THE FUNERAL

lonesome road

The way things worked out, I was in the middle of the front row. Front and center before the pit and Jr's casket suspended over it. Melia on my left, Ross on my right. New friends for life. All of us in chairs were facing the wall of the light gray casket, the one that cost the least, the same kind Jean was buried in. We who knew that had a special feeling about it, that Jr had what he wanted, was in work clothes and no flowers. Except the florist had made a banjo out of flowers, which was just right. It stood to the side of the signing book pedestal. Everyone loved it.

It was a beautiful time of peace. I felt like it was the soul of Jr Maxwell that I knew. By the time his mind started slipping away, I understood his way of thinking enough to be able to hand him the word he's looking for when he was talking and drew a blank on a word like a name. Often, when somebody was visiting, they'd be talking and I'd toss Jr a word from time to time, lessening his embarrassment that his mind was slipping away. Early on I saw that it was important to him not to appear as loopy as he was becoming. Like he wouldn't get up to go pee in the time when he needed a cane first, then a walker, when he had company. Didn't want to be seen using that humiliating thing standing within arm's reach of where he was sitting. Jr was not vain, didn't care about appearance, but he still had little bit of a sense of style; didn't like to wear over-hauls because they made him look old.

I'll never forget the time he went to the bathroom when Paul Reeves was visiting, using the walker, meaning he had to go bad. After he'd been gone quite awhile, long enough that both Paul and I were wondering, I heard Jr call. He was sitting on the side of the tub. His legs wouldn't work. He couldn't move over to the pot. He was in place and couldn't move, had been that way since he went in there. He couldn't stand up, so I had to pick him up and carry him back to the living room.

He was far enough along in the mental decline that his hand would not let go of the walker. Had to drag that walker through doorways, his hand holding onto it like for dear life. I had 2 doorways to get through, one after the other, with that thing dragging along, and at the same time I'm trying not to hurt Jr's arm that was hanging onto it. Then the 3rd doorway was a major obstacle, because he would not let go of the walker and all three of us could not make it. I said over and over, let go of it. And he hung on. Finally, I had to force it out of his hand, then ran him to his seat on the couch and placed him with my last little bit of strength, thinking: if this gives me a heart attack I don't care.

The hundreds of hours sitting at the table sipping the best liquor in the land came up in my mind, listening to Jr tell the full account of his life in conversational flow. It wasn't a linear account from beginning to end, but a piece from here, a piece from there, like leaves falling off a tree, one at a time, each a story in the telling. He never told the same one twice. I never made notes, and have forgotten most of it, but that doesn't' matter, it all wove together to give me a sense of the full human being Jr Maxwell was to everyone who knew him.

It doesn't feel yet like he is gone. It feels like I'm at my place and he's at his place. Only out of sight. I don't have a sense of Jr dead. He's at his place, the place we call Heaven, and that's even better. One thing I did not know was that Jr was the hub of Whitehead. Whitehead didn't die with him, but all of Whitehead misses him and a major chunk of Whitehead is gone, like the old mill and the Whitehead Store.

Everyone in Whitehead loved Jr Maxwell, with some exceptions, of course, given that exceptions prove the rule. I wouldn't know where to start looking for an exception, unless when Absentee Supercop finds herself not in the will. I don't know that, but have a pretty good idea. I see her in the lawyer's office at the reading of the will with the light glistening on her fangs, eyes seething with hatred, as usual, behind the eyeless mask. I told Jr some years ago I wanted nothing. Jean did too. In one of our conversations at the table, Jean told him that she and I love him as he is right now, Jr Maxwell, we don't want any leavings. When he's gone, he's gone and that's it. Objects, money, whatever, don't bring him back.

Preacher Roy Houser spoke of Jr's life as someone who knew him. He spoke of his own respect for Jr all his life. He knew the man and missed him like everyone he was talking to did. When he was finished, he put the red carnation from his lapel on the casket. I never once pictured Jr in my mind inside the casket. It was just a box before my eyes. I didn't want my mind to dwell on the shell Jr's soul cast off. I was hearing him in the hoot of an owl. I was feeling the love the people of Whitehead felt for Jr Maxwell shifted toward me, an immense amount of love. It isn't that I can fill Jr's shoes, but that I helped him in his helpless time and loved him as they did. Now I'm a citizen of Whitehead. It's the community God gave me. Of course I love it.

THE GATHERING

the blue tractor #3

Bright sun, clear sky today, temperature in the 60s, a perfect day for an outdoor funeral. By the time I arrived at the Joines cemetery in Whitehead, it was short sleeve weather. Walking around shaking hands, hugging and talking with people I now know well, people I didn't know before I started staying with Jr. Whatever questions they had of my integrity in the beginning are answered, except, of course, for the Absentee Police, who showed up early to sign the book and they left.

They strutted around the crowd to the signing book laughing at all the fools they were seeing. Strutted back and disappeared. It would have been something great to film. Follow them from when they park, get out of the car and walk all the way to the signing book and back. Wouldn't need to hear the words. The meaning was strikingly obvious. Like in movies, their facial expressions and body language tell what they're meaning. One of them looked especially ridiculous with a young-looking hairdo and

Xtreme Space Patrol sunglasses, a mask without eye holes. It was like everybody else was the audience and they were the show. Separate from the crowd of nobodies that knew nothing about fashion.

They left word that Jr was thriving in the nursing home and now he's dead because, of course, of TJ's incompetence. Everyone who has been around seeing Jr regularly, some of them often, laugh out loud at their aggressive display of arrogance. The ones that obviously care nothing for Jr and don't know him except by what they've heard over the years, looking down their noses at the people who love Jr. Their absence of love for him is what stood out like drunks in church professing amongst themselves to be the ones that really love Jr. Comedy in everyday life.

Melia Edwards and her sister Judy Carmichael have buoyed me up, supported, helped, become friends in the real sense. They are the girls of Claude Edwards, Jr's first cousin, totally real human beings, not a hint of fluff on them. Practical, intelligent women who have a Christmas tree patch and a hidden treasure of a gift shop where they sell jewelry Melia's husband Joe makes and interesting things to look at. The place is so unique that people find it, a red roof in the Christmas tree patch, up the driveway from Pine Swamp Road. Jr and their daddy were friends all their lives as well as cousins.

Harold Hayes and Betty I was glad to see. Harold played bass with the Green Mountain Boys. After the end of GMB Harold played at Windsor Crossroads until he became unable. Betty had a dress shop in Sparta several years. Harold puts roofs on houses, a roofer, carpenter too. We have a special affection. When Betty spoke lightly into Jr's ear, Jesus loves you, it was right. I mentioned I appreciated that. She said she's not one to say much and didn't know what to say. That's what came out. I said when it comes from the heart it's right. She knew it was from the heart. It was Betty who wanted to know how his soul was.

Going from person to person, men, women, shaking hands, embracing, feeling love in the heart. Spoke with Richard Joines a few minutes. He is one of the really close ones with Jr, a cousin. When he came to visit Jr not many days before, I saw when Jr recognized Richard his eyes light lit up so bright they beamed like spotlights on Richard when Jr raised his arms for a hug. Richard is another good man.

People standing around talking before the service, Jr's casket suspended above the pit everyone's focus of interest. It was closed with a wreath of greenery, no flowers, topped by a turkey feather. 8x10 photographs of him from different times in his life. Jr had said no flowers. The obituaries say to send a donation to Hospice. Three Hospice nurses were there. I was happy to see them as I was everyone else. It was even fun seeing the Absentee Police again---from afar.

Seeing Milly again was much better. She has lotsa irons in the fire with farming, selling insurance, county commission and other pressures. It's still Milly. Ross was there and Fran, John's wife. These are the Richardsons, the ones Dean Richardson was responsible for while he chased moonshiners on the Parkway. Betty, Dean's wife, mother of the gang of four, is always fun to talk with. She raises miniature goats, has chickens and ducks and cats and dogs, black cows, horses, farm animals.

Betty's farm animal zoo. She said today her chickens think she's a rooster. I missed what gave them that idea.

We talked about how much the people who knew Jr loved him. I don't mean liked him. Loved him. I never try to guess the size of a crowd, but I'd venture fifty or more. Every one of them were people who loved Jr in their individual relationships with him. Some were people who knew him since they were children. For many of them Jr was a grown man when they were kids. The preacher talking at the service said when he was growing up, Jr was a grown man he respected.

Dean Richardson is 5 years younger than Jr, meaning all the way through school Jr was one of the big guys, and he would stand out as the mischievous one, the one the younger kids look to as an impressive guy. He was good at everything he did, like riding horses, working horses, working the farm with his daddy when he wasn't in school, good with boxing gloves and baseball. He wasn't condescending to the younger boys, causing them to look up to him all the more. Dean at 82 still has the respect for Jr at 87 he had then, looks up to him as that older guy who was so good at everything he did, and always up to some prank. Dean's respect for Jr has been a beautiful thing for me to see.

THE DAY BETWEEN

2nov09 full moon

All day today Ralph Stanley's song, Daddy's Wildwood Flower, has flowed in my mind. All day. Such a beautiful song that only Ralph Stanley can sing right, like every song he sings. It is one of those mournful songs that pull the tears out of my eyes, the kind his brother Carter loved so much. The beauty in it is of the heart. Daddy played the guitar and Mama loved Wildwood Flower. When Daddy played Wildwood Flower our house became a home. Later Mama dies and Daddy is left mourning her loss. Daddy grows old, falls into dementia and one day they can't find him. The community goes out looking for him and they find him lying on Mama's grave among the wildwood flowers. Sung as only Ralph Stanley can sing.

I've found that when I look at a song that's in my mind all day, I can find

by examining it what's going on beneath the conscious mind that's connecting with everything going on around me. The feeling in that song, Daddy's Wildwood Flower, matches perfectly my feelings today. The very place that song takes me to is where my feelings are. It gives beautiful music to my feelings, which today have been beautiful in a sorrowful way. Saturday morning playing it at the radio station tears flowed down my face for the beauty of the song itself and Ralph Stanley's soulfully emotional voice. Ralph Stanley does that to me, as does Carter Stanley and Sara Carter. They make me happy I live in the mountains unto tears.

I've thought that if something out of my control forced me to live outside these mountains, my heart would break every time I hear any mountain music. I would play it all the time, all the time breaking my heart and mending it simultaneously. I cannot leave the people of these mountains. When I say Alleghany County is the home of my soul, I mean the people. I don't know all the people by any means. There are a lot more people I don't know than there are people I know, which is how it is with everybody. Let's just say it's a given. But the people I know are interwoven with the people I don't know, so in that way I can feel connected with the whole county. The radio show is a connection too, where I play the music of home to the people of the county who love mountain music.

This day between death date and funeral has been full of love all day long coming at me from everyone I saw. It's like being on a battery charger, the energy of the love every one of them felt for Jr they were passing to me in appreciation for helping their friend. My cup runneth over all day. The genuine love in it is humbling instead of head swelling. I find I go around with my head down much of the day, looking at the floor the way Jr did receiving gratitude. All of this came to me from out of the blue. It was between Jr and me, I had the time, he was my friend who shared good liquor with me for 5 years, told me the story of his life from childhood to present, and eventually said I'm better than his friend, more like his brother. It was between us, growing into friends over a span of time sitting talking at the table, getting to know each other, respecting each other.

Suddenly it's not only public, but it turns out the community of Whitehead was watching, happy to see that the one they all loved was cared for by someone who appreciated who he was, Jr Maxwell, and for that reason only. Along the way there were times of mistrust from outside, but I knew that time would tell my truth, that I simply wanted to help out a man I'd come to respect enough . Because of our bond as brothers I couldn't turn away from him with the nursing home the hole he would fall into. I knew him well enough to know what a horror those places were for him. I could not allow them to kill him of despair. Jr Maxwell did not deserve to die of despair. I could not do other than what I did. I did it against opposition several times. I was prepared for any kind of fight that might come along. When I fought for Jr, it wasn't to lose.

This tsunami of love I'm receiving from Jr's community of friends and kin has the appearance of Jr's gift for holding him up in his helpless time.

NOVEMBER ONE

jr's chair

This morning at 8:30 I learned I'll never see Jr Maxwell again in this world. Major sorrow. Major joy. Sorrow for me. Joy for Jr. Though I did what I could to keep him living, even into his complete helplessness, this time of the spirit leaving his body was inevitable. I was making it possible for him to die in his own bed taken care of with care from the heart. Like I said before, I was given Jr by God to serve as I would serve the Master, to serve as the Master himself. God knows Jr very well, knew what was ahead, sent one of his children to help him in his need. I could not allow Jr Maxwell to die of despair in a lumberyard. If I had died from some of the stress involved in looking after Jr, I'd have died happy.

It is a happy experience for me to have the opportunity to serve so honorable a man. Jr is the only man I've ever known I would call wise without hesitation or fear of contradiction by anyone who knew him. Wisdom and knowledge are quite different. Knowledge is got second and third and fourth hand. Wisdom is got only by experience. I believe Jr chose the path of suffering for this lifetime. Suffering is the fast lane in one's spiritual path. He's had it to knock a bull to its knees at least 5 times. There are other great sorrows in his life too, but nobody ever heard Jr Maxwell moan and groan about any of it.

Where what goes around comes around is concerned, Jr is known all over Whitehead for going around with his tractor and blade after a snow clearing driveways all day, refusing any pay. When it was time for the gardens to be plowed, Jr went around Whitehead on his tractor plowing gardens for people who couldn't do it themselves. Would never receive a cent for it. And this was just a little bit of it. Anyone needing any kind of help, Jr was there. Elvira Crouse, who knew him since they were babies, said his was a life of compassion. This one word defined Jr to her satisfaction. And mine.

It may have been the sorrows in Jr's past that kept him in the present moment. He didn't like to talk about the past or think about it. The past is over and done, gone as if it had never been. There is only the present and you move into the future with no idea what is there. Jr Maxwell lived in the present moment right up to the spirit leaving the body. It was a part of who he was. It doesn't feel right to say was. It still feels more like is. Perhaps living so in the present gave him the presence of mind, focus, that made it possible for him to do everything he did very well with attention to detail. He was a master bluegrass banjo picker, master tractor mechanic, master bulldozer operator, master welder; everything else he did was done with the mastery of paying attention.

Jr was a man of his culture. Whitehead was his home. Laurel Springs, Piney Creek, Cherry Lane, Glade Valley were other places. Alleghany County was the borderline of his interest. He cared about nothing beyond Alleghany's line. The same as he lived in the present, he lived in Whitehead. Whitehead was home base. His band the Green Mountain Boys played at Whitehead Community Center benefits every year for so many years it was tradition.

Physically, he was a tiny man, as small as Ralph Stanley, a little thing. But he never seemed so small, the same as Ralph Stanley, to me. It was only when he would leave the house and I'd see him outside with his walker, a small, tiny man, hobbling to the car. It shocked me every time. In the house he was full sized. Only outside I saw how tiny he was. Even when I got used to his broomstick legs and arms, bony shoulders and ribs, he still seemed full sized to me. By full sized I suppose I mean the same size as me, like there was no difference between us until I saw him at first walking carefully to the car, then carefully using a cane, and hobbling with a walker to the car, then rolled in a wheelchair to the car for a doctor's appointment, then unable to leave the house.

This evening when I left down at Jr's and drove to the house to spend my first night in four months with the cats, TarBaby especially stressed by my absence, I opened the car door, stepped out and heard an owl hoot in a tree nearby. It felt like a message from Jr. I realized that all day I'd been hoping for a message from Jr in whatever way and when he chose. Whether or not it can be proven empirically is of no consequence. I heard it and felt simultaneously it was from Jr, as if it were his voice, so I believe it was. I hooted back to let him know I heard, to say howdy.

I have wondered from time to time what Jr was waiting for, taking so long to linger before letting go. It wasn't like he was attached to any one thing or even the body that was holding him. The heart just kept on going. This day is my first day in the mountains 33 years ago. It is, in effect, a birthday, an important birthday in my life, right up there with the day I said to God, I will follow. When I found the mountains, meaning the mountain people, I found my self. The night before, I drove up the Parkway in the densest fog there is, pea soup, 5mph, head out the window looking at the yellow line beside the tire. I felt at the time it was the passage from my old life to my new life.

I have a feeling waiting to this day might have been Jr's gift to me of his gratitude for helping him in his difficult time. I mean at the level of our soul connection. I could say with certainty it wasn't his conscious decision, because his conscious mind didn't work. Like I believe he spoke to me through the owl without evidence that would stand up in court, I believe he waited for this date because it is such an important day for me. Now it has double importance. Now it's a really big day. And he made me a citizen of Whitehead.

I had to refuse the offer to be a pall bearer. Even if Jr would have wanted it, I couldn't do it, though I know he would honor my reasoning. I don't want to feel the weight of my friend. When I did it for Tom Pruitt, the feeling of his weight, Tom dead, was on the verge of unbearable. With Jr I have to beg off. I cannot bear the thought of feeling his weight dead. My arm still feels the sorrow of holding Tom's weight. I can't add Jr's to it, the same as I could not watch the Hospice nurse clean him. A moment I saw was her lifting him, an arm under his knees, one under his ribs, knowing how much it would be hurting him alive, and I saw the Pieta.