(Note: This month marks
the 20th anniversary of Dink NeSmith Sr.’s death. In his memory, I am publishing a book: “The
Last Man to Ever Let You Down, My Daddy the Undertaker.” This is one of the dozens of stories.)
There’s no
way for me to count the number of funerals that I’ve attended, but I can
remember my first. Just before Christmas
in 1952, my mother’s father died. Howell
Vines was just 58. We called him Big
Daddy.
I was barely 4, but I remember going
to his funeral in rural Baker County.
Our children and grandchildren have visited his and my grandmother’s
grave many times at Pilgrim Home Primitive Baptist Church on Hwy. 97.
Because I
was so young, I remember only three other things about Big Daddy. I recall standing on my tiptoes, peeking into
his casket. He was a tall, sinewy
farmer, and he looked asleep in his Sunday suit. I think I got my big hands, oversized ears
and long nose from him.
And there
was the day that I sat in his lap while he platted a leather whip for me, just
like Lash LaRue’s on TV. That was
special, but my favorite memory was told and retold by his wife, Essie, who was
Nanny to me.
One day, Big
Daddy invited me to ride around the farm with him. We had not gone too far before he was at the
back gate, honking the horn on his Ford pickup.
His wife stuck her head out the door and hollered, “What is it, Howell?
“Come get
this boy!”
“Why,
Howell?”
“Because,
Essie, I’ll never get my work done!”
“Why,
Howell?”
“Because,
Essie, he asks too many ding-bob
questions!”
There’s
something else I remember about going to his funeral. It was cccccccold
that December. Big Dink had bought
his first new car in 1950. It was a dark-green,
two-door Dodge, but it had no heater.
Our next-door
neighbor, County School Superintendent Aubrey Hires—who wore starched white
shirts and a tie, just as my dad did—walked over with a solution. Big Dink and Aubrey called each other “Neighbor.”
Thrusting out a set of keys, Mr.
Hires said, “Neighbor, take your family to Margie’s daddy’s funeral in my new
Buick. You’ll be warm.”
And we were.
Years later,
I was asked to be a pallbearer at Neighbor’s funeral. With every step to the grave, I whispered
words of gratitude for his random act of kindness.
Sixty-five
years later, I can almost hear his size-12 Florsheim wingtips crunching across
the frostbitten St. Augustine grass on his way to our back door. You don’t forget some things. And I am still
grateful for that warm ride to my first funeral—Big Daddy’s funeral—in December
of 1952.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
