Ozark Elegy: Six Scenes From a Funeral

1

“Our story’s not a cypher, Jude,” Dad said. “It’s written in the clay of this hill, and on the stones planted in it.”

We stood, together, leaning on our shovel handles, staring down into the red-black dirt of J. Robert Meguiar’s grave, the graveside service tent still erect behind us. We were the only people left in the Mount Horeb cemetery, the other mourners having retired to the little, white, cinder block church for which the cemetery has its name. After each member of the family had ritualistically tossed a shovel of dirt into the grave, they had all headed for the chapel, where the few remaining Mount Horeb members were serving dinner. All, that is, except for my father, who stayed behind, to spread more clay upon his father’s resting place.

A sparrow flew down and pecked at the upturned soil. A burst of winter wind blew in, and the sparrow flew away. A flurry of snow began to fall, resting on my father’s thick, black suit. He adjusted his gloves and shoveled more dirt; I followed his lead. “Grandpa was a good man,” I said. “Always kind to us kids. A passionate preacher. A loving husband. A peacemaker.”

“He was those things. For better and, sometimes, for worse. And he was my father.” He paused to catch his breath.

“Mark my words, son. When I pass from this earth, I’ll join him and these other sons and daughters of mountain men. I’ll sleep here, until the Judgement, next to my kin. And you—you and your brothers. You boys, specifically, had better take care of me, take care of all the funeral arrangements, and after, too. Else I’ll come back and haunt you! Of that you can be sure.”

I chuckled a little, not sure of how serious he might be. “Yes, of course, you know we will take care of everything, especially Shep and I.”

Where would I end up buried? Here? In the city where I had moved with my wife and children for work?

“Great-Great-Grandpa’s up there near the center, right?”

“He is. And my grandfather is halfway down.”

We stopped our work and bent back up. “That’s enough, son.” We leaned our shovels against the nearby chairs.

The wind was picking up, and we stood, solemn, for another minute or so. The cold dried out a tear or two on my cheek.

I hadn’t cried like I thought I would, like I thought I should. I didn’t feel I had mourned appropriately. Whatever that should mean. Dad showed no sign of tears, but his wrinkles cut more deeply than ever into his face.

We walked toward the chapel, to eat, but Dad did not follow me inside. “I’ll stay out here for another minute.”

As we paused at the doors, we looked down the hollow to where the muddy water of Bank Branch had run for one-hundred, two-hundred years. I longed to follow it, just then, and I think he did too.

2

The static of electric heat against my face surprised me. I had, quite unrealistically, expected the warmth of the wood stove Mount Horeb used to heat their tiny sanctuary when I was a kid. They had not lit that wood stove, though, for many years now. It stood ceremoniously in the corner.

Grandma Meguiar sat, hunched over, at the front of the church by the mourner’s bench, in her wheelchair. I made a beeline for her and hugged her; she hugged me feebly back. She was so frail now, and she had never been much of a hugger.

“Grandpa was proud of you,” she said.

I hugged her again. “Thank you, Grandma.”

“I’ll be gone, too, before next Spring.”

“I love you, Grandma. I’m sorry I haven’t been down to see you more often. I need to show you the kids. And read you a poem I wrote for Grandpa, here a while ago.”

The tables in the tacked-on back room were already full, so I ended up balancing my plate and sweet tea on my lap, in a hard wood pew. On one side of me was my wealthy Uncle Priest, a Missouri state legislator now, though he claimed he had never planned to be. On the other side was Cousin Leviticus, an enlisted man in the Army—which had been his greatest ambition for as long as I could remember—stationed in Fort Leonard Wood; he was getting out of there as soon as they would let him go.

“I’m sorry we lost J.R.,” Uncle Priest said. “He used to be like a father to me.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“D’you bring your guitar?” Leviticus asked.

“No, but I can get Dad’s.”

“Do, then! I’ll be over at your brother Shep’s place later tonight. Come over, and we’ll drink a beer and jam!”

“Hey, now!” I laughed. “You know you aren’t supposed to talk about drinkin’ here. We’re all teetotalers, remember?” Uncle Priest thought that was funny. Grandma, a few feet away now, did not.

***

I knew I would go by my brother’s place later, play some music, talk awhile, drink a few beers. If only because there is little in this world that comes second for me, in my mind and my soul and my blood, to the natural things known well by my family and our closest friends. Even though I no longer live in these hills, having moved away for my family’s sake. Even though I have not shared in my people’s sacred secrets, through heaven and hell, in quite the same ways they have done. Forever there remains an overwhelming draw, almost irresistible.

***

I happened to look out the window into the cemetery and saw Dad back at Grandpa’s graveside, peering down at his Bible. The snow clouds kept rolling in.

3

I called my wife as I drove from Mount Horeb toward the old family farm, just down the road from Grandpa and Grandma’s house—which Dad and Mom were completely renovating and remodeling, from the boards outward, while Grandma was in the nursing home. The snow was beginning to fall more steadily now as I headed out onto the gravel road.

“Hey, honey, just wanted to check up on you while I’m driving back to Mom and Dad’s.”

“How’d the service go? I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

“It’s ok. Pisses me off your boss didn’t make it easier on you to come. And I’m sorry you’re home by yourself with the kids. And little man on the way.”

“Yeah, these days I just expect hospital management to be kinda shitty about these things. And the kids are all right. Mom’s looking after them while I help out at the new ICU.”

“Ok, good. Service went well. You should have heard Uncle Jake preach though. He was just supposed to read the obituary, but he ended up hoopin’ and hollerin’, and he was preachin’ like he was at the Brush Arbor meetings. I was surprised—shouldn’t ‘a’ been.”

“Hey, the road noise is super loud on your end. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, it’s just these old goat paths.” That and the fact my Subaru Forester’s bumper was barely hanging on, thanks to getting rear-ended on the way down here—something about which I had not yet informed her.

Suddenly, I dropped the phone, and my car skidded around on the loose gravel in the road. It was spinning out of control, but I righted it in the nick of time, before I hit the brushy roadside. A bald eagle—with clean, ivory plumage and a shining, yellow beak—spread its impressive wingspan and flew up, from some roadkill, to a low-hanging oak branch. I hadn’t expected it, and I hadn’t driven these treacherous, gravel roads in a long time. But the eagle was a powerful omen to me, and of course I couldn’t help but think of how much Grandpa used to love those birds.

“This ole place is gonna give way to glory,” he would sing, “and like an eagle, I’ll take to the sky.”

***

A week later, my first day back at work, I just happened to look up from my computer, and what should I see, out through the window, but another bald eagle, of the same maturity, bold against an overcast sky. In an area where I had never seen an eagle before. Awful hard not to be superstitious.

4

I had thought a lot about the Meguiar family name, on the nine-hour drive down to my Ozark Mountain home, from the place I had left it for, ten years ago. In the Middle Ages, we were an Irish clan, out of modern-day County Fermanagh. I’ve never been.

Apparently, we had ruled Fermanagh, from our Enniskillen castle, from the 1200s to the 1600s. Our Princes of Fermanagh were inaugurated on the magnificent summit of Mount Cuilcagh, and that was the way, until the royal clan ended up on the wrong side of the English, after, perhaps foolishly, taking bold steps to protect and provide for their country’s people and, definitely foolishly, stirring up Irish countryside sentiments. That’s the side of the story I know, anyway.

As the English were coming, the King of Fermanagh sent part of the clan into Scotland, along with some of the family’s riches, to preserve at least a remnant of the family. That’s how we came to be known as “Scotch-Irish,” which is what my grandfather always called us. Our family name at that time was Mag Uidhir—Son of Odhar—Odhar meaning “Sallow.” I spent several years thinking it was “Swallow,” the bird, not “Sallow,” and I must admit I still prefer my misreading.

Justitia et fortitudo invincibilia sunt

That was our family motto: Justice and fortitude are invincible.

5

I pulled up to Shep’s place, a mobile home a quarter mile from my parents’. My car was making an odd knocking sound, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. The snow was falling faster.

I knocked on the wobbly door, avoiding scattered peeling spots, and my brother opened it. Four of our cousins and six family friends were all stuffed in there too, drinking and getting rowdy. There was a faint smell of weed, but, mostly, it was cheap alcohol and stale cigarillos.

“Come on in and have a beer!”

“Thanks, brother!”

I shut the door gently, but the wind whipped it back against the wall. “Where d’ya think y’are, a barn?” someone yelled.

“I might would prefer a barn!” One of our cousins. Not like his place was any better.

Cousin Leviticus, at the end of a couch, said, “Bring your dad’s guitar?”

“No, I didn’t have time to get it.”

“You mean you forgot! Well, here, your brother’s got an extra!” He shoved it into my hand and grabbed his banjo. My brother shoved a beer into my hand, and we were off.

We played “Faded Love,” and I sang “Wayfaring Stranger.” My brother joined us on the mandolin. We played “Blackberry Blossom,” and Leviticus sang “How Mountain Girls Can Love.” I was rusty, doing my best to keep up. My fingers hurt, but to play again felt exciting.

“You used to be so good!” Leviticus teased me. “What the hell happened?”

The night went on, everyone got drunker and drunker, and louder and louder. I looked across the room at my brother. He grinned at me. I smiled too and raised my Coors to him; he raised a Bud back to me. Then he launched into an impression of Uncle Jake’s preaching.

“One night—huh!—I believe the Gospel was preached—huh!—the Word fell upon his heart—huh!—and he was held accountable for one thing—huh!—and that was Adam’s sin—huh!—and when it fell down upon his body—huh!—he knew that he must repent and be born again and make his election sure—huh!”

He screamed it, just like Uncle Jake, and I nearly fell to the floor laughing, tears streaming out of my eyes. Jake’s son was there though, and he did not take kindly to my brother’s mockery. He launched out of his chair, and, pretty soon, the whole place was in an uproar. Laughing, but not wanting to get caught up in this, I gave Leviticus back the guitar and snuck out the door. He followed me to smoke a cigarette.

We shivered in the cold. I wanted to bum a smoke off him but didn’t ask. “Why haven’t you guys been back much? We’d love to see you,” he said.

I lowered my head a little, pulled my jacket tighter around me, and threw my beer can onto a pile of them on the porch. “Things have been so busy with the kids and work. . . We’re gonna start coming back more often.”

“We’ll see!” he said. “Hopefully what we’ll see is more of ya’!”

“Same here.”

“Oh, by the way, I’m goin’ duck hunting tomorrow morning. Wanna join me?”

“That sounds great. Do you have a shotgun I can borrow?”

“Sure do! Bring your Dad with you too, and I’ll tell Shep.”

***

When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start. Damn it. I might not be able to hide this whole accident thing until I get home after all. Not wanting to mess with the car in the snow, I turned toward my parents’ house on foot, trudging.

6

I staggered a bit, coming in the door, and I knocked the snow off my shoes, losing my balance a couple times but succeeding. Dad sat at the kitchen table, sober-faced. In front of him, he had his Bible and a glass of red wine; he was puffing at a briar pipe. I sat down on the bench opposite him.

“We’ve got some rye in the pantry,” he said. I went over, grabbed the whiskey and two glasses, and sat down again.

“None for me, thanks. I’m going to stick with this particular wine for now.”

I poured a couple fingers. “The service was good today. There’s something—I don’t know . . . cathartic? conclusive?—about a funeral service for a man of character like Grandpa was. Uncle Jake’s obituary reading. . . haha! Well, I haven’t heard hellfire-and-brimstone preaching like that in a while! And your, well, your sermon, that was good. It honored him. And it was good to see that place packed out the way it was, too.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, Jake is something else. I don’t quite preach like that anymore, and I don’t know that it was completely appropriate today, but I know Grandpa would have at least of somewhat appreciated it.”

My mind was hazy, but I was trying to have serious thoughts, and bond with Dad. “There’s something different about the preaching I grew up around here. A passion that is missing at other churches, at least the ones where I live now. When I’ve gone.”

“Oh, son, that may be a good thing for us, or it may not, I’m not sure. Passion isn’t always a good replacement for some things. . .” He stopped to take a long pull on his pipe. “What I do know is this—about myself: I was raised to be a farmer and a hillbilly, by mountain men who understood this country and her harsh demands. . . We piled rocks beside long ditches, and those ditches helped us feed our starved fields. . . All the clay in this land makes it hard to grow things here. . .” He hesitated, took another puff, blew out the smoke, carefully. “All that means something to me. . .” Another pause. “At church, growing up, I learned about Jesus and the Word of God. . . But those men taught me something more—yes, about religion, too—as we worked the land. And as we tried to serve God together.”

I leaned backward, rocking the bench, trying to figure what he meant.

“I remember picking and piling rocks too,” I said. “Always hated it, but I did always like looking at the fossils. The rocks in this area have a lot of ‘em! Fossils. I was just recently talking with a co-worker of mine about how scientists say there once was a gigantic lake here, in the prehistoric times, and that’s why there are so many.” I knew he did not like that explanation.

Dad stepped away from the table to use the restroom. While he was gone, I reached across to his Bible and turned it toward me. The front cover came open, and I saw that he had scribbled some words inside it, and had retraced them:

When my cup is passed to me,
When my time on Earth is done,
When they lower me, remind them
I was just my fathers’ son.

I sat quietly, letting the alcohol wear off a little on my brain. And I began to sob.

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