I drove over to Charlie’s Truck Stop this past Sunday after the funeral service for Mister Johnson. Jake does not normally open the store on Sunday, but I knew he would be there. I pulled up in front of Charlie’s and cut the motor. There were several cars and pickups scattered about and I knew there were others like me who had come back to the store after the service. Jake opened the front door and motioned for me to come inside. I climbed out of the car and walked over to the door and pulled it open. There was a squeak to the hinges of the screen door as I opened it. The squeak was a familiar sound I had heard so many times I had forgotten to notice it. Today I heard.
“Got to get that door fixed,” Jake said as he had so many times before. Jake shut the old main door behind me as I came in. The warmth from the wood burning stove felt good. It was a cold day out with bright sunshine. It had been cold out at the Indian Creek Cemetery where they had buried Mister Johnson. He had been placed on a slope on the west side of the cemetery under an oak tree where he could look down to where Miss Nelda Ramer lay. They had been good friends in life, passing so much time on her back porch just talking, that it seemed only proper they should be nearby in death.
Over by the pot belly stove sat Hermann Spencer and Hurshel Ledbedder with his wife, Dolly. Dolly doesn’t normally stop around the store much except to pick up her groceries once a week, but today she was here with Hurshel. Ned Simpson was here along with Ronnie Clayton and Willard Smith. It seemed that all the old time regulars who passed so many pleasant afternoons talking with Mister Johnson and listening to his stories had come by to be together and remember the good times. Jake was saying how nice the service had been and there had been more people in attendance than for any funeral he could remember in ever.
The whole thing had been traditional with people gathering at the funeral establishment to view the body. There had been so many flowers there it was difficult to get to the casket. I had walked by and looked at the names on the display and had been surprised at the people who had known Mister Johnson. His influence had been far and wide. There had even been a few displays from some people who had never met Mister Johnson in person but had only come to know him through my reports in the Sunday Corinthian. Mister Johnson’s brother, the Reverend Johnson had given the message at the service. He talked for about fifteen minutes, saying Mister Johnson always said a preacher should be able to say what he wanted in fifteen to twenty minutes. Anyone who could not say what needed saying in that amount of time did not have proper command of the language. There was another short service grave side and Lisa Hall sang one of Mister Johnson’s favorite songs, “How Great Thou Art.” It’s a difficult song to do properly, but she did an excellent vocalization. I discovered I had tears running down my cheeks when she had finished. After the grave side, we began to drift away knowing we now have only our memories of a great and good man.
Maureen, Jake’s wife, came in the front door with sandwiches and hot coffee. She said most of us could probably use something hot after standing out in the cold for so long. I do not normally drink coffee, but I thought a cup would taste right good on this occasion. While Maureen was passing the coffee around, Bob Havershold and his wife, Gracie, came in with their daughter, Cheriee. Cheriee usually calls Mister Johnson her ‘possum man because of the interest he took in the ‘possum that came to stay with the Havershold family for several months. Mister Johnson even took Cleavie, that was the ‘possum’s name, over to pass the night at his house one night while the Haversholds had made a trip to Chicago.
Jake was saying he doesn’t rightly remember when it was he first came to know Mister Johnson. It did not happen all at one time, but sort of developed over some months. Jake would see this black man dressed in faded overalls working in someone’s yard or repairing a roof as he went into Corinth on business. It seemed Mister Johnson was all over town. He was generally to be seen around the Cat House more than any place else. He remembers Mister Johnson coming into the store to pick up some dog food. It seemed he had found a stray out some place where he was working and the family there had no use for a dog, so Mister Johnson decided to adopt the animal. He had stopped in at Charlie’s on his way home. While Mister Johnson was paying for the dog food, he asked about the old pot belly stove that provided heat in the winter. Jake was thinking about getting rid of the stove and replacing it with something else as it was something of a problem getting wood. Jake had no time to cut wood himself and the man who supplied the wood had a drinking problem and he charged more than Jake thought was fair. Right then Jake made a deal with Mister Johnson to begin supplying wood for the stove. Jake never again had to worry about heating the store after he and Mister Johnson made that agreement, It was sealed with a simple handshake and was as tight as any contract any big city lawyer ever drew up.
Afterwards, Mister Johnson began to come into the store to sit by the fire and to pass the time of day. From that meeting forward, Mister Johnson became something of a fixture at Charlie’s. The farmers in the area would stop in to talk with Mister Johnson and to listen to his stories, and they always remembered something they needed to buy while they were in the store. Mister Johnson was good for business. Mister Johnson also brought in that piece of pine wood he was always carving on and from which Jake had to sweep up the shavings in the evenings. “Guess I won’t have to be sweeping up pine shavings any more”, Jake commented as a tear rolled down his cheek.
END
