Preface: This is a fictional account of how death and burial were handled in our mountain communities years ago. It is not real; although I’m sure there are aspects of the story that ring true to anyone who has lost a loved one. RJW
How quickly a person’s life can change in one second, in one moment, or in a matter of a few hours. Momma had died, and our worlds would never be the same. Death came silently for her, creeping upon her like fog that swallows the night. She just took one long breath and didn’t let it out again. Dr. Stoner said that her heart gave out, but I knew that Momma’s heart had long ago given up on this life. I heard Momma say many times that there were better times waiting for us in the hereafter and I pondered this over in my head. I imagined Momma, pretty and strong as ever, in a beautiful green meadow someplace away from the Mountain. I hoped she would be able to enjoy that place so much that maybe she could laugh out loud and take pleasure in just being there, without the cares that she carried with her down here. Momma had so many troubles trying to help Daddy make a life here, working so hard to get something to grow in that rocky land. She worked so long and hard in the house and fields, and raising her children. Laughter and merriment were rare in her earthly life.
News spread fast in that little farming community where everyone was your brother in spirit if not by blood. Neighbors had already starting filing in the little house before Momma’s death. In the aftermath, the house couldn’t hold all that came by to pay their last respects. Old men and little boys stood together talking on the porch, their breath a willowy gray cloud in the cold air. Girls huddled around the stove warming themselves while women from neighboring farms worked in the kitchen getting dinner for us. Of course Pastor Carl was there too. After a short prayer, he sat down with Daddy to ask him about what kind of service that he wanted for Momma.
Meanwhile in the back room, Momma was being washed, dressed, and straightened for her last presentation with all that knew her in this world. Doing the task to fix Momma for burial were my Aunt Rachel and Momma’s first cousin, Sarah. It was not so much a burdensome task than a privilege. Sad, yes, but at the same time glad that they could do some last, good thing for Momma. They were preparing her body for entrance into her new, other home.
I must have fallen asleep, because the sound of kitchen chairs being slid across the wood floor of the living room awakened me. Some of the men were preparing the chairs to be used as sawhorses to hold the wide plank that would accommodate Momma while her coffin had the lining put in it. Ever resourceful, Daddy had made her casket. It had been waiting in the hay loft of the barn like a new house waiting for its owner to move in. Momma already had the white material for the lining, so all the women in the house were busy sewing it together. So there, in the family living room, my momma was laid out on an old rough plank. She was wearing the only nice clothing she had, a blue dress that was bought years earlier through a mail order catalog. Her face looked peaceful and at first glance one would have almost thought that she was only sleeping. Upon closer examination I noticed her peculiar, taut lips that scarcely passed for a grin. In her folded hands we had laid her Bible. She laid in the living room all night. Family set up with the dead, so various aunts and uncles and cousins set around talking all night long. We, the family, spent a long, frightful night without much sleep.
The next morning. we all walked together in the deep snow to the church house. For a moment things seemed like they did when I was a child, walking to church with my family, the same trek we had made over and over before. But Momma wasn’t with us this time; she had been brought up to the church earlier by some of the men folk, on the back of a horse drawn wagon.
We went in the little wooden church house and was led to the front by the Pastor. We sat in worn-slick wooden pews marked by black bows, signifying that we were the mourning family. The little country church was packed with relatives, neighbors and friends. Momma was lying in her homemade coffin in front of the pastor‘s stand. I must have been in quite a daze, because I can scarcely recall much of the service, only fragmented pieces. I remember Pastor Carl singing “When they Ring Those Golden Bells”, with the rich, deep melody floating throughout the room, acapella, caressing and soothing each aching soul there. Pastor Carl gave the usual mountain funeral service, preaching hell and separation from loved ones if Christ is not accepted into our hearts. “This woman is in Heaven now, with no aches or pains. She’s singing and worshipping the Lord. Don’t you want to make sure you’ll join her when it’s your time to go?” Preacher Carl was out from behind the pulpit, in front of the casket, banging a heavy hand on his Bible. The pain I felt in my heart stayed, even though I knew that I would see Momma again.
Momma was laid to rest on the hill behind the church house. This was the place where all of Momma’s people were buried, her parents and their parents and their parents before them. The earth was layered with snow. It was cold and frozen, but somehow the men from church had dug out a large, deep hole the evening before. Momma would be laid beside grandpa and grandma. Carrying her coffin were the pall bearers, trudging through the snow at a snail’s pace. They lowered the coffin down to sit it on boards placed across the hole. Although it had finally stopped snowing early in the morning hours, the weather was unkind on that day. It was brutally cold on the hillside, with strong, gusty winds blowing across my body. It was like sewing needles were piercing my skin. The bitter wintery air I breathed in burned my nostrils and even though I had on my wool hat, my ears were naked to the freezing wind and were numb and without feeling. I don’t remember what the preacher said then. It has been lost in my memory.
It was hard to leave Momma there that day, in the blustering cold. I somehow felt guilty going away and leaving her.
Life goes on and even though it’s been hard sometimes, we managed to go on without Momma. I hardly go to the cemetery anymore, just at Decoration time. I don’t believe her soul is in the grave anyway; just her outer shell is there. I try very hard to tell my children about Momma, the type of woman she was, what she believed. Hopefully my children will pass on the information I share with them to their children. That way, Momma will really never be gone.