The Front Porch Prophet

They moved out to the porch, and the narrations continued into the night, verbal monuments carved on the gentle Georgia breeze, a celebration in flesh and word of one of the good Lord’s finer pieces of work. There was a sweet sadness underlying the vignettes, and a gentle humor. She had not been perfect, and she did not change the world, although in her small part of it she had been a force to contend with. Her legacy was right there on that porch, friends and family who remembered her well and who wished she had not gone, plain people gathered together to try to fill the empty space now left in their lives. Her harvest was the dozens of visitors earlier in the evening who had felt the need to express a fare-thee-well. Her eulogy was the quiet murmur drifting from the porch in a generally starward direction, simple soliloquies in which no hard word could be discerned from people who would not let her face her last dawn aboveground alone.

The night passed, and the sky to the east shaded from black to blue. The quiet before the sunrise was broken by the chirping of birds as they got an early start on the daily business of survival. The early ones got the worms, and the rest would be left with the salty dough. The group on the porch began to move around and stretch. A.J. stepped out to the old pump by the well house and worked the cast-iron handle. The antique was there long past its necessity because Granmama had liked it. A.J. washed his face in the cool gush of water. Eugene joined him.

“Are you in the mood to dig a hole?” A.J. asked. Eugene had his head under the spout. He came up and shook his head like an old hound.

“Let’s do it,” he said. Granmama wanted her final resting place opened and closed by hand and had specified this requirement in terms that held no ambiguity. So while Eugene threw some digging tools into the truck, A.J. walked up to the house to see who wished to participate. Doc did, but he had checked with Minnie and had to go. There were still some out there he could save. Slim wanted the honor but was duty bound to go make a round. He promised to return shortly if no criminal activity detained him. Charnell also wanted to be of service, but Doc forbade it.

“You know what I’ve told you about your heart, Charnell,” Doc said. “If you try to help dig this grave, we’ll end up putting you in it.” So Charnell agreed to help Maggie make some breakfast. The plan was formed to bring the gravediggers hot coffee and fresh biscuits presently. John Robert appeared on the porch. He was clean shaven and wore a fresh white shirt.

“Are you ready, John Robert?” A.J. asked.

“Ready.”

“You’re going to ruin that shirt.”

“Expect so.”

The burial party piled into A.J.’s truck and headed for the grove. John Robert marked off the grave while A.J. unloaded the tools-spades, a mattock, and an axe for the inevitable tree root. They set to, one on the mattock and the others on the shovels, and before long they were shin deep. A truck pulled up, and they looked over, expecting to see Charnell and the biscuits. They saw him, and he had more than breakfast with him. In the cab were Slim and Bird Egg, and a group of Sequoyah’s finest filled the cargo compartment: Hoghead, T.C. Clark, Brickhead, John McCord, and Jackie Purdue. The second shift took over the digging as A.J., John Robert, and Eugene took a coffee break. The work progressed swiftly, and the task was completed before the sun had climbed to the tops of the oaks. They adjourned back to the house, where Eugene and A.J. meticulously washed A.J.’s old truck, which would serve as Clara’s caisson to the grove. She had possessed a soft spot for the vehicle, calling it a good old pile of junk, and A.J. thought she would prefer it to a hearse. All was ready for her bon voyage.

And so they sent her off. On a spring afternoon so blue and mild that it snatched the breath, Clara claimed her reward. Her mortal remains were placed carefully beside her husband, and the Reverend Doctor offered kind and comforting words. Angel sang so sweetly that surely even God above turned His vast attention toward high Georgia and looked with favor upon His gathered children. Then dozens of willing hands-men, women, and children-quickly replaced the dirt that had been earlier removed. It was done. Clara Longstreet weighed anchor and set sail, and neither she nor her equal would again grace the lives of her loved ones.

A.J. snapped out of his reverie with a start. He had not thought of Granmama’s death in a long time. The misty rain had grown to a drizzle. The chill in the air had turned to cold. He did not know the time and could not swear to the day. A deep melancholy descended upon him, a profound sadness, and he could not remember ever being as totally alone as he was in that instant. A tear slid down his cheek, then another. His throat closed, and his body shuddered as he tried to deny the emotion. His self-control crumbled and he began to cry.