I overheard a story this past weekend that I feel compelled to pass along. I don’t know if it’s a true story, but based on the characters involved I don’t doubt it. Let me set it up before we get into the thick plot line.
All over my home country, it’s rained a lot lately. Enough moisture to soak deep into the soil, soak into deep old tree roots. Enough to make a real mess out of soft ground like the dirt in an old country cemetary.
The story told within earshot of me went like this:
Nolan’s been dead and gone for some time now and his body rests beneath the sprawling oak trees in the grave yard of his childhood community. In homespeak, he’s buried out there at Spring Hill. Some folks call it ‘Sprang Hill,’ but that’s for another column.
Nolan’s daughter, Nona received a call last week from one of the locals out at Spring Hill. The caller was quite concerned over what she just saw.
“Nona, that big oak tree by your daddy’s grave fell over last night during the storms and pulled up a lot of dirt with it. It was awful close to Nolan’s grave and I wanted you to know,” the caller said.
Nona was a little bit alarmed at the news, “Well, do I need to call Robby out there to put him back in the ground or what?”
“No, I can’t see the casket under there. But I bet he shit his drawers when that tree fell over.”
Without missing a beat, the clever Nona had a comeback.
“Now, we are NOT digging up Nolan just to change his drawers.”
I don’t know if that’s funny to anybody else. But I got a laugh. Maybe it’s because I know the folks involved and I knew the man resting in Spring Hill… dirty drawers or not.