Our family’s conference room was
the kitchen. Three steps from the stove,
we sat around the oval oak table and talked through topics. If it was “paper day,” the just-off-the-press
edition usually entered into the discussions.
Even
as children, Alan, Emily and Eric were interested in the news, including the
obituary page. One night, 10-year-old
Emily dropped her head. Looking up, her misty blue eyes spoke before words.
Brushing back a tear, she asked, “Is everyone we know going to die?”
“Yes,
Miss Em, in time, we are all going to die,” I said. “There’s great joy in living in a small town,
but the sad part is that you know just about everyone who dies.”
Decades
have passed since those supper-table conversations. Today, as I read The Press-Sentinel’s obituaries, Emily’s words still echo. There
have been so many people who have helped to weave the sense-of-place fabric and
personality of our community. I’ll use three
recent obituaries to illustrate why I love my hometown.
Alvin Leaphart Jr.
His
daddy’s hands delivered me into this world at the Ritch-Leaphart Hospital on
the corner of Cherry and Macon streets.
Alvin, 12 years ahead of me at Jesup High School, married a classmate of
mine, Beverly Westberry. I enjoyed their
company. Once, they rode with me to
Savannah. I had asked attorney Sonny
Seiler to arrange a special meeting.
Besides
being known to tote a pistol in his pocket, Alvin also packed a million
words. The glib lawyer spilled many of
those words before juries. He was a regular with his letters to the editor. And
countless other words he penned in a stack of unpublished novels. That’s why I drove the Leapharts to Johnny
Harris’ Restaurant to meet podiatrist William C. Harris, author of Delirium of the Brave.
Alvin’s
language could be as salty as the waters he relished sailing, but he was always
primed for a spirited conversation. Even
though our politics were often polar opposite, we never had a cross word. In these days of quick discord, that says
something. And that’s just one reason I
will miss Alvin.
Kendall Keith
Some of us who
pulled on a Friday-night gold helmet won’t be remembered as gridiron greats. Kendall Keith will be more than
remembered. He became a legendary
lineman for the Wayne County Yellow Jackets.
And when The Press-Sentinel
organized the Wayne County Sports Hall of Fame, Kendall was in its charter
class. Kendall caught the eye of Coach
Vince Dooley. As Georgia’s offensive
captain, the former Yellow Jacket became a Bulldog stalwart who earned All-SEC
honors.
I
sighed when I read Kendall’s obituary. He
was two years younger than me. We go back to boyhood. I shopped with his parents—Elmo and Sue—at Ware’s
Auto, across from the railroad depot on South West Broad Street. Years later, Kendall and Kathy’s children—Katie,
Kasey and Kristi—grew up with our three in First Baptist Church.
Football
star, coach, teacher, administrator and school superintendent were just a few
of his career distinctions. Knowing that
Kendall and I shared the same hometown, his old Georgia teammates would ask: “How’s Kendall?” Now, I’ll have to say, “He was a ‘bulldog’—even
in his failing health—but today, he’s resting in peace.”
Dot
Cowart
When you thought
of Jack, you thought of his wife, Dot.
The Cowarts were a mainstay in First Baptist Church. Jack died first. Dot, 94, joined him in heaven last week. Their son, Carl, was a gifted
halfback/quarterback for the Yellow Jackets, earning a scholarship to the
University of South Carolina.
In high school,
Carl was in the church’s youth program, so Dot and Jack were active, too. As chaperones on hayrides and such, they were
forever young at heart. Jack made a name
for himself managing Brooks Auto Parts.
Across Cherry Street, Dot drew a crowd at American National Bank’s
counter. Her charisma made Dot a magnet.
Bankers Carey
Brannen, Lonnie O’Quinn and Linton Lewis would watch and shake their
heads. Customers would form a
line—waiting for Dot—while other teller stations were open. When I joined the bank’s board in Brunswick,
I learned Dot was heralded as the gold standard of customer service in the
entire organization.
A few years
ago, we visited Dot in her Orange Street apartment. You would have never known the classy lady
was 90. And now, it’s as if I can hear
Dot, Jack, Margie and Big Dink laughing and having a grand heavenly reunion.
Yes, Em.
One day, we’re
all going to die.
But in the
meantime, life is grand—especially when you grow up among so many friends.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
