people are at our house all day, coming
and going, preparing each meal, washing the dishes, and doing every necessary
chore they can possibly do. I cheered up somewhat, enjoying everyone’s company,
their delicious food, and their extreme kindness to our poor (and now Motherless),
grieving family.
Now,
each morning and afternoon, the school bus slows way
down as it passes our house. The children on the bus silently stare at
our house from its large windows. “Funeral” signs are set out beside the
road, in each direction, a short distance from the house. So, all vehicles reverently
slow down to pass the house. After school lets out in
the afternoon, some people come with their children. I then play outside with
other kids and that fun overcomes much of my sadness during the time I am
involved in that fun.
In
those days, the funeral home usually brought the deceased person’s body to
their own house (even to our poor, dilapidated shack) for the “viewing”,
instead of having the viewing at the funeral home. So, this afternoon
(Wednesday), that forlorn hearse comes to our house, and I watch as several men
solemnly bring the casket into our living room, set it up and open it. Again, I
gaze on my Mother’s lifeless face, no longer with blue
places on it that I saw in the hospital yesterday.
So,
until 9 PM or so, many people come and go (most all our church people and
neighbors, along with many friends and relatives). Most stayed long, not rushed
like busy people are now-a-days. Most brought food, and many would sit down in our
humble kitchen to eat from the abundance they all had generously
brought. (You well know that funerals are much like reunions.) Folks milled
about inside the house, on the front porch, and out in the yard, talking and “visiting”
with each other. (It’s only slightly chilly this time of year.) Our living room
was most crowded with Mother’s casket and many people. Folks would sit on the
sides of our 2 double beds in the living room, lacking any other place to sit. “The
Poor House”, it definitely was.
Each
person who came stood before Mother’s casket for some time, “viewing”, while
talking with other viewers standing there. Most everyone wept, especially the
women and girls. Some adult later told us that they witnessed 5-year-old Joe
walking up to the casket, peering at Mother and asking her to “fix him a
biscuit”.
Between
meals at home, when one of us kids told Mother we were hungry, she usually “fixed”
us a biscuit by slicing a home-baked biscuit open, spreading butter and a
little sugar inside, and then folding that “sandwich” and giving it to the
hungry child for a snack. A “butter ‘n sugar” biscuit, we called it.
Someone said Joe asked Mother for one that evening. But our dear Mother was no
longer with us on earth to ever again “fix” us a biscuit, cook us
a meal, take care of, and love and enjoy her children, watch us grow up, and
see grandchildren and great grandchildren, like Daddy was privileged to do.
Mother’s
funeral would be held at our church the next
afternoon, Thursday. Her body would “lie in state” in our house until the
pallbearers again put it into the hearse tomorrow about noon on Thursday to
take it to the church. In a show of respect for the deceased person, men took
turns sitting up all night with the “body”, 2 or 3 men sat together in the
living room for about a 3-hour shift each, until the house became alive the
next day with daytime visitors. Such customs of courteous respect for the dead,
long ago just about completely ceased in our busy, nation.
I
think Daddy slept in his and Mother’s bed in the side room
this night. Likely Joe had continuously spent each night at Pastor Cobb’s
house. Tonight, relatives take us other 3 children to their respective houses
for the night. I ride with Papa and Mama Yerby to
their house near Belk. Likely Sid went there also. (We 4 children certainly
couldn’t sleep on our 2 beds here in our living room where Mother lay in state,
and men sat up all night talking.)
Thursday,
we all travel back to our house. The hearse again comes for Mother’s body and
takes it to our church. The first part of the early afternoon funeral is a “viewing”.
I sit on Uncle Robert’s knees during the funeral. I watch the “viewers” as they reverently; silently file up the church aisle to the
casket for a brief view. The ones who do not stay any longer,
then file out of the church. Those were mostly people who were on their jobs nearby, and briefly left work to pay their respects. Amongst
them was my schoolteacher, Mrs. Duke. As she walked up the aisle, she purposely
looked for me, saw me and stopped at the row of seats where I was about 4 seats
away from the aisle, and smiled and waved at me most kindly and tenderly.
I just stared sadly at her from my perch on Uncle Robert’s knee and kept
sobbing, not returning any greeting to her. She returned to my classmates in
her classroom to relieve some other adult who sat in for her.
At the
hospital, being shown Mother’s corpse so abruptly before
informing me that she had died, and thus suddenly realizing she was dead greatly saddened me. Then the continuous
flurry of people around us, much loving attention and good food lifted my
spirits much. It again saddened me when they brought her casket to our house
and opened it. But now the funeral deeply saddens me worst of
all, I think. Along with most others present, I weep and sob through most of
it.
A
quartet of godly Christian men sings several most meaningful old
Christian songs. “Glad Reunion Day.” “Farther Along We’ll Know All About It.” I
remember them singing those 2 songs. Likely both former Pastor Warren and
Pastor Cobb preached. Presently, I remember nothing of the funeral sermon.
My
family of 5 was chauffeured by some relative in his car just behind the
hearse in a quite long funeral procession (our ancient car was not
in the procession) out to Furnace Hill Cemetery (close to 3 miles from the
church) to Mother’s grave that men had dug by hand. We watch men lower
her casket into the grave, hand shovel the dirt onto it,
and gently place all the flowers upon the fresh sod. More kind words
were offered by a preacher, a prayer was prayed, and many people lingered
around at length before everyone finally left. Several came on down to
our house. People ate of the much good food piled onto
our kitchen table, talked, kindly spoke words of comfort and friendly
encouragement to us by saying they would stand by us and help us much. They were true to their word,
and helped us much (especially during
the following 12 months or so).
“For
his ways are not our ways, and his thoughts are not our thoughts.”
Though
my parents were humble, godly Christians, as a young married couple they
endured 2 hardships in particular that would tend to cause “the natural man” to
question why God would allow such hardships to come upon a godly Christian man
and wife who were toiling so hard in poverty to make a living for their family.
The first
hardship: Our house was most poorly built (as also the
other “farm buildings” on our farm). Before buying this farm,
Daddy and Mother had lived on (rented) 2 or 3 other farms, and each of those
had much better buildings on them. The majority
of farms in that area had a better farmhouse than ours. Why did it
befall our family’s lot for Daddy to buy this farm with such a poorly
built shack for his family to live in? I have already told you of the
cracks in the floor that let in cold winter wind. The exterior walls allowed
much winter cold to pass thru them also. But the roof was the greatest
problem.
The
outer roof was oak wood shingles nailed overlapping onto the decking of rough
wooden boards, with NO wide sheet of black felt paper (called “tarpaper”)
between the plank decking and wood shingles (I’m quite sure).
With
passing time, a split would occur in shingles (one by one) where the nail holes
were, allowing rainwater to leak thru the split. The number of splits (and
places of leakage) steadily increased. Because the shingles overlapped,
one could not easily replace individual shingles that developed splits. The
only good solution would be to tear off all the shingles and put
on a new and different kind of outer roof. (A tin roof
would have been much better.) But replacing the roof was not in our poor
family’s budget.
In our
poverty, we “fought” the problem of getting rained on inside our own
house by putting pots, pans, and buckets under the leaks as they
dripped thru the ceiling. When it started raining, it was a sight to behold our
family brigade going into action. We started getting those vessels from the
kitchen and back porch, and placing them on the floors
and on beds under each known leaking place. Then we watched carefully as
the water started dripping thru the ceiling in numerous places; in order to reposition our vessels dead center under each
leak to be sure we caught the water in a vessel, especially the leaks above
a bed.
The
rooms’ ceilings were made of rough boards of lumber. The living room (and
possibly the kitchen) ceiling was covered with cheap paper (like wall paper), that looked just a little better
than the rough lumber boards. When rain poured down, we listened carefully for
new leaks dropping onto the ceiling boards and watched for a bulge (pooled
rainwater) to form in the paper that is on the underside (ceiling side) of the
boards.
“I
hear it dripping here!” (from the roof onto the ceiling’s upper surface in the
attic), a child would call out upon such a discovery. When a new bulge formed,
holding a pan in one hand, Daddy would puncture the bulge in the paper with a
kitchen knife in his other hand, catch the fount of water that poured forth in
the pan, and then set the pan directly below this new dripping leak.
At
such frantic, depressing times, more than once, Mother
broke down in despair and defeat,
sobbing. “I just hope I live long enough to have a house that doesn’t leak!”
Her motherly instincts so much desired to “feather a nest” that
was reasonably comfortable and pleasant enough for her family.
When
our entire family was to be away from the house for a few hours (at
church or such times), if rain appeared likely during that time, before
leaving the house we would diligently set the pots, pans and buckets
under each known leak (striving to accurately locate each vessel so as to not miss). If rain set in while we were away, upon
returning home we all rushed into the house to see how well our catching act
had succeeded.
At
times, we missed at 1 or more known locations. At times, a new leak had come
thru (with no vessel under it, of course). It was especially troublesome when
it leaked onto a bed while we were away (soaking the bedding). Sometimes it
started raining while we were away, but we had not set out any
vessels (thinking rain was not likely). Surveying the awful, soggy
scene upon returning home, at times Mother broke down
crying. “I just hope I live long enough to have a house that doesn’t leak!”
Almighty God saw fit to move Mother into a Perfect and Most Beautiful Home
in Heaven. “He hath done all things well.”
Years
before, when Daddy was looking for a farm to buy, Almighty God could easily
have provided him a farm to buy that had good buildings entirely. But God did
not choose to do so. “He hath done all things well.”
The second
hardship: A year or so before Mother died, Mr. Glenn built the “garment plant”
in Vernon where workers cut cloth material and sewed it into men’s trousers. I
reckon that was the first “factory” of any size to bring “manufacturing”
to our rural town. It employed close to 100 people, I guess. Pore Folks rushed
to apply for those jobs. My Uncle Luther and his wife, Aunt Marjorie, were both
hired, he on the cutting board, cutting bulk cloth according to the patterns
for men’s trousers, and Aunt Marjorie got a nice job in the office. (The
hospital called him at work there to inform him of Mother’s death. He then took
off work and drove to school to get us children.) A good
number of farm wives got a job there, resulting in the first
ever steady paycheck for their families. My Mother greatly
desired to become one of those employees. Dad desired the same. We pore
children highly desired the same.
The
starting pay was the minimum wage set by the U.S. government (likely 75 cents
an hour at that time.) The workers were paid weekly each Friday afternoon at
the end of the 5-day workweek; $30 gross, with close to $25 take-home pay.
Uncle Sam didn’t take a very big bite out of paychecks back then. My poor
family sometimes went weeks on end with no income
(possibly a scant amount of egg and butter money), especially thru out the
winter when we had no farm produce to sell. The prospect of Mother bringing home
almost $25 steady, each and every week
would be like great riches to our family. (Keep in mind how low
prices were in 1953, as compared to when you read this.)
Upon
the garment plant opening, people desiring employment could go there early any
Monday morning to “sign up” before the workday started at 7 AM. The man who did
the hiring would choose (from that list), the names of workers he had decided
to hire that week, call them forth to start work at 7 AM that very day,
and the unfortunate ones who were not hired, would return home.
For
several weeks, Daddy faithfully drove Mother there each Monday morning about 6:30. (Mother did not drive.) Upon once
signing up on a Monday, those seekers just showed up well before 7 AM on
following Mondays, and waited to see if their names
would be called from the list. (Few or none of those applicants had a home
phone in 1953.)
After
Daddy and Mother left the house early each Monday morning, we children would
pray so
earnestly in childhood faith (spurred by dire poverty) that
Mother would get hired that day. We would cross our fingers (supposedly for
good luck), and beg God to let Mother get hired. We
eagerly watched for our car to come back into sight, hoping ever so desperately and
sincerely that Daddy would be alone in the car (indicating that
Mother gotten hired). But all was to no avail, and our
tender little hearts plunged in disappointment when time and
again we saw Mother return in the car with Daddy by 7:20 AM or so.
Several farm neighbors around us were hired. “If only Mother can
get hired, she can ride (carpool) in one of the cars of garment plant workers
going past our house each weekday.”
This
routine went on for several weeks with Mother going there early each Monday without
fail. Then one week Mother contracted the mumps and was just too sick
to go on Monday morning. Yes. You’ve already guessed it. That
which we all had so hoped for, on so many a poverty-stricken
Monday morning came to pass this day. The man doing the hiring called
for Mother to come forth to be hired unto a weekly paycheck. We
had no phone at home. He could not call our house to
inquire of the matter. He simply called forth a different applicant and hired
that person. Mother missed her one chance of upping our direly
poor family far up the income scale.
The “natural man” inside each and every Christian
believer cries out in disbelief and despair “Why would God allow Mattie Ruth to
be physically unable to be there the one day when she could have gained
employment and a weekly paycheck?”
The only proper thing for us Christians in all
such cases, is to heartily praise God, while joyfully
proclaiming to all Creation that, “He hath done all
things well.” As the song goes: “We will understand it better bye
and bye.”
Steadily, as more and more
rain came leaking thru our roof onto us inside our house with each
successive rain, why did not God spare Mother from sickness, to enable
her to be there waiting to hear her name called that one time. We do not
know. But in unwavering faith and belief, we are to honestly
confess:
“He hath done all things well.” And we are to heartily
praise our Lord for always at all times
doing all things well!
I
thank God for creating within me a heart that well accepts things that absolutely
cannot be changed (like Mother’s death). From the time I faced it in that
hospital room, I have never really questioned why God would allow that.
I honestly believe I have never been bitter toward God regarding that. I give
God the Glory for keeping my heart right in this matter. I also rejoice that
Mother was immediately ushered into her Lord’s Presence upon her
physical death, where the roof never leaks, where all her bodily
ailments and weariness immediately vanished, where she never
since has had any discomfort or sadness, where she never once again
has worried about the fate of her 4 small children left without their Mother. Truly “He
hath done all things well.”
Christian friend, ask God to enable you to confess that Truth from Your heart in each adverse circumstance that comes your way. That (along with Romans 8:28 below) is total victory for you thru out your earthly journey, no matter what adversities beset you along the way.
“And we know that all things work together for good to
them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”
Abba Father in Heaven, please work freely in my heart to
enable me to fully love Thee first and foremost with all my heart. That will
put an end to much misery and heartache in life. Amen!
My
Mother’s earthly journey was quite short (just over 40 years), and was filled
with much hard labour, weariness, unfulfilled desires, misfortune
(with the disappointments and sadness that follows), and many
tears. But only one thing really matters. Where
does one’s earthly journey end??? Praise God that my Mother’s
earthly journey ended in God’s Glorious and Perfect Heaven where she has ever
since been in perfect bliss, joy, and comfort (and will be
forever). Daddy has since joined Mother there. All four of their
children are journeying to the Celestial City to join them, by means of faith
in The Lord Jesus Christ, God the Saviour for any
person who will come to Him in repentance and faith.
Reader
Friend, to where are you journeying to dwell eternally???
Lost
Sinner Friend, it would behoove you to pray this following prayer in earnest!
Almighty
God, please have great mercy on me to save me from daily striving to gain all of the world I possibly can, while my eternal soul is
lost and headed for eternal Hell fire! Grant me a truly repentant heart
toward Thee, I plead! Amen.
The
End of Chapter 5