| The inevitable by
Tom Kelly Of the events of human life to which we all bear witness, only one seeks us out, each one, eventually regardless of race, gender, marital status, wealth, political color, religious profession, social status, physical prowess, mental power, professional or civic achievement. As it was put, and attributed variously to the British economist John Maynard Keynes, or perhaps it was one of the old capitalists of the Nineteen Twenties, who when asked for the formula for a sure-fire long-term economic investment, replied, "In the long term we're all dead." I have been reminded of this inevitability with increasing frequency within the past few months and years, as close acquaintances, relatives, and friends take that final step. Not that I feel myself going just yet; I have things to do until I'm 101, which when you add it up is closer in time than some other numbers I have already experienced. In fairly rapid succession among close acquaintances this year, there have been the not unexpected passing of long-time educator and Piney Woods Journal historian Murphy Barr, followed by former Dodson Mayor A.J. Wendt, and more recently last month, a fellow Gaar's Mill/Harmony Grove Baptist "alumnus," Lee Mack Robertson, who carried and lived the title of Reverend, or the more common "Brother," conferred familiarly on those who preach the Christian gospel. (This is not, of course, any attempt to list all the deaths within our readership area, only to share a few feelings which are common to most of us in contemplating our own mortality, and the passing of those close to us.) I learned of Lee Mack's death on the afternoon of Friday, August 1, while delivering copies of The Piney Woods Journal in Sabine Parish, via a cell phone call from home relaying the information from Lee Mack's Dodson cousin, Gary Robertson, whose daughter Dana helped us start up The Piney Woods Journal as a typist and bookkeeper helper while still a junior at Dodson High School back in 1997. The prior day, July 31, I had been a pallbearer at the funeral of A.J. Wendt, whose daughter, Patricia has been an indispensable "soldier" in the Journal's advertising sales and production efforts since 1998 or 1999--neither of us can remember exactly when it began. Connections are close, individuals are important in Dodson because there are so few of us. Lee Mack's funeral was held on Monday, August 4, at the Harmony Grove Baptist Church in the old building which sheltered the Harmony Grove Baptist congregation for nigh onto a century, just up the road a piece on Highway 34 from the site of the old Gaar's cotton gin and grist mill which gave the community its name. The church ceased operations sometime in the 1960s, after the community's Depression-era farm population moved to town, or died out one by one. Descendants of the old families continue to meet in the place for reunion each Fall, and occasionally a family group gathers for a special event, often for another funeral service and burial in the cemetery, which remains under perpetual care from a substantial fund which has been accumulated by the annual collections. Within the past couple of years, Lee Mack, his family and other volunteers began working and guiding a series of improvements--including air conditioning and ceiling fans--to the church building and grounds, and to conduct regular services on a part-time basis along with another pastorate at Mill Creek church. At the funeral service for Lee Mack, the church was packed. It was obvious that "visitation" had been in progress for several hours, possibly even overnight, in the old-time manner when the custom was called a "wake," or a "sitting up," often held in the home of the deceased. Food and drink was in abundance in the anterooms just off the auditorium, and family and guests spent time before the formal service mingling, before an open casket, again in the old-time way. The actual service was conducted by a group of visiting ministers, with instrumental and vocal music, numerous personal testimonies attesting to Bro. Robertson's Christian life, an evangelistic sermon which elicited numerous "amens," nodding heads and a few tears, with an extended altar call. As the service progressed, my mind went to other services in this place from past years, beginning with a similar one for my grandfather, James Thomas Kelly, who sold the land for the church building site to the congregation for $5 many years ago, and who was buried in the adjacent cemetery when I was a lad of about two-and-a-half years. In later years, both my father and mother reposed in this same auditorium, and lie in a family grave nearby. Something of the ties that bind families and communities may have been lost as the rites of death have become more adapted to our complicated modern lifestyles. I saw the "old way" at work at Lee Mack Robertson's funeral. It still works. I reminded myself of a piece of writing some years ago in a newspaper trade magazine which I used to read, which said that some serious research had been done and it was discovered that all old journalists eventually died, regardless of possible expectations of immortality on this Earth. That being the reality, I call to mind a brief "few words" spoken at our Dodson table at a recent Thanksgiving Day meal, useful also perhaps in other settings: While we are alive together, |