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Authors: Olive Ann Burns
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Wylies put that up, Mama?" I asked her one day. "I know it wasn't the Cranes did it."
"Aw, shah!" she snapped, jabbing a cone-shaped tin cemetery urn into the ground for the jonquils we brought. "Quit readin' that trash and bring me that quart jar of water for the urn."
Not far from Mr. and Mrs. Crane and Miss Wylie was a little bitty headstone that said "
In Memory of Tweety, Jan. 4, 1894.
" I used to think that was a baby cousin of mine with the Tweedy name spelled wrong, but Mama said it was somebody's pet canary. "The Tweedys are always buried at Hebron," she reminded me. "I mean the older generations. This family"—she solemnly indicated the grave of my baby brother—"has started bein' buried here."
Always before, the graveyard had seemed real interesting and peaceful. Just a quiet and reverent place. But in mid-June, 1906, the deep yawning hole that would swallow up Granny looked horrible, like it could suck me down.
"What we go'n do, Will Tweedy, we go'n line yore grandma's grave with these here roses."
It took two of the blankets to cover the floor of the pit. The others he nailed into the grave's damp red-clay walls while both of us lay on the grass, me holding a croker sack blanket and a long nail, him propped on his left elbow, hammering. It was only as the last nail went in that Grandpa sagged. As if he was too tired to get up, he lay there looking down, and so did I. It wasn't awful anymore. The heavy smell of roses drifted up, and I thought I'd never seen anything as beautiful.
A tear dropped off Grandpa's nose and watered a red rose. Seeing that, I choked up. I ached for Grandpa, grieving. And for Granny. I knew she wouldn't want to be dead. And then I thought about my friend Bluford Jackson, the one who got lockjaw after firecrackers burned his hand last Christmas. He had died soon after New Year's Day and now nearly six months later I was just finally seeing that Blu was gone for good.
"Why'd Blu Jackson have to go and die, Grandpa?" I hit my fist on the grass. "Why'd God take him like that? He hadn't lived yet. He wasn't old like Granny. He had so many things to do.... He was scared of dyin'....I bet Granny was scared of dyin', too."
Grandpa put his arm stub around me, and we lay there, staring down into the grave. "Like they say, the old must die and the young may die," he muttered softly. "Hit's what you git for livin'. But thet don't seem so awful as you grow older, son. You'll see." He gave a deep sigh.
"How you go'n stand it, Grandpa? I mean goin' home every night and she ain't there."
"Thet's what I don't know, son. Thet's what I don't know.
Yore granny was—" He choked up again. When he could go on, he stretched both arms down into the grave, dropped them, helpless-like, and said, "But do I got a choice, Will Tweedy? I got to stand it, ain't I? Livin' is like pourin' water out of a tumbler into a dang Coca-Cola bottle. If'n you skeered you cain't do it, you cain't. If'n you say to yoreself, 'By dang, I can do it!' then, by dang, you won't slosh a drop."
We lay there a while longer. Finally Grandpa sighed again and said, "I wouldn't ast the Lord to steady my hand for a thang like pourin' water into a Coca-Cola bottle. But I'll be astin' Him for hep on this." He indicated the grave. After a moment he said, "Miss Mattie Lou shore was a fool about roses." Silence again. "Two or more year ago she was out workin' in her rose garden one mornin'—did you know, boy, she's got over sixty different kinds out there?—and she said to me, said, 'Mr. Blakeslee, I wouldn't even mind dyin' if'n I could be buried in a bed of roses.' Thet's jest the way she put it. I laughed and said it would be her luck to die in the dead of winter.... Well, son, we better go git cleaned up for the funeral. Wisht it was over with. I'm plumb wore out." We both got up. "If'n I had my way, wouldn't be no sech a thang as funerals. They's jest a long hot time full a-hypocrites and kinfolks—grievin' some maybe, but mostly
"Aw, shah!" she snapped, jabbing a cone-shaped tin cemetery urn into the ground for the jonquils we brought. "Quit readin' that trash and bring me that quart jar of water for the urn."
Not far from Mr. and Mrs. Crane and Miss Wylie was a little bitty headstone that said "
In Memory of Tweety, Jan. 4, 1894.
" I used to think that was a baby cousin of mine with the Tweedy name spelled wrong, but Mama said it was somebody's pet canary. "The Tweedys are always buried at Hebron," she reminded me. "I mean the older generations. This family"—she solemnly indicated the grave of my baby brother—"has started bein' buried here."
Always before, the graveyard had seemed real interesting and peaceful. Just a quiet and reverent place. But in mid-June, 1906, the deep yawning hole that would swallow up Granny looked horrible, like it could suck me down.
"What we go'n do, Will Tweedy, we go'n line yore grandma's grave with these here roses."
It took two of the blankets to cover the floor of the pit. The others he nailed into the grave's damp red-clay walls while both of us lay on the grass, me holding a croker sack blanket and a long nail, him propped on his left elbow, hammering. It was only as the last nail went in that Grandpa sagged. As if he was too tired to get up, he lay there looking down, and so did I. It wasn't awful anymore. The heavy smell of roses drifted up, and I thought I'd never seen anything as beautiful.
A tear dropped off Grandpa's nose and watered a red rose. Seeing that, I choked up. I ached for Grandpa, grieving. And for Granny. I knew she wouldn't want to be dead. And then I thought about my friend Bluford Jackson, the one who got lockjaw after firecrackers burned his hand last Christmas. He had died soon after New Year's Day and now nearly six months later I was just finally seeing that Blu was gone for good.
"Why'd Blu Jackson have to go and die, Grandpa?" I hit my fist on the grass. "Why'd God take him like that? He hadn't lived yet. He wasn't old like Granny. He had so many things to do.... He was scared of dyin'....I bet Granny was scared of dyin', too."
Grandpa put his arm stub around me, and we lay there, staring down into the grave. "Like they say, the old must die and the young may die," he muttered softly. "Hit's what you git for livin'. But thet don't seem so awful as you grow older, son. You'll see." He gave a deep sigh.
"How you go'n stand it, Grandpa? I mean goin' home every night and she ain't there."
"Thet's what I don't know, son. Thet's what I don't know.
Yore granny was—" He choked up again. When he could go on, he stretched both arms down into the grave, dropped them, helpless-like, and said, "But do I got a choice, Will Tweedy? I got to stand it, ain't I? Livin' is like pourin' water out of a tumbler into a dang Coca-Cola bottle. If'n you skeered you cain't do it, you cain't. If'n you say to yoreself, 'By dang, I can do it!' then, by dang, you won't slosh a drop."
We lay there a while longer. Finally Grandpa sighed again and said, "I wouldn't ast the Lord to steady my hand for a thang like pourin' water into a Coca-Cola bottle. But I'll be astin' Him for hep on this." He indicated the grave. After a moment he said, "Miss Mattie Lou shore was a fool about roses." Silence again. "Two or more year ago she was out workin' in her rose garden one mornin'—did you know, boy, she's got over sixty different kinds out there?—and she said to me, said, 'Mr. Blakeslee, I wouldn't even mind dyin' if'n I could be buried in a bed of roses.' Thet's jest the way she put it. I laughed and said it would be her luck to die in the dead of winter.... Well, son, we better go git cleaned up for the funeral. Wisht it was over with. I'm plumb wore out." We both got up. "If'n I had my way, wouldn't be no sech a thang as funerals. They's jest a long hot time full a-hypocrites and kinfolks—grievin' some maybe, but mostly
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