I’ve been to two funerals in the last week.
In 1962 a Methodist pastor died somewhere in North Georgia. In order to fill his position Bishop John Owen Smith and his cabinet created a chain reaction of mid-year reassignments that swept our family from Ellijay where my father was serving Watkins Memorial Methodist Church to Rome’s Trinity Methodist Church and its brand new parsonage in Summerville Park on Timothy Avenue. Soon I was commuting along Redmond Road to my new school West Rome High. Our beautiful new neighborhood was home to many of my new church friends and other school friends. Charlie Wagner was just up Redmond a few houses from Timothy. Paula Craven lived on Dodd just a block and a half away. The District Superintendent’s son Billy Segars lived on Charlton as did Alfred Fletcher. Esther Ransom, Robin Scarborough, Gretchen Lininger. Chastine Parker, Jr. and others lived nearby.
Up on Robin Street, maybe four blocks away was the rock home of the Ergle family. Bill and Penny had four kids. Anne was my age, Freddy was about three years younger. Kathy was probably my baby sister Beth’s age, and Karl was the baby and about the age of my little brother David. The Ergle’s had moved to Rome so that Kathy would be near Georgia School for the Deaf.
When mother wrote a poem for our family Christmas card one year in the sixties, it’s not surprising that all four Ergle kids made it into the poem. But really mother, why did three of the seven Shaw kids not make the cut?
When mother wrote a poem for our family Christmas card one year in the sixties, it’s not surprising that all four Ergle kids made it into the poem. But really mother, why did three of the seven Shaw kids not make the cut?
CHRISTMAS AT TRINITY
Our Nativity scene is live
In living color too!
With teen-aged Mary dressed
Of course, in blue!
She sits beside the manger
Carol, Beth or Anne,
With Joseph standing by
There's Terry, Bill or Dan.
The shepherds stand alert
A turban on each head.
There’s John and Sam or
Allen, Cleve and Fred.
The wise men are bedecked
In jeweled crowns alike -
That hide - the tousled hair
Of Robert, Karl and Mike.
The angels, Kathy, Fran,
Deborah... truly dear
But they can only qualify
As angels - once a year!
I watch the twisted halos
And am amazed to feel
In spite of pomp and pageantry
They somehow make Him real!
Bill and my Dad were both Marines and veterans of World War Two and so had much in common. So our families have known each other for 57 years. We lost my Dad in ’86. Bill has been gone at least two decades maybe more. Penny died eleven years ago. Little Kathy, who forgave my fumbling attempts at sign language and greeted me like a brother whenever she saw me, died of cancer about three years ago.
Today we buried Anne-with-an-E. My West Rome classmate, Anne Ergle (Tatum) died suddenly on April 1. Anne was a pretty girl and a quiet one. She was a gentle soul with a servant spirit who spent her career helping those with handicaps. I was touched that her family asked my mother to speak at her memorial service. Mother is 96 years old and has had some health issues recently, but she prepared a very nice message based on the scripture more often used in funerals than any other, likely, the twenty third Psalm. Despite the frustration of getting some of the pages of her notes jumbled Mother spoke from her heart about the very personal message we find in that psalm, the Lord is MY shepherd, and will lead ME, and walk with ME through even the shadow of death.
I dug out the 1965 West Rome Watanyah (yearbook) last night and spent a nostalgic hour perusing its pages. Anne had written me a very sweet message on the title page. She was very generous, I must say; she called me “sweet” and “cute”! And wished me the best on that “long road of life.” Well, to this ol’ boy, her 72 years doesn’t seem that long from the current perspective.
Still I’m bright enough to realize that I am well into extra innings. My father and his father never saw seventy. My other grandfather died at the age I am now. And I attend funerals every few weeks. A few days ago it was Norris Gamble’s beautiful service. Today it was Anne’s. It’s a bit morbid I suppose, but can one avoid the question: When will mine come?
Still I’m bright enough to realize that I am well into extra innings. My father and his father never saw seventy. My other grandfather died at the age I am now. And I attend funerals every few weeks. A few days ago it was Norris Gamble’s beautiful service. Today it was Anne’s. It’s a bit morbid I suppose, but can one avoid the question: When will mine come?
I don’t want to waste any days.
I saw this sign on the wall of Alto Park Elementary when I visited there this week to tell stories for Career Day.
From what I knew of Anne I think she likely would have approved of these goals. At seventy-two, I know I’ll follow Anne soon enough, even if I manage my mother’s longevity. So funerals bring that reality home to us — to me:
Days are short.
Be thankful for each one I am blessed to live.
Keep it simple.
Be kind.
Believe.
Try.
Be polite.
Help folks.
Treasure family and friends.
Do my best.
Listen, laugh, and (the greatest of these) love.
