What could air conditioners and backhoes possibly have in common? Believe or not, the two products of modern technology have each brought the demise a great Southern tradition. Before air conditioners became commonplace here in the South, folks used to sit out on the porch after supper where they enjoyed watching the sun retire for the day as it faded behind the treetops of a distant hill. Whippoorwills and crickets provided the music for the evening as folks visited and socialized on the porch. There they discussed important matters, like who would be holding the revival this year. Air conditioners changed all that about as quickly as the tractor replaced the mule. I’m not complaining. Visiting your neighbors is nice. There is nothing sweeter than the sights and sounds of Mother Nature, but the sound of an air conditioner it as drops the temperature to tolerable level in July as I watch reruns of Andy Griffith is not bad either.
The first air conditioner I ever saw was in the barbershop. I only had the privilege of enjoying it every other Saturday on haircut day. I learned at an early age, here in the heat of Central Mississippi that I could get used to air-conditioning pretty fast.
Then there is the matter of the backhoe, a modern which has certainly improved and speeded up the process of taking dirt from point A and moving it to point B. But at the same time the backhoe handed a death sentence to the great Southern tradition of the community grave-digging. Now that’s sad, or even downright morbid. A grave digging was one way the men in the community had a chance to visit and catch up on all the latest gossip, find out where the fish were biting, and who might be the front runner in the race for county supervisor.
It was there in the cemetery amidst the tombstones and bouquets of artificial flowers where the participants in this noble undertaking talked about important issues that might have gotten overlooked in the barbershop. Since the crowd was smaller at the graveyard, the men could discuss these issues more deeply. Of course they would all have at least one good story about the dearly departed who was about to occupy the new dwelling which they were preparing. Of course no grave-digging would be complete without one good funeral home joke. It was usually the same one every time. “Hey Earl, I asked the man at the funeral home how is business was, and he said they just kept going in the hole”. Now that’s about as original as the “do you have PA in the can joke”. I have a tremendous amount of respect for the people in the funeral home profession.
I well remember the first grave digging I attended as a child at Greenland. My daddy, and several other men from around the community all jumped in and dug a grave for one of the neighbors. It was on a January day. Drizzling rain clung to the chain-link fence that surrounded the old cemetery, forming ice-cycles with each drop until they formed ghostly maize around the place. But the men didn’t mind the cold. One of them brought a fruit jar full of antifreeze. After the fellows had choked down a shot or two, even the old recycled funeral home jokes were funny to them. But they were careful to keep their antifreeze underground just in case the preacher came by to check on their progress.
Digging a grave was a serious affair, not to be taken with a shallow approach. Every one of the men was deeply committed to the project. Each man brought his own particular skill and tool for digging. One fellow brought a pick, another a regular shovel, and one man furnished a “sharp shooter”, a spade like shovel designed especially for making the walls of the grave smooth and the corners square. Daddy furnished the template, used to lay off the grave, and insure it was dug according to specifications. He always was down to earth when it came to detail. Sadly, that great tradition is history now, just like sitting on the porch after supper.
Now days when a person departs this life, the funeral home sends a man out on a backhoe with a heated and air-conditioned cab, and the grave is ready for business in less than an hour. I admit the backhoe is much faster and more efficient than the old way, but it seems a bit impersonal to have your final resting place prepared by a machine rather than human hands. It took a little getting used to the bellowing of a diesel engine in such a sacred place.
The community grave-digging, as I remember it, is a thing of the past, and so are the fellows I remember performing the humble mission. Sitting out on the porch on a hot evening after supper is history, and that’s really okay with me, even if I am a traditionalist in the strictest Southern fashion. There are plenty of other Southern traditions I can adhere to and stay cool at the same time.
I’m in no hurry to hire a backhoe for anybody, more importantly I’m in no hurry to have one hired in my behalf. I’m perfectly content to stay right here under my air conditioner for a while longer and give my neighbors a phone call after supper just to be sure they aren’t in need of a backhoe either, as soon as the Andy Griffith Show is over. I must admit however that I miss the whippoorwills, and if you’ve never seen the sun set over Willoughby Crossing, I recommend it.
Ralph Gordon of Union, Past President of the Mississippi Writers Guild and Recipient of the William Faulkner Literary Award
