by Jay Heavner
Tom felt exhausted but also pleased at the display of support by the community. He slept well that night. Tomorrow, he’d give the final service for the Dowlens at the little pavilion in the cemetery, and he knew what to say.
Tom was up at the break of dawn Saturday; even so, he could smell bacon frying. Joann must already be up and fixin’ breakfast. Tom grabbed a WVU Football T-shirt, sweat pants, and with sleep still in his eyes, made his way to the kitchen. Joann saw him and said, “Hi, honey. You looked so peaceful laying in our bed; I left you sleeping. You've got a big day ahead.”
Tom yawned and stretched. “Yeah, sure do. It’s always hard to say goodbye to friends even though we believe they’re in a better place with the Lord, and we’ll see them again. I think we grieve for our loss, not their gain.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right, Tom. This tragedy seems to be bringing out the best in the community.”
Tom nodded, “Yeah, the outpouring of support, both emotional and financial, has been hard to believe. I want to mention this when I give the eulogy for the Dowlen family. I smell coffee. Can I have some?”
“I’m kind of busy with the eggs now, Tom. I swear; I wait on you hand and foot, and you still don’t know how to get the coffee.”
Tom got up, went behind Joann at the stove, and began to nibble on her neck as he held his hands on her arms.
“Tom,” she pleaded, and part demanded. “Stop that, or I’ll whack you into next Sunday. I’m busy.”
“Okay honey, you know a woman at a stove is a turn on for us guys.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know. A man’s stomach is the way to his heart.”
“Well, one of the two popular ways,” he said.
“Tom, you’re a pain, but I love you just the same. Now, get your own coffee. It’s your favorite, Chock Full ‘O Nuts. The eggs will be done in a minute. Get the bagels in the toaster, okay?”
“Sure thing. Ain’t nothin’ says love to a man’s heart like a good breakfast and coffee. Say, that would be a good title for a book, ‘Nothing Says Love like Breakfast in the Morning.’ with the subtitle, ‘A Man’s Point of View.’”
Joann again rolled her eyes, “Tom, there are days I wonder about you. Who is this stranger I married?”
Tom laughed, “You know what they say, ‘when the goin’ gets weird, the weird get goin.’”
“Tom, I’d send you back to your mother if I could.”
“Not a chance on that. Number one, she wouldn’t take me and Number 2, you know as well as I do, she died decades ago, and I still miss her. It seems like yesterday, Dad and I stood by her new grave over at the cemetery outside of Cumberland. I need to go soon and put some flowers on her and Dad’s graves.”
Tom poured his coffee and a cup for Joann, too. When he made it back to the table, two plates of eggs with bacon were waiting. He went to the toaster for the bagels, grabbed them with his fingers, and burnt them slightly. After blowing a comforting breath on the fingers, he gave one bagel to her and kept the other for himself. She spread cream cheese on hers, and he covered his with some blackberry jam purchased from Wayne’s Grocery. It was a new product from a local producer. Wayne had always tried to help the little guy. Tom remembered how he’d started and will never forget Wayne’s help in his business’s beginning, even though it was a little reluctant.
Tom blessed the meal, and the hungry couple chowed down. They were much too busy feeding their faces for small talk other than, “pass the salt and pepper,” or “this is good,” and one “thank you.”
Tom helped Joann clean up after they finished, and she made a plate for Miriah when she awoke.
Tom asked, “Are you gonna be able to make the service at the cemetery at 11:00? I’d really like you to be there.”
She said, “I’ll do what I can. I’m helping prepare the food with the ladies of the church for the reception after the funeral. Thank God, Padre let us use the kitchen and fellowship hall at his church.”
“Good ole Padre comes through in a pinch as usual. The man has a heart as big as he is,” he said. “Gonna be a lot of hungry people after the services. Are you bringing Miriah? She could help.”
“I want to, but she is kind of queasy on this. Ruhama was a friend, and she’s not used to seeing someone that young die.”
“I know where you are coming from, but I think she needs to realize death can come at any age. She knows about the Lord and what we need to do for salvation. I know it’s a heavy dose of reality, but life is like that. It’s not always pretty.”
“You’re right. I’ll see if I can convince her. If not, I’ll leave her with my sister, okay?”
“Do what you can. I’d like to see you both at the funeral.”
Joann nodded yes to Tom. He left the kitchen, walked outside, and headed to the warehouse for a quick look-see. No one was working today, and everything was in order. Nacho looked up from the barnyard at his owner and went back to grazing. His dogs lay sleeping beside a tree nearby. Tragedy or not, the world keeps spinning, he thought.
He walked back to the house and went inside. Miriah was eating the food her mother prepared. “Hi, Daddy, you’re up,” she said.
“Yes, it’s Saturday, but it’s gonna be a busy day with the funeral and reception afterward,” Tom said. Miriah dropped her eyes to her plate. “I’d like you to be there. Ruhama was your friend.”
“I know, Daddy. Why did she have to die?”
“I wish I knew. There’s a time to be born and a time to die. No one knows when it will happen, but someday it will. I’ve had several close visits from the death angel myself. We’ll want to remember Ruhama and keep the memories of her alive, okay?”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ll try, Daddy. I’ll try.”
Tom said, “And I’d like you to be at the services today with your Mom. I believe Ruhama would want you to attend.”
She sniffed and wiped away a tear. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl.” Tom bent over and kissed her on the top of the head. “Now, I have to get ready and go, or I’ll be late for the funeral myself, and I think they’ll notice if I’m late.”
“Okay, Daddy. Love you.”
“Love you too, sugar.”
“Sugar? Daddy, that’s what you call Nacho.”
“Well, I love you both and mommy, too.”
“Mommy says you’re rotten and I agree, and I bet some of those brays Nacho makes are saying ‘you’re rotten, too.’”
“Looks like I’m busted. You guys know me too well. I have to go and get my rotten self ready. See you later, alligator.”
She smiled, “In a while, crocodile.”
Tom headed up the stairs to the bedroom, found his one good suit he rarely wore, and put it on. Well, surprise, surprise. Someone shined his black dress shoes. The doer of this mysterious good deed had to be identified and rewarded. He would round up the usual suspects for questioning just as they did in the old movie “Casa Blanca.” Someone needed to be thanked for actions above and beyond the call of duty.
He combed his hair, which seemed to grow grayer daily. No one had called him a spring chicken for a long time. Tom walked down the steps, found Joann in the kitchen, kissed her goodbye, and was out the door. His old Chevy pickup sat waiting and proudly displayed on the back window, was a new WV Mountaineers sticker.
Traffic on WV Route 28 was light as he drove to Fort Ashby. Bet ole George Washington would sure be surprised to see how this road and area look now. The old buffalo trail, little more than a trace, was a two-lane paved road, and the old barren wilderness was populated by lots of people and their homes. He’d be pleased, Tom thought.
He drove by the Catholic Church and saw several familiar cars at the Fellowship Hall. Looks like the Calvary Chapel people in the congregation were busy preparing the reception meal for after the services. Padre walked between the buildings and Tom tooted his horn. Father Frank looked toward the sound, recognized the old truck, smiled and waved in return. Wh
ere would we be without friends? A man with a true friend is rich, while one who only has only gold is poor.
He traveled by the old barn at Siple’s Curve with the Sinclair Dinosaur painted on one side and a Mail Pouch Tobacco advertisement on the other. The pungent smell of fresh manure filled his nose — nothing like the scent of fresh, green grass cow pies. Memories of youthful adventure and stupidity came to mind. He and another boy decided it would be great fun to chase some cows captive in a barnyard which, unknown to them, were full of lubricating fresh, spring grass. The Irish talk about the wearing of the green, but it wasn’t quite the same for the boys that day. They chased the cows, but the bovines had the last laugh. They turned and ran from the boys and a disgusting half liquid-half solid substance shot from the rear ends of the cows and coated the boys. Once was enough for him. Common sense came easy for this country boy.
Over the bridge across Patterson Creek, he drove, took the long sweeping turn at the fairgrounds, and continued on through the sleepy, little town. He turned right into the parking lot at the Upchurch Funeral Home and found a place to park. Bright red, highly polished fire trucks from the Fort Ashby and Short Gap Volunteer Fire Departments, as well as a lime green truck from Patterson Creek VFD, were parked ready to carry the three caskets to the nearby cemetery. Tom would ride in the first truck driven by a man named Leroy who’d gone to school with him.
Tom walked into the building and was greeted by the owner. It was not the first time they had met, and it would not be the last. It seemed like their businesses were similar; they both served the living and the dead. They spoke on the arrangements for the trip to the cemetery and the services. All seemed in order. Tom talked to some of the waiting firemen who told him of coffee and donuts in the next room, which they were wolfing down. Everyone was invited for a reception afterward at the Catholic Church.
At 10:30, the three heavy caskets were lovingly and gently carried by six formally dressed firemen from the building to the waiting three fire trucks with turned-on flashing red lights. The caskets were securely strapped down for their final journey. In a few minutes, the three trucks pulled out onto WV Route 28 with an escorted by a Mineral County Sheriff’s Department vehicle leading the way with blue lights beaming. A state trooper blocked traffic coming from Springfield at the one and only traffic light in town. The caravan made a left onto Dans Run Road, and it was lined with people carrying American flags of every size, large, medium, and small. Slowly they proceeded by the Fort Ashby VFD building, the Methodist Church, and stopped in the road in front of the Community Building, where the Dowlens had attended church. At that point, all three fire trucks turned on their loud sirens to honor the fallen family. From Tom’s perch in the lead truck, he could see children covering their ears from the tumult. They continued, sounding for a full minute and abruptly stopped. There was no way the Lord could not notice the people of this little town were bringing His three children home to Him.
The three trucks resumed their travel and made a right at Ashby’s Old Fort from which the town took its name. They did the best they could to avoid numerous potholes in the road by the elementary school. The trucks continued up the steep road past the old section of the graveyard. At the top of the knoll, they turned right and stopped at the small pavilion. Air brakes activated with a hiss, and the engines turned off. Men who rode on the side of the trucks dismounted, took the straps off the caskets, and gently carried them to sturdy racks where each was placed side by side. Tom motioned to the crowd of people standing behind the open building to come forward, which they did. He noted Joann and Miriah in the crowd. Mr. Logan Dalton, from the funeral home, handed him a microphone, and Tom began to speak.
“I’m very pleased you took time from your busy schedules to be here today. I’m sure the Dowlens would be surprised and maybe a little embarrassed. They were not people who wanted to draw attention to themselves. I knew them as their pastor. They showed up one Sunday morning dressed in the best clothes they owned. Most of you know they were refugees from religious persecution in the Middle East. The old car they had broke down here in Fort Ashby, and they decided this was where they belonged. Mr. Dowlen did whatever he could find for work before the school hired him as a custodian, and he kept the school spotless. I remember him telling me how he was glad to have a job and as the Bible says, he did his work as unto the Lord. He was saving for another car but never could get enough for a replacement. Seemed like the money was always needed someplace else, new shoes, doctor bills, or some other unexpected expense. I think we can all relate to that.”
A little laugh rippled through the crowd. “It was hard to understand him sometimes with his broken English. I know he had a lot he could have complained about, but I rarely ever saw him downtrodden in spite of his circumstances. When I asked him how he did it, he looked at me a little shocked and said, ‘Pastor, the Good Book says, take it all to the Lord and I do. You know that.’ He was so right. That day he ministered to me when I needed it. He loved humor and could tell many jokes. One I remember well, I’ll share it with you now. Seemed a Priest was retiring after twenty years in his parish. The senior State Senator from the area was to give a little speech at the retirement event. He was late, so the priest decided to say his own words while they waited for his arrival.
He started, “I’m so glad for a sense of humor. My very first impression of this parish was from the first confession I heard here. I believed I had been assigned to a horrible place. This person entered my confessional and told me took a TV and lied about it to the police to get off. He’d stolen money, embezzled from his employer, cheated on his wife with women and men, done illegal drugs, and several other things worse than that I shall not mention. As the days went on, I learned my people in the parish weren’t like that at all. Indeed, I really did have a great congregation full of good and loving people.”
As the Priest finished his speech, the politician arrived full of apologies for being late. He went to the platform and immediately began his presentation. He said, “I’ll never forget the day our parish Priest arrived. As a matter of fact, I had the honor of being the first person he heard a confession from.”
Laughter erupted from the crowd, and when it had quieted, Tom said, “That was the kind of man Elias Dowlen was, always ready to give a dependable helping hand and quick with a smile and a joke. I was glad to be his pastor and call him my friend.
“Hannah Dowlen was the glue holding this struggling family together. She was the first to find a job in Fort Ashby. She went to work as a cook at Cindy’s Restaurant in the building where she lived. I knew Mr. Dowlen better than I knew the Missus. Her English was not the best, and I had trouble understanding her often. I saw Cindy at the funeral parlor last night, and she filled me in on some details on her. Cindy at first was a little afraid to hire her with the communication problem, but she offered to work for two days for free as a trial period. How could she refuse an offer like that? At noon on the second day, Cindy hired her and paid her for the two days. It was only later she learned the family was down to nothing and had been eating rice and beans and nothing else for the last two weeks. She was such a good worker; Cindy only wished she could afford to pay her more. It was Hannah Dowlen that introduced shawarmas and falafels to this traditional meat and potatoes community. Cindy said once people tried them, they came back for more and usually brought a friend along. One day Hannah wasn’t feeling well, and Cindy had asked her what was wrong. She said she’d been beaten by a mob of men one day in the old country who did not like Christians. Cindy told her she could rest and leave, but she insisted on staying and doing her job. She was one you could depend upon.
“And what of young Ruhama? I saw her smiling face at church every Sunday. Most of what I know comes from what the kids from church and school told me about her. She spoke Arabic and English fluently and was at the top of her class in Spanish. She had her whole life ahead of her, but she was taken way too soon. One of her classmates told me she confided in him tha
t she had a brother who was killed because the family was Christian. They never told me of this terrible part of their past lives.
“This young lady will be missed by all who knew her in the short time she was here. I don’t know why tragedies like this happen; we only know they do in this fallen world. One thing I do know for sure, Jesus Christ told us He overcame death and the grave. The Dowlen family followed the Lord, and we know we will see them again.” Several amens could be heard coming from the crowd. “They’d want me to tell you that you can have the same assurance of life after death with the Lord in Heaven if you will just give your life to Jesus today. I give you that opportunity. Come talk with me or with any of the town’s pastors. They’ll be more than happy to help. Thank you for coming. The Dowlens would not have been able to believe how this community and area came together for them. I would like to thank the Volunteer Firemen of Fort Ashby, Short Gap, and Patterson Creek for being pallbearers, and I believe I saw Mr. Godfrey of the Cumberland Times-News newspaper standing in the back of the crowd. I especially thank him for all he has generously done in telling the Tri-state area and beyond of this families’ plight. We could not have succeeded without his help.” A gentle applause came from the crowd. “To the Dowlen family, may you rest in peace until we see you again. And to all the living, I give you these verses from the book of Numbers in the Old Testament: May the Lord bless you and keep you. May His face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May He turn His face to you and give you peace. Amen.”
Many amens were heard from the crowd. Some left quickly, but others stayed around to talk. The Firemen went to their trucks and quickly left. A call had come in of a bad wreck on WV Route 28 near the top of Middle Ridge. Springfield VFD was requesting assistance.
