A Piedmont Porchlight Story
Last Saturday we gathered to bury Jimmy Matthew.
Not Jim Leroy.
Around our family, there wasn’t but one Jimmy Matthew. I bet the grown folks was mighty glad of that!
If you said “Jimmy,” somebody’d ask, “Which one?”
If you said “Jimmy Matthew,” everybody knew exactly who you meant. Now, before you get the wrong idea, this ain’t meant to be an obituary. I just thought I’d introduce my cousin to those of y’all who never had the good fortune to meet him. Lord, that boy was a sight in this world; you hear me?
We met down at the little church our grandparents built. My eyes toured the room to visit all the familiar, but somehow not quite familiar faces. At the end of the visual tour, my overarching thought was, “Damn, they all got old!” Yeah, sure, ‘they’ all got old.
Long before stained glass windows and padded pews became fashionable, that little church stood on the hill with its white clapboards, pine floors, and enough love inside to carry generations. If you were able to access the attic space today, you’d see the initials of all the men and boys who worked on it. They’re carved into the rafters of that ol’ church as a living testament to what a small group of people can do when they set their minds to it.
We always called it Mawmaw’s Church. I don’t reckon it ever had another name that mattered.
Pictures started making the rounds before everybody had even found a seat. Somebody would point at one and say, “Remember this?”
Somebody else always did.
That’s the thing about old family photographs. They don’t preserve faces nearly as well as they preserve stories. Before long, Jimmy Matthew was alive again. Not in body, of course, but in memory. Lord, the tales started flowing.
Some fit for church. Some decidedly not. I remember one incident from our school days. We hadn’t made it to the Junior High side yet. I think we were in fifth grade. Now, you need this little fact before I go any further. As a boy, I could throw a rock. Yes, lord, but I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Y’all remember that, okay?
Well, there we were, on the playground. In time, we made it over to the see-saws. Oh, they were long and put a body really high up in the air. Well… it seemed mighty high to an eleven-year-old boy. The bell rang. Time to get back to the classroom. We had to hurry because Miss Rollins didn’t put up with tardiness. No, sir. Well, when the bell rang, I was in the highest position, and Jimmy Matthew was on the ground. He jumped off the see-saw, and down I came with a bone-shattering crash! Now, before you think badly of him, I don’t think he meant to be a mean little shit. He was just mischievous and thought it’d be funny. I would never have entered his hard head that it might hurt.
Without no more thought than killin’ a cat, I reached down, picked up a rock, and flung it at him. I knew it was a symbolic gesture. Remember, I couldn’t hit the ground with my hat. That day was special, though. That rough, brown stone flew straight and true, and Jimmy Matthew went down with blood spewing from the crown of his scalp.
Well, with my anger quashed, I rushed over to make sure he was alright. We decided a couple of paper towels would take care of the problem. The last thing he said as he ran for the door was, “Don’t worry about it, Jim Leroy, I ain’t gonna tell on you.” My heart was light as a feather after that absolution, and I sauntered into class.
I looked around the classroom and didn’t see Jimmy Matthew and wondered if he was really okay. Well, it turns out that Mr Hand, our principal, saw Jimmy in the hallway and demanded to know what happened. Jimmy told him and was instructed to come to class, get me, and meet him in his office.
What followed was a long, deadly lecture about the extreme danger of throwing rocks. Lord have mercy, he droned on and on.
Just when I thought I would get out of there with my hide intact, Mr Hand instructed me to stand up, put my hands on the edge of his desk, and bend over. He pulled his paddle out of the top drawer with agonizing slowness and gave me three hard licks across my arse.
After promising vengeance on Jimmy, I went back to class. Miss Rollins, bless her, wanted to know where I had been and why I was late. I told her that Mr Hand had paddled me for hitting Jimmy with a rock. She sent one of the boot-licker girls to the office to request Mr Hand’s presence in her classroom.
When Hand knocked on the door, Miss Rollins answered it herself, and stepped out into the hallway to have a little conference with him. I don’t remember everything she said, but I do remember this: “If one of my chirren needs punishment for anything… anything at all… I’ll be the one to dole it out. NOT YOU! Now, you go on back to your office and leave my chirren alone!”
I don’t recollect whether Jimmy Matthew and I ever discussed that particular incident again. Knowing us, we probably did, and likely laughed ourselves silly over it.
Funny thing about family. You can spend a lifetime collecting memories, and when somebody dies, the first ones that come tumblin’ out ain’t necessarily the important ones.
They’re the ones that still make you laugh. And Lord, Jimmy Matthew left us plenty of those.
His bluegrass music played softly in the background. I loved Jimmy. I never did learn to love his taste in music. He’d probably laugh to hear me say that.
Matter of fact… he probably already is.
One story led to another until somebody remembered the time Jimmy Matthew announced that the Lord had called him to preach. Now, I heard a blue dozen of Jimmy’s sermons over the years before I finally divorced organized religion. I can still see him standing behind Mawmaw’s pulpit, Bible open, absolutely certain Heaven itself had handed him the outline sometime around breakfast. Whether the congregation got fed spiritually or simply entertained depended a good deal on the Sunday.
My cousin’s preaching style was an amalgamation of the many pastors and evangelists that had graced our presence over the years. He read a snippet of scripture and then went off, telling us about his interpretation of it, striding back and forth like a clock pendulum, arms waving in the air. His voice got louder and louder because everybody knows the Good Lord loves a loud sermon! From time to time, he threw out one of his favorite “preaching words”. “Amen!” Only, when Jimmy Matthew said Amen, it came out as “Amayun! Amayun and halleluyer!”
So sometimes… it was hard to tell if we were getting a spiritual meal or high entertainment. Either way, his sermons were pretty unforgettable.
After a while somebody looked at the clock. Funny how clocks eventually win every gathering. So, we gathered Jimmy’s urn and made the slow trek up the hill toward the family graveyard. He’d always said he wanted to be buried beside his mama. Marjorie Minshew Wright. She’s been waiting there a long time. Along with Tommy Wayne. Shirley. And enough of our people that you can stand in that little graveyard and almost hear a family reunion if the wind’s blowing right.
Now… None of us had ever buried an urn before. It seemed an easy enough proposition. Turns out the good Lord packs Alabama clay a whole lot tighter than folks give Him credit for.
What followed was less a burial… and more a committee meeting conducted with shovels and a pickaxe. There was cussing. There was discussin’. There were three different opinions on how deep was “deep enough.” Not one of those opinions agreed with the other two.
Every time somebody declared, “I believe that’ll do…” somebody else found a reason it wouldn’t.
If Jimmy Matthew could’ve climbed out just to watch… he’d have laughed himself plum to death all over again.
Finally… after enough sweat, laughter, unsolicited advice, and persuasion… we convinced the earth to give up a little space. We laid him beside his mama. Said our quiet goodbyes. Then stood around another half hour talking about everything except leaving.
That’s another Southern custom nobody ever writes about. Leavin’ is the hardest part. So, folks talk about tomatoes. Weather. Football. Who married who. Anything that’ll keep one more goodbye from having to be said.
Eventually somebody hugged somebody else. Truck and car doors began to close. Engines started. One by one… we headed home.
Down the hill stood Mawmaw’s Church, with the initials of our people still carved into its rafters. Up here, their names were carved into stone.
And now Jimmy Matthew had come home to join ’em.
Jimmy Matthew stayed where he’d asked to be. Right there among his people. I’ve thought about him every day since. Not the way he died. The way he lived. That’s the part worth carrying.
And if I know my cousin… he’s already found somebody up yonder who needed a story told, a sermon preached, or an argument settled.
Lord…
I hope Heaven’s ready for him.
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