As a 20-year-old bride, she left the
bright lights—albeit the small-town lights of Fort Valley—to set up
housekeeping on a washboard-dirt road in remote Southwest Georgia. The couple’s
honeymoon cottage was a rundown tenant shack. Illumination came from a 40-watt
light bulb hanging from the low-slung ceiling.
For the city girl, to “powder her
nose”—as her generation called it—she had to traipse out back to a privy shaded
by an ancient live oak’s canopy.
When Mamma
and Daddy first visited, her businessman father did a 360-take of the place and
said, “Sister, it must be love because there ain’t another d@#% thing
here.” Her parents named her Willene, but her husband and friends called
her Willie.
Early on, she
knew few people in Mitchell County other than the farmer who had brought her there.
Some days, to salve loneliness, Willie would climb on Lamar’s small Case
tractor and ride sidesaddle—clutching a fender—as the World War II vet plowed
and planted.
Hopeful Baptist Church became the
meeting place of friends for the rest of Willie’s life. Young wives became
young mothers, and the growing families filled the pews of the country church on
the Camilla-to-Bainbridge Highway.
I know that House of the Lord well. Fifty-one
peanut seasons ago, I married Lamar and Willie’s daughter, Pam. Her dad and
brothers parked their tractors to put on tuxedos.
Two months ago, Lamar, 94, was laid
to rest in the Hopeful Baptist Church Cemetery. Sunday, Willie, his wife of 73
years, will be put beside him. Three years ago, their son Ray was the first in
the family plot. Nearby, Lamar’s parents—George and Katie—are buried.
People die twice. The first time is when
the heart stops. The second time is when the memories stop. Beach-loving Willie,
mother of four, grandmother of 11; and great-grandmother of nine, left a legacy
of stories to stretch into distant generations.
To know Willie was to know she was a fun-loving
spirit in the kitchen, hosting a party, on the dance floor, telling jokes or
masterminding pranks. Two of Willie’s 1950s stories still tickle Hopeful folks.
Willie dialed her friend Peggy and
said, in a disguised voice, “Mrs. Cox, I am with the phone company. We’ve been
receiving complaints about static in the lines. I need your help, please, ma’am.”
There had been some static on Peggy’s
party line, so she listened carefully. Willie continued, “We believe the
problem is from dust in the lines. Please place your receiver in a paper bag so
that we can blow out the dust.”
In the background, Willie could hear
her friend ruffling a paper bag. Just before Peggy dropped the receiver into a
Piggly Wiggly sack, she recognized Willie’s laugh and the prank. Right
now, I imagine the two are laughing about it in Heaven.
Betty’s
children grew up with Peggy’s and Willie’s. One day, the three mothers talked
about the stern warning on pillows and mattresses: “Under penalty of law
this tag is not to be removed except by the consumer.”
Willie
saw the consternation in Betty’s eyes. Her friend confessed that she had
clipped the tags but that she had saved them in an envelope in a kitchen
drawer. Another practical joke was born.
Again,
Willie disguised her voice and called Betty. “Mrs. Baggs, I am an inspector
with the federal government. I understand that you might have removed the tags
from your pillows and mattresses?”
Betty
stammered, “Uhhh, uhhh, yes. But I’ve saved them all in an envelope. I can
show you.”
Willie’s
cackle exposed the ruse. And when Betty gets to Heaven, the angels will join
the laughter of the three best friends.
Willene
Lavender Shirah might have been a city girl when she came to the country. But
when she entered the Pearly Gates, Willie, 93, was a much-loved dirt-road
sport.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
