A Funeral

The day dawned cool and clear, to the relief of Ben and Sam, who would serve today as honorary pall bearers, as they had so many times before. The funeral and burial was that of Alvin Blevins, lifelong employee of Mossy Swamp Plantation, a legend to all who knew him and his long history on the storied estate.

A black man, he had been born on it, son of the head kennel man and head big house cook, grew up on it until drafted to serve in the Korean War where he endured brutal winter combat as an Army medic, then returned to serve the owning family on the quail hunt team as scout, then head dog man and huntsman, then lastly as hunting wagon driver, the post he held with honor at his death, along with that of bartender at big house parties, a side job he held through all the years from age sixteen, except when away for military service.

Through all the years he had assumed the role of special guardian of the owner’s children, grand and great-grand children, while they were on Mossy Swamp in hunting seasons, teaching them one-by-one to wing-shoot safely and skillfully, for clays, dove, quail and duck in that order, and to fish for bream and bass in its legendary pond.

Teaching them too to ride pony and horseback, and to show always good manners toward all humans and animals, and by his example generally how to live their lives. He had served too as deacon of this church on the boundary of Mossy Swamp, its site deeded by Mossy Swamp’s assembler in 1890 to its congregation, and as a local civil rights leader through the dark and gradually enlightening years of the civil rights struggle. To call Alvin a beloved citizen was an understatement.

The service in the church was joyous though sad. Many spoke briefly of Alvin, including Ben and Sam, and the choir sang traditional funeral hymns, including Rock of Ages and Amazon Grace and at Alvin’s request, during the recession to the church graveyard where the grave lay open, I’ll Fly Away.

At the graveside, the current owner of Mossy Swamp Plantation, Fred Grimes, looked into Dr. Sam Nixon’s eyes and a long ago story passed between them, remembered by each in every detail. A story of Fred Grimes’ salvation at age twenty-two, thanks to Alvin Blevins and Sam.

The story was this. Fred was then a graduate student at an Ivy League university. At Mossy Swamp over Christmas break, Alvin had, thanks to his experience as an Army medic, detected that Fred had become a heroin addict. He had gone to Sam Nixon, MD with the knowledge, and together they had arranged for Fred’s attendance for eight weeks at a resident recovery program. Fred had never relapsed, and the rest of his family had never known of the addiction.

At the graveside Fred Grimes announced his endowment of a professorship in addiction recovery at the Emory University Medical School in honor of Alvin Blevins.