1931
PART I - OF BARNS AND A FUNERAL.
ALSO THERE WAS A MAN NAMED ELMER
By:
Joseph M. Carr,
I suppose there
should be a warning posted or at least a caution sign: there is a terrific
jumble, hodgepodge, or whatever of memories crowded into the distant recesses
of my cranium. It’s somewhat like the
items which eventually come to rest in the attic way back near the eaves or in
the garage where the car ought to be parked.
Somehow this name, Elmer, helps to tie the whole shebang together,
pardon the slang. So many things
happened to us in 1931, and from the perspective of 1998, most of those events
cannot now be authenticated. When I say
“us” I mean my immediate family, my relatives, my cousins, my step-cousins, and
even those families who were then our close neighbors.
Within the past
few days,
That event
occurred in mid-December, 1931, and this much of my narrative can be
documented. As I proceed with my
memories I will exert every conscious effort to inform my readers as to whether
the various anecdotes can be verified, or if they fit better into the realm of
legend or folklore. If this second
category can at least be based upon actual happenings, I will be pleased. But still, really gifted story tellers often
find themselves exaggerating; and many times they are also prone to
fantasize. Like a policeman once said,
“That complicates things!”
My maternal
grandfather, Joseph Johnson, had just rounded out his seventy second year when
he drew his last measure of breath. I
was then eleven years old. It’s going to
take all the effort I can muster just to keep those distant memories organized
and in any proper sequence. He, Grandpa
Johnson, is really the one whom this story is all about. The subjects of the rather lengthy title were
all prominent in the final days of his life.
And so, as a point
of beginning I will attempt to fill in the few details of his funeral which
have stuck with me. As noted, a funeral
service was a brand new experience for me, although I did have preconceived
ideas. I had heard about such occasions
for the better part of a decade, and at eleven years old I had the feeling that
henceforth I would be outgrowing all the purely kid’s stuff.. I already knew that funerals had to be
something like going to church. Almost
constantly my mother used to sing as she took on the challenge of her daily house
work. Oh, there could be interludes like
when the kids needed to be “straightened out”; that could bring on an emphatic
tongue lashing. But every time she took
up the strains of “Safe in the Arms of Jesus”, she would pause. Then she would remind whoever was around that
this song had been sung at Mabel’s funeral.
Aunt Mabel was Mom’s sister who had died in the bloom of life. Somewhere along the way I had also become
aware that preachers could also be expected.
Did they conduct funerals in churches?
I had never pondered that one.
Maybe five or six years earlier my Dad had encountered a heavy downpour
of rain while attending a grave side service.
As he had recounted the events of that day I gleaned that nature’s
interference had been unanticipated by him.
In turn I had discounted the idea that funerals and rain automatically
came together. Thus it was sufficient to
know that at last I was to learn what a funeral was really like!
As to their being
held in churches, it seems I had read children’s stories of just such
events. I had also heard information to
the effect that there were places called funeral parlors. There was one such an establishment in
Now at this point
my memory weakens. I cannot say for sure
as to whether the next part of the story occurred prior to 1931 or if it came
later; I would guess that the event had already happened, but its timing can be
brushed aside as immaterial. The thing
is, Butts’ furniture business had erupted in flames. Old Jim Fuzee had been the first to tell us
about it. The building had been badly
damaged, and according to Jim its interior as well as its inventory was “a
total loss”. When at length my Dad had
taken me into town, and I could see for myself, it was, indeed, an awful
mess. The only comparison I had seen was
when a express had been wrecked just east of town. The night train had been derailed while
rolling at a speed, maybe fifty, or even sixty miles an hour. That had been summer, 1929, give or take one
way or the other, and just look at how my old mind wanders! However, there were scattered about the
outlying area of the scene a considerable quantity of cakes of ice, which had
been thrown from the shattered refrigerator cars, and one of these chunks of
ice had been requisitioned by my father.
At home that evening the neighbors had brought up their freezer,
hand-cranked, and we had feasted on home-made ice cream.
Now, back to Butts
and his disaster; remember, the great depression had a firm grip on
things. Any business so affected which
might be covered with insurance, would in those times almost certainly become
suspect as a “successful” fire. In fact,
there were five or six forlorn silos within a few miles south of town where the
barns had gone up in smoke. However, I
had never heard of a funeral as having been held in Butts’ furniture store; so,
even if it were there when Grandpa died, it was the last place I would be
expecting to attend a funeral.
Ultimately that day we had proceeded up
As noted, we were
still in the “down town” section; and lo, and behold, here we were, right in
front of another “Furniture Store”. This
one was rather short on street frontage as compared to Butts’ more imposing
enterprise. There, on the store front
overhead, was another unfamiliar name, to me at least. Walter Ninneman. This name I would experience no difficulty in
remembering; even if it bore no resemblance to a man’s backside profile. As we entered the store we were greeted by
the man himself. I liked his personal
appearance, and I would recognize him immediately thereafter upon sight. And, boy, was I ever encountering new places
and ideas. This man, I would later
learn, was what they called a “county coroner.”
We proceeded
through the display of parlor furniture.
There were davenports and over-stuffed easy chairs. The rear portion of the store was separated
by a partition, and as I recall we were led through a smaller door into the
right rear portion of the main floor. As
we were seated in a row of chairs near the entry we had been completely turned
around. We were now facing back toward
the front of the building and the main street, only that we were no longer
gazing at all the brand new furniture.
As you can see, we were seated in something of a chapel, church-like,
sure enough; perhaps this was, in reality, one of those funeral parlors.
As noted, we were
seated at the front, on the right. Just
before us was Grandpa’s casket. Its
cover was open and I could see his face.
Mostly my attention was caught by his nose, but that’s the way kids
are. As I have often observed, the face
and head of a dead person seldom resemble what we remember of him, or her in
life, in spite of the “undertaker’s” best efforts. Another observation: many years later, 1972,
when our mother was laid to rest, I was startled, even shocked, by the
resemblance between her facial features, forehead and such and what I could
remember of her father at his service.
Also, there have been times over the years when I have been virtually
stopped in my tracks. After fairly long
gaps in time I would be back with my Aunt Alice (Aunt “Lass”), or even my Aunt
Olive, and at the first sound of her voice I would be immediately reminded of
my mother! Oh yes, Grandpa’s casket was
placed on some carriage-like arrangement which was fitted with wheels,
something like the ones on my coaster wagon, only that these were enameled
white.
Outside of a
stand, or a podium, for the benefit of the minister, there must also have been
a piano. I remember well the two ladies
who harmonized together on the vocal selections. They sang together twice; but I recall only
one of the numbers. I had never seen
either of these women before, but they must have done quite well that day. As they began the number, “Face to Face With
Christ My Savior”, I was immediately captivated. I was already more or less familiar with the
old hymn, but as they began their presentation; for the first time in my young
mind the message of its words began to take root. Forever after that old song would be likened
to my memories of Grandpa. There was one
phrase especially which really sand in: “When the crooked ways are straightened
and the dark things shall be plain.” At
that point I no doubt cast another glance at the casket and Grandpa’s
nose. I may even have felt a twinge of
emotion just then. Grandpa had led a
long, hard life and none of his close relatives had ever loved him more than
did my mother. True, at some period I’m
not sure when, he had experienced a problem with alcohol; but it must have been
prior to the eighteenth amendment (prohibition). I have no recollection whatever of his
affinity for the bottle or of his ever having been drunk.
I had never seen
the minister before; he must have been from one of the Protestant churches in
It has been my aim
to include only those items which stand out clear and sharp, without distortion
of background or fuzziness around the edges.
There are but few witnesses to whom I can appeal for support in the
matter of authenticity; and it’s also true that the recollections of such can
easily collide with or contradict my own.
Time, distance, and limitations of our minds being what they are, any
reader or listener will accept my stories with reservation. It need not be added, but how impressively
our world might be improved if that mutual confidence and trust between
individuals and groups were not in such a general manner cast carelessly aside
and broken! I am reminded of a favorite
quotation, “Suspicion demoralizes, it brings about the very evils it seeks to
correct.” And, of course, when faith is
betrayed, crippled, or destroyed: the void of suspicion and guilt is all that
remains.
Admittedly, there
is a great deal more to an appropriate memorial service than the few items I
have noted. At least, I do not recall
becoming impatient for its dismissal! It
was time to wind things up; the pallbearers came forward and aligned themselves
at the casket. John Kellogg was one of
them. He would be wearing his usual
mackinaw type jacket. It seems that
Johns’ son-in-law, Dick Greenough, was also with them. Beyond that I cannon remember the
others. They bore their burden toward
the rear of the room; correct me if I’m wrong (or if you can)! Things were somewhat turned around on that
occasion; for whenever I have been to church I have entered from the front door
where I would immediately encounter the back row of seats. That would place the preacher in the
distance, way up beyond the front row!
I am glad, more
than once, that my sister has provided additional information. Margie remembers seeing Margaret Goldnick, a
neighbor, enter the parlor alone. That
could possibly indicate that her husband was among the pallbearers. Charlie and Margaret were hard working
farmers. Charlie talked loud; he was
hard of hearing. They faced the discouragement
of foreclosure on their mortgage; and it was his father who held the winning
hand! Any child or teenager during those
depression days who now survives can never forget. Margie also remembers the new furniture on
her way into the service and she’s positive that the casket was borne from the
building by the same route. That makes
sense! Margie also observed
Grandma. Our Grandmother (Jessie) was
escorted by her youngest daughter (Aunt Alice); and as they paused at the
casket for a last, lingering farewell, Grandma was wearing a funny looking
black shawl, or cape. Sister tells me
she has that old funeral piece! Oh,
these women and their keepsakes! But
just look at all the junk I have accumulated over the years; I wish I could
find some of it, but the desired items usually rest at the bottom of the
pile! Oh yes, Aunt Alice had made a
special trip by herself (100 miles by train from
We were back on
We proceeded
south, continuing in the same direction by which most us had entered town. I am sure we were in no hurry, and I doubt
that our precession was escorted by police or harassed by traffic as has become
typical in later times. The cemetery was
maybe a mile and a half distant, and I do believe it was just beyond a rural
intersection where the older westbound highway led off in the direction of
Death creates a
vacuum, and death is tragic; but it’s not so much so for those whose “Good
works do follow them”. It is more than
tragic when it closes in on abandoned sinners, those characters who have passed
the point of no return, tightly bound by their unpardoned sins.
Again it is Sister
who remembers; there was an interval of three weeks from Grandpa’s stroke until
he expired. During that time our father,
Jim, wore himself to a frazzle with unnumbered trips to town and in other ways
helping with the burdens created by such an event. He was the only nearby relative with a car;
even found it necessary to replace his worn-out tires with a new set. True, Uncle Johnnie was at home, but being
more or less upset and bewildered by the turn of events; he was not much
help. Anyhow, Uncle Johnnie was
conditioned to the pace of horse and buggy days, and the horse trading that
went with it.
There is just one
more of those clear and sharp memories which I would not choose to omit. It was something my mother said and which she
would repeat at various times. “There
were so many people who came to Pa’s funeral”.
I don’t really know how many did come.
There were so many of our family and close relatives who would just have
been there! The pitiful few I have named
makes it look bad for me. Was I really
all that self-centered in my younger days?
The nagging question could lead to discouragement and self
incrimination. Both can be so
cruel! The same negative introversion
can result in a terrific guilt complex.
Once more I am glad that the door remains open. Every one of us can be safe! (In the arms of
Jesus)
End of Part I
