I haven’t mentioned my Big Daddy Scott too many times in my
memories. That’s because he passed away
when I was seven years old. He was only
71, but to me, he seemed like a very old man, as did most people over the age
of 50. Now, being very old has graduated to a whole
new level.
What I remember most about Big Daddy was that he was always
happy or appeared to be. He played games
inside the house with us children, and Big Momma sat in her wooden rocker next
the window and crocheted. When it was cold,
we would laugh and have fun with a stupid game we called “hide the comb”. That’s all the game was about. Hiding a comb. But we did it with such enthusiasm in that
one little bedroom which had a small black potbellied, coal fired stove. After several rounds of the game, Tommie and
I would sometimes spend the night and sleep in the extra bed in their room
which was piled high with feather mattresses.
On the mantle stood a large
mantle clock that ticked and ticked so loud it made me crouch under the covers
to keep from hearing it.
The front bedroom was frigid with no heat that I remember, except
maybe a fireplace, so it was always cold.
It was seldom used. I remember
Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on the front porch with the plant stands loaded
with pots of ferns and various plants, rocking and watching. The dirt road was dusty in front of the house
and we children always liked to try to catch a ride on the back of the big
yellow road scraper, which got us in heaps of trouble with Biggie, saying we
were going to get killed. I think we proved
her wrong, thank the Lord.
In April, 1945, I remember coming home to a somber, quiet
house. Mother was next door where Big
Momma and Big Daddy lived and soon she came over and told me that Big Daddy had
died. She said he had a blood clot in
his leg. At seven years, I guess
children don’t have much of a handle on what death means and it intrigued me
that people were coming and going and bringing food, and saying “bless your
heart” and “he’s in a better place” and all the kind of things that are said to
family when someone dies.
The next evening, Mom took me over and the cold bedroom door
was opened to the hall and living room and there were folding chairs lining the
room. A big casket was there in the
center and there was Big Daddy looking fine, in his best suit with that sweet,
kind expression on his face that was always present. It was dark, and there wasn’t much
light. Probably a single bulb hanging
from the ceiling like the rest of the house, but people would come and sit and
stay for long periods of time. Then
another “crew” of people would come in and take over. There was always someone there. Day and night. Sitting with Big Daddy.
The tradition of sitting with the dead has pretty much been
eliminated now due to the modern conveniences and beautiful funeral homes. People still go and visit with the families
and pay their respects, both at home and at the funeral home. But as I think of this time now, I remember
this time worn tradition with a lot more reverence.
