Black History Month: Cathy's Creative Corner - White Folks at Pa's Funeral
The first funeral I can remember attending was my great-grandmother’s. Actually, I don’t remember the funeral, just the trip for her burial to the mountains where she was born. There was a short processional and one of the cars in front was side-swiped by oncoming traffic. We all stopped to make sure everyone was okay before proceeding.
While at the burial site, we visited my grandmother’s grave. It was there my father saw the incorrect birthdate on his mother’s headstone. He was only four when she passed, so he had not seen this before. He said he’d check into it, but by not having been back, I don’t know if it was ever corrected. As the grown-ups mingled after the funeral, we kids ran around the church yard and raced up and down the secluded dirt road out front. It was like we had known each other for years, although we had just met. But we were family and we knew it.
Two years later, I lost my grandfather on my mother’s side. Pa was a character! Not a big man in stature, but he commanded your undivided attention. And could he dress! Looked like a model for a men’s clothing store. Nana, his wife, was not to be outdone but she had a hard time keeping up with his wardrobe. A licensed plumber by trade, Pa worked for one of the white realtors in town; it kept him pretty busy. A Dispatch article noted him as the first licensed black plumber in Lexington. During his later years, he started table and cabinet carpentry as a hobby. He eventually gave up plumbing when arthritis set in and crawling under wet, damp houses no longer appealed to him. This, however, gave him more time for his hobby. He became good at it! Our family still has bedroom suites, china hutches and dressers he made over 50 years ago. He made a lot of things for customers, too.
On the day of Pa’s funeral, I was not surprised by seeing whites in attendance. He had worked for and around Caucasians all his life. Out of respect, they came to his funeral. This was the first time I recall being in the family lineup to walk into a funeral. First thing that caught me off guard was the separation from our parents. All the grandkids were ushered to the back of the line. Okay, as long as ALL of us are back here, it’s alright. As I scoured the line for grandkids still with their parents, I saw white people. A group of white people right behind Pa’s children. Why are there white people in the family lineup? Don’t they know to go on inside the sanctuary? They still have time. I figured someone would tell them before we went in so I turned to talk to my cousins. Don’t remember much after that.
Years later, in another family lineup, I questioned as to why outsiders would be included in the line, remembering Pa’s funeral. I was told no one outside of the family would be. That is when I learned that both Pa’s father and mother were biracial. The whites in his funeral were aunts and uncles from both sides. They always kept in touch with him. Some of his brothers were so light I mistakenly thought they were white.
I take pride in knowing about Nana’s family going back to G5-Grandma Keziah, an ex-slave from the west coast of Africa. Also, being able to go back five generations on my father’s family tree is no small feat. But not knowing more about Pa’s family is something I truly regret. Wish I could’ve heard about it firsthand and not from the registries of a library.
