"Little Stories about You and Me"
Nolensville Dispatch

A Kindness Repaid

I recently heard of a kindness that set off an avalanche of kindness. The cars were lined up at the fast food restaurant. The man in front, out of the kindness of his heart, decided to pay for the person’s food behind him. That one act of kindness resulted in 33 other people paying for the next person’s food. It’s unfathomable and impossible to define the perimeters of even one positive action on another person’s life.

Don Martin was a man known for one particular act of kindness. His wife, Jackie, tells how for more than 20 years her husband made pear preserves and gave them away. He often drove around town surprising friends and brightening their day by leaving a jar of preserves in their cars.

Jackie said, “After he retired from the IGA Market in Shelbyville, he needed something to do. He was always doing things for other people, especially widows. Sometimes he would mow their yards. Then my mother gave him the idea and the recipe for making the preserves. I would come home and my kitchen would be full of pears. He peeled the pears and made the preserves himself. Sugar was dumped over the pears, and they were left overnight before Don cooked them the next day in their own juice.”

Although Don Martin was known as the "pear man," he never owned a pear tree. Most of his pears were given to him by the English and Caperton families.

Sadly, Mr. Martin died of cancer in September 1998. When the family was making his funeral arrangements, they considered planting a pear tree over his grave. However, they were pleasantly surprised to find the Willow Mount Cemetery had already planted ornamental Bradford pear trees near most of the graves. The Martin family chose a place where a new tree had been planted.

Five years passed. Don Martin was not forgotten. But no one could have predicted how he would be remembered. In 2003, the Bradford pear tree bore fruit! And it has produced fruit every year since. Dr. Anthony Halterlein of Middle Tennessee State University’s College of Agribusiness said, “It’s not unheard of, but it is rare that a Bradford pear tree produces fruit.”

None of the other trees in the cemetery have produced fruit. Perhaps it’s only fitting that Don Martin finally has his own pear tree, repaying him for the kindness he showed for so many years to others by giving away his pear preserves.

Southern Fiction
Daddy Alb

Prologue to Daddy Alb

In the sultry summer of 1939 friends and family crowded into the Tucker Funeral Parlor. The pre-Civil War mansion was a twelve-room brick masterpiece complete with covered front and back porches. Amos Tucker’s father was a cabinetmaker by trade until the Civil War when he began making burial boxes. As a young man Amos learned his father’s business. In nineteen-thirty-five he became a mortician and in cooperation with the local churches offered a full range of services for  families and their dearly departed loved ones. Up until that time, families in Eastern Kentucky took care of their own dead and the funeral was either at their home, the church, or the graveside. The Tuckers’ home had been adapted for the family business. The front room on the right as you entered the front door was the preparation room. The door was kept locked and a sign placed on the door read, “Authorized Persons Only.” On the left as you entered the house was the viewing room. The wallpaper was traditional black rose on white. The matching white draperies covered the long, narrow windows. A burgundy couch and chairs added repose in an arrangement at the rear of the room. Numerous white straight-back chairs lined the walls. The varnished maple wood floor was partially covered with an oval gray braded rug. A single light fixture hung in the middle of the room, gold chain glistening in the subdued radiance. The mahogany casket lined with soft white silk was centered between two small claw-foot tables each holding a large vase of summer roses. The burial box showcased three handles on each side to make it easier for the bearers to carry the body from the burial wagon to the church and to the grave. Daddy Alb’s nephews with the exception of one would do the honors.                    

Old women and young women alike waved their funeral fans as the men wiped sweat from their foreheads with clean white handkerchiefs. Doctor Marshall said the blow had killed him when he hit his head on the potbellied stove—an apparent heart attack. There was no further need for an autopsy. He was only 56 years old. The solemn gathering gazed at Albert Mac Sutton dressed in a sparkling white shirt and new pressed overalls. A few people were crying, others talking and some even laughing.                                                                                                       

Alb’s widow, Lessa, wore a new long-sleeved, black and red dress with a red rose on the lapel. Her broad-rimmed hat covered her new hair cut. At one time her hair hung in golden strands from the top of her head to below her waist. Over the years a gray streak about an inch wide had developed across one side. Her hair had never been cut until the day after Alb died.

Her new look and the smirk on her face made her seem slightly out of place. She and Avery’s wife, Lucy, stood apart from the crowd whispering. Gaping at the door, they turned their backs when others turned their heads to see the colored family enter the room. Joe and Candy Joseph with their son Junior shied past Lessa and Lucy to where Alb was laid out in the casket.
           
“What’s that black thief doing here dressed like he’s gonna preach Alb’s funeral?” said Lessa.
           
“It just ain’t fitting,” said Lucy, turning her head in the direction of the Josephs, her eyes shooting bullets.
             
Joe trembled, and tears dripped off his chin as he stood by the casket holding his nine-year-old son’s hand.
           
“Papa, is that Daddy Alb in that box?” asked Junior, pointing in the direction of Alb.
           
“Yeah, that’s him. Daddy Alb’s the only daddy I’ve even known,” said Joe.

 By the window, Daddy Alb’s fifth son, Avery Sutton went to shake hands with a couple of his neighbors. “Thank you for coming out,” he said.                                              

“Alb has been mighty good to me and my family,” said one of the neighbors. “That year when it was so dry and our crops didn’t make—if it hadn’t been for Alb, we wouldn’t have had anything to eat. He loaned me money and helped us out all winter. I will never forget it."

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked another neighbor.                                          

“There’s nothing to be done. Me and the other boys will take care of the chores,” said Avery. Avery was five feet eleven inches tall, brown as a biscuit and more handsome than any man ever deserved to be. His dark hair and deep hazel eyes made the women swoon. He was dressed in a light blue short-sleeved shirt and light brown pants. The way he acted you’d think he didn’t have a clue as to just how good looking he really was. He flashed a smile in Lucy’s direction and she smiled back as he turned to see Joe standing by the casket.                                             

“Excuse me,” said Avery to the neighbors and with outstretched hand walked over to where Joe was standing.                                                                                                  

“How in the world are you?  I haven’t seen you in a long time. Is this your boy?”
           
“Yeah, this is Joe, Jr. We just call him Junior. Sorry, we have to get together under these circumstances.
What happened?” asked Joe.
           
“It just ain’t right. He was too young to die like this. Sit down,” said Avery as he motioned to a nearby chair.
           
“We’d better not. Candy’ll have to be getting to bed before long. She has to get up at 3:00 a.m. to make it to her work on time.” Avery looked in Candy’s direction and nodded.
           
“I’m sitting up with daddy tonight. Lord knows he sat up with me a many a night. It’s the last thing I can do for him. None of the others want to stay. Mama has to get her beauty rest and my brothers, well, they’re just too dang lazy,” said Avery. “Come back and stay with me.  It’ll be like old times and we can pay our last respects to Daddy Alb together.”                                                                                                    

Joe hung his head and looked at the floor. He was still holding Junior’s hand. Candy stood behind him without speaking with her eyes fastened on the floor. Joe shifted his feet and sighed.                                    

“What do you say? Take the family home and come on back. Don’t worry about what the women folk’ll say. Mama and Lucy won’t even know. It’s the right thing to do. Daddy Alb would do the same for you,” said Avery.
           
“You’re right about that. If it wasn’t for Daddy Alb, I don’t know where I’d be today. He always took good care of me in spite of Mrs. Lessa’s tirades. You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll be here around nine o’clock,” said Joe.                                                        

Joe let go of Junior’s hand as he and his family slipped out the back door to where they had left their mule and buckboard. All of the high-nosed bigots ought to be gone by the time I get back, thought Joe. I’ll knock on the door and Avery’ll let me in.        
           
By eight o’clock everyone except Avery was gone. Most people wanted to make it home before dark. Avery sat thinking about Daddy Alb. He couldn’t have asked for a better daddy. Walking beside him he had learned so much. He remembered how  patient Daddy Alb had been with him and his brothers when they were children, how he had endured Lessa’s temper tantrums, the longsuffering of everyday life on the farm, the kindness he had shown to neighbors. Daddy Alb had set the example not only for his own family, but for the whole countryside. Avery buried his head in his hands and cried. “What will I do without you?” Avery sobbed.                                                                                                                                   

At precisely 9:00 p.m. Joe returned. Junior was with him.

The faint rap on the back door awoke Avery from his thoughts. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and looked at his watch. That must be Joe. He was always on time, thought Avery as he went to the door and opened it.                                                        

“I see you brought the boy,” said Avery.                                                                            

“Junior has never been to a wake. He talked me into letting him come. I hope you don’t mind. He’s growing into a fine little man. I’m proud of him,” said Joe, smiling and looking down at Junior.                                

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Avery. “We can tell him about Daddy Alb and some of the things that happened to us when we were kids.”                                                 

So Joe and Avery spent the night talking over old times, of how Daddy Alb came to be their daddy and how they came to be ‘blood brothers.’                               

As it turned out, Daddy Alb had told Joe part of the truth three days before his untimely death—things that even Avery didn’t know. That was one reason Joe was glad Junior wanted to come to the wake. He could tell Avery and Junior together. But Avery had something for Joe, too. When Avery was getting his daddy’s clothes ready for the funeral, he had found a sealed letter in Daddy Alb’s sock drawer with Nuley Mac Joseph’s name on it. He had slipped it into his pocket hoping to see Joe at the funeral home.