Uncle Havis Sang at His Own Funeral

A Piedmont Porchlight Story

I reckon there’s only one man I ever knew who sang at his own funeral. That’d be my Uncle Havis Albea.

Now, before you start wonderin’ whether this is one of those October stories where strange things happen after dark… it ain’t. Matter of fact, what happened that afternoon was about as ordinary as love gets.

You see, Uncle Havis had been singin’ at other folks’ funerals for way yonder longer than I’d been alive. If somebody passed away anywhere around Piedmont, chances were good Uncle Havis would be standin’ near the front of the church, shoulders back, Bible in one hand, and that high, reedy voice of his reachin’ all the way to the back pew.

When Uncle Havis hit the first verse of Just a Rose Will Do, he’d close his eyes about halfway through, like he wasn’t singin’ to the congregation anymore. He never sang loud. He just sang true.

He wasn’t much of a man in size. Just a slim little fellow who spent more than forty years workin’ down at the cotton mill. But the Lord must’ve measured voices different from bodies.

Because when Uncle Havis sang… you heard him.

Their house sat just about katy-corner from the cotton mill. I loved that place. Not because it was fancy. It wasn’t. It was warm. And I don’t mean warm because of the stove in winter. I mean the sort of warm that settles into the walls after years of kindness.

Aunt Pearl always had sweet tea. The front porch always had more rockin’ chairs than people. Somehow, before long, there’d be enough people to fill every one of them. That’s where stories lived.

Uncle Havis, his daughter, and his son-in-law sang together all over northeast Alabama and over into Georgia. Pretty much all around the Congregational Holiness territory. Revivals. All-Night Singin’s. Sunday services. Truth be told, if there was an All-Night-Singin’ within fifty mild, Uncle Havis already knew what tie he was gonna wear.

Funerals.

If there was a gospel song needin’ sung, somebody eventually called Havis.

They even made a few records. I heard ‘em played on WPID radio station pretty much every mornin’ between 9 and 12. I believe they were on television once or twice, though my memory’s become a little like an old screen door these days. It lets a few things slip through.

In October of 1979, we gathered to say goodbye. Somebody had the idea to play one of Uncle Havis’ records before the service. And just like that… there he was. Singin’. Same voice. Same hymns. Same Uncle Havis.

The same voice we’d all heard at so many other funerals. Only this time… the family sittin’ in the front pew belonged to him.

I’ve often thought about that afternoon. Folks’ll tell you a man only gets one funeral. Uncle Havis managed to sing at two.

All the others… and finally… his own.

Seems to me that’s about the finest encore a gospel singer could ever ask for.

Sometimes, when I think about Uncle Havis, I don’t picture him standin’ in a church. I picture him sittin’ in one of those old rockin’ chairs on Ladiga Street. Sweet tea sweatin’ in a Mason jar. Traffic driftin’ past. Somebody tellin’ a story. Somebody else laughin’.

And if I listen hard enough… I can almost hear that high, waverin’ voice floatin’ out across the porch one more time. Because that’s where he still lives. Not in Highland Cemetery.

Not in the church.

On that porch.

If you’ve got a few minutes to spare, wander over to YouTube and have yourself a listen. That’s Uncle Havis singing his favorite hymn, Just a Rose Will Do. I reckon you’ll hear exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you about all through this story.

About Ol' Big Jim

Jim L. Wright is a storyteller with a lifetime of experiences as colorful as the characters he creates. Born and raised in Piedmont, Alabama, Jim’s connection to the land, history, and people of the region runs deep. His debut novel New Yesterdays is set in his hometown, where he grew up listening to stories of the past—stories that sparked his imagination and curiosity for history. Today, Jim lives in Leeds, Alabama, with his husband Zeek, a tour operator who shares his passion for adventure and discovery. Known affectionately as “Ol’ Big Jim,” he has had a diverse career that includes time as a storekeeper, an embalmer, a hospital orderly, and a medical coder. There are even whispers—unconfirmed, of course—that he once played piano in a house of ill repute. No matter the job, one thing has remained constant: Jim is a teller of tales. His stories—sometimes humorous, sometimes thought-provoking—are often inspired by his unique life experiences. Many of these tales can be found on his popular blog, Ol’ Big Jim, where he continues to share his musings with a loyal readership. Jim’s adventures have taken him far beyond Alabama. For seven years, he lived in Amman, Jordan, the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city. His time there, spent in smoky coffee shops, enjoying a hookah and a cuppa dark, foamy Turkish coffee while scribbling in his ever-present notebook, deeply influenced his worldview and his writing. When Jim isn’t writing, he’s thinking about writing. His stories, whether tall tales from his past or imaginative reimagining of historical events, reflect a life lived fully and authentically. With New Yesterdays, Jim brings readers a rich tapestry of history, fantasy, and human connection. Visit his blog at www.olbigjim.com to read more of his stories, or follow him on social media to keep up with his latest musings and projects, one of which is a series that follows Bonita McCauley, an amateur detective who gets into some very sticky situations. His book, New Yesterdays, can be found at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.

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