by Everett Reid
I see there are people who want the 55 mile-per-hour speed limit raised. Which brings to my mind Little Grandma's funeral.
Little Grandma had 13 kids, all but one of whom grew up, and three of them had 12 kids. So when she died enough decendants came to her funeral to cover a 10-acre field hedgerow to hedgerow.
It seemed strange to me (I was 8 years old or thereabout) that such a swarm of people came to her funeral. Every year on Grandpa's birthday – he died four years before Grandma did – the family gathered in droves for the celebration and homecoming, but I don't know that anyone ever paid any more attention to Little Grandma except a post card. And here it was she who stayed home and raised the kids and ran the little farm while all Grandpa ever did was go hunting and fishing.
Well, of course, there were those 13 kids.
I was awfully disappointed when the telegraph came because it wasn't edged in black. Papa and Mama sang "The Letter Edged in Black" and explained it to me and that was what I had expected.
The night before the funeral no one sent me to bed so I stayed up all night except for naps in the barn or the cellar.
The little house was jammed with people "setting up." They ate all of the bread Little Grandma had baked the day before she died spread with her jams and jelly and every now and then some of the men went out to the barn to see that old Jessy was bedded down right. It shocked me terribly that every now and then some one would bust out laughing. At a funeral!
But the trip to the cemetery was the high spot for me. The hearse was a glass box on wheels pulled by two white horses followed by what seemed like miles of surreys and gigs and farm wagons and folks on horseback.
And dust! Good Lord, the dust! Everyone had hankies wrapped around their faces and after the first surrey no one could see the rig ahead.
At the cemetery everyone brushed off the dust and walked about looking at the permanent homes of old neighbors and getting reacquainted. Uncle Jon was as drunk as ever and went around moaning "Oh, my dear Mama" until he fell into the grave atop her. His brothers debated leaving him there and covering him up too, but decided it would be an insult to Little Grandma, so instead decided it would be better to tie him to a tree down by the swamp and let the mosquitos eat him. I followed him about to see it done but he just lay down under a tree and went to sleep.
So by divergent means I get back to the 55 mph.
Some years ago I went to a funeral. It was shortly after the oil shortage. The funeral was out of town and as soon as we hit the city limits, all the cars stepped up to the maximum speed. When we got there the affair was handled with the efficiency of a military drill. While the "Amen" still hung in the air the cars were on their way back, many at speeds exceeding 55 mph.
Well, abut 70 years ago we took Little Grandma to the cemetery through dust and neighboring and a drunken uncle. We left her there and went back. I don't know how fast the horses traveled.
That later funeral took an elderly lady to the cemetery at 55 mph. We left her there.
So, Brothers and Sisters, what difference does it make how fast we go? Some day we will all end up at the same place, and we're going to stay there. At the end of that journey it doesn't matter how fast we got there. We've got lots and lots of time after we get there.
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