Once, I told Jerry Keith that my feet still ache, just from my thinking about it.
He
wrinkled his nose and asked, “What?”
“When you let me bag groceries and
mop at Setzer’s.”
Jerry cut loose with his infectious
laugh.
That was a half-century ago.
He knew what I was talking about
because he spent his whole career standing and walking on make-your-feet-ache concrete.
Managing grocery stores took Jerry away
from his beloved hometown. But I remember the big smile on his face when he had
the chance to come home. Carlton “Kinky”
Fender was ready to sell his IGA, and Jerry was ready to buy.
Jerry was the consummate small-town
merchant. He knew his customers by name, first name. Keith’s IGA was a family
favorite. When Pam went in, Jerry added extra value to the buggy-load of
groceries. He paused whatever he was doing to babysit and entertain Alan, Emily
and Eric, while their mother went up and down the aisles. VIP is in that location today, on the corner
of Macon and Plum streets.
The Keith family and the NeSmith
family go way back.
I guess the first encounter with the Keiths—that I remember—was spinning on the stools at the counter of The Pig. Jerry’s mom, “Charlie,” worked for Sine and Vada Aspinwall when their restaurant was a barbecue haven for locals and tourists, up and down the East Coast on U.S. 301.
Along about that time, NeSmith
Funeral Home moved to 111 W. Orange St.
The Keiths lived around the corner on West Bay Street. Jerry’s brother Johnny is my age. Johnny and
his across-the-street neighbor, Roy Davis, and I would ride our bikes in the
neighborhood. Then there were the Little
League years. Johnny and I played high school football for the Yellow Jackets. When my dad died in 1998, Johnny sang in a
quartet at his funeral. I imagined Big Dink in heaven and smiling as Walt
Pinder, Alan Jones, Barry Bryant and Johnny sang the Statler Brothers’
powerhouse “This Old House.”
Jerry’s brother Nubbin sold Pam and
me our first house without wheels on it. The old Presbyterian manse on
Brunswick Street was Alan’s and Emily’s first home. By the time Eric came in
1979, we needed more space. Nubbin sold
us the Ninth Street house that his and Jerry’s Uncle Red had built.
After my dad died, Jerry’s sisters,
Jean and JoAnn, were angels on earth, lighting on Mother’s shoulders. They did
more—much more—than just keep her house clean. They embraced her. When we had to move Mother to Athens, Jean
and JoAnn would visit her there. If you
asked Sandy, Sheila and me, we’d vote the duo into sainthood status. If it was
possible, they loved “Mrs. Margie” as much as we did.
Besides being a brother, a husband, a
father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather and a step-great-great-grandfather,
Jerry was a bona fide sports enthusiast.
As a member of the 1954 state football team, he was inducted into the
Wayne County Sports Hall of Fame. Jerry lettered in football, baseball and
track. And if there had been a JHS golf team, he would have put that letter on
his jacket, too. Golf was one of his great passions. Jerry’s line of friends—made
on the links—would stretch throughout Pine Forest’s course.
If Jerry Keith was your friend, you
had an inseparable, fun-loving friend.
An observer called Jerry’s service an
“Old Jesup funeral.”
Jerry loved Jesup.
And Jesup loved Jerry.
I can still hear Jerry laughing about
my aching feet.
But now, Jesup hearts are aching.
