In 1963, after having volunteered and enlisted in the U. S. Army Infantry, being sent overseas for nearly three years and honorably discharged, I was back home again farming with my father. Some time afterward, an elderly long-time family friend, Mr. Nat Davis, asked a favor of me.
Mr. Davis did not have a car and he did not drive, and he wanted to know if I would be kind enough to take him to the funeral of his friend Hiram. I knew of Hiram. I had on several occasions enjoyed the music of Nat Davis's violin, his brother Bill's large harmonica, and Hiram's banjo. A quick “yes” was my reply, and then I asked where and when the funeral was to be. The answer was graveside rites at the private family cemetery, on the coming Saturday at 2 p.m., near Sago on the Pittsylvania-Henry County line. I asked Mr. Davis if he knew how to get there. He replied that he had a “general idea, but not exactly.” I suggested that we leave his home a couple of hours before the event, so we would have time to ask directions when we reached the Sago area.
Saturday arrived. We left Chatham at 12 noon, drove to the Sago area, asked directions at a country store, and were soon on an old farm road leading to the cemetery. We could soon see the burial tent, erected and ready for the funeral procession. The cemetery was located on a small hill, the sacred space bordered by tall, straight shortleaf pines. As we were a bit early, it was a lonely, quiet place.
After a short while the row of vehicles approached along the farm road. The coffin was positioned over the grave. The few family members, all elderly, took seats under the tent. The minister quoted a few verses from the Bible, said a prayer, and then began shaking hands with the family and speaking his words of condolence. All the while Mr. Davis and I were standing against one of those great bordering pines. A bit of wind was stirring. The tree tops were whispering, as pines do in a light wind.
At this point, Mr. Davis said he wanted to go and speak with the family. I replied, “You go ahead, I do not know them, I will wait here.” He further explained that he had a letter from his sister to one of the ladies of the family. I saw the letter as he held it in his hand. The envelope's four corners were edged in black.
Off he went. In a few minutes he returned and I said, “I'm in no hurry, if you want to stay and talk with the family.” He replied, “No, thank you, I am ready to leave now. I have followed Hiram as far as I can go.”
I have never forgotten his poetic words. How true they are. No one can follow the departed beyond the grave.
On the drive back to Chatham I asked Mr. Davis, “When we were standing under the tree at the gravesite, and you took the letter from your coat pocket, why were the corners of the envelope edged in black? I have never seen that before.”
He explained that long ago, prior to the mail service's modern practices, a letter edged in black was a signal to the postmaster that the letter bore news related to dire distress or death, thus needing delivery as quickly as possible.
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