Raising the Dead
I am attempting to persuade my father to give me more
details of his years growing up. I think
this material would either be great for a book in its own right, or he would be
an excellent example to use for a
character in a novel.
He quit school in the sixth grade to work two farms for the
family. When he was fifteen he ran off
to Michigan and made his way as a cook in a logging camp. At seventeen he forged his father's signature
and went into the Army. While I was
young he worked as a powder man, using dynamite and nitroglycerin to blast the
way for highways.
From what his siblings tell me, he was a pistol growing
up. I wrote about him putting a skunk in
his one room school house; but my favorite story is when he and a friend a friend
attended a local funeral. An old
hunchbacked man had died, and as they did in those days, the funeral was held
at his home. After placing him in the
casket, they had strapped him down so that he lay flat in the pine box.
It was a hot summer afternoon and the windows were all open,
and the country folk mostly did without screens. They hadn't embalmed the gentleman, so the
casket had been placed in front of a window at the back of the house.
Dad and his friend had sneaked around to the window, from
the outside. Whenever the preacher led
the guests in prayer, Dad or his friend would reach inside the window and cut
on the strap holding the body down. The
prayers ended before they could complete the cut so they gave up trying.
They went around and into the house to join in the
service. Many people stood up and spoke
of the man giving him a fine eulogy.
During the seventh or eighth such speech, there was a loud "SNAP!" Everyone turned toward the casket, as the
body sat strait up.
People screamed and ran, some going through doors and others
diving through the windows. The way Dad
tells it, some are probably running still.
I still laugh whenever I remember him telling that story. I like fiction, but the best stories are
usually true.
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