The Interview

Mom died in January, 2010 after a long illness.  Her years in the beautiful independent living center had drained her resources so that she was left with only Dad’s Social Security and her own small pension from the State of Kansas as her total income.  This status made her eligible for Medicaid and she spent the last couple years of her life in nursing homes.

My sister, Geraldine Middleton Williams, had meticulously managed Mom’s finances throughout her declining years.  As the executor of Mom’s estate, Geraldine filed all the necessary paperwork, initiated the collection of death benefits, and prepared a final summary of cash on hand.  Because of her careful planning, all the costs of Mom’s final arrangements were prepaid, leaving a modest amount of money to be equally distributed to each of Mom’s five children.

As I opened the envelopes and held in my hands the checks representing my share of her final estate, I struggled with thoughts of what I should do with the money.  I was also filled with gratitude for the hard work and love both Mom and Dad had committed to each other and to their family.  There was a feeling of satisfaction in knowing they had provided unselfishly for the needs of their family in a lifetime of sharing their modest resources and had crossed life’s finish line with just a little bit in reserve.  I wanted to find a way to honor that commitment to family.

I thought of a couple of rather selfish things I might do with the money.  After all, Mom and I shared a love of singing, so maybe I should buy more sound and recording equipment to enhance the stuff I already had.  But something about that idea just didn’t feel right to me.  I thought about making a contribution to a church or charity in her name but knew the amount to be contributed would not be enough to represent a significant legacy.

It was Springtime.  Memorial Day was approaching and I heard that my aunt, Velva Middleton Bowen, had been to the Salem Cemetery cleaning and decorating the graves of relatives who had died in the early 1900s.  There were seven graves that originally had only large sandstone rocks as grave markers with no inscription.  Information as to who was buried in each grave was passed down within the family during annual decoration day activities and while attending other family burial services.  Of course the official records of the Fairview Cemetery at Salem, Oklahoma contained the information as well.

Sometime in the 1950s,  Aunt Velva had purchased and installed small aluminum markers for those graves.  The aluminum markers were the kind that had individual letters and date numbers glued or soldered onto them to identify the graves with names and dates of birth and death.  The small plates measured about 4” x 6” and were mounted on aluminum stakes which were driven into the ground.  Through the years, damage from the elements and maintenance equipment had destroyed some of the markers and left the others bent and unattractive.

Word of Aunt Velva’s annual ritual of care and respect at the cemetery sparked an obvious thought about what I might do with my portion of mom’s estate.  I recalled that several years earlier, mom had arranged to have small grave stones placed on the graves of some of her relatives at the Sonora Cemetery which is located a few miles northeast of Salem.  Knowing that Geraldine had helped mom accomplish this nice project, I called her to find out how and where they had obtained the markers.  Geraldine told me they had gone to a local monument company in Independence, Kansas where she and mom had both lived at the time and had ordered small stones prepared with names and dates for three relatives.  These were not very expensive, maybe $50.00 or so each, and were small enough that she and her husband, Glenn, had placed them in the trunk of their car and driven the 145 miles down to Henryetta, Oklahoma with mom and placed them on the graves for her.  This was probably done around Memorial Day in either 2000 or 2001, about a year after dad had passed away and was buried at Salem.

In my usual hasty manner, I found the phone number of the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta and placed a call to inquire about the availability and cost of grave stones similar to those mom had arranged for relatives at Sonora.  This is where the art and skill of communication sometimes escapes me.  In my mind, as I talked on the phone to the person at Kelly Monuments, I was describing the kinds of markers that Geraldine had acquired.  But my words and descriptions to the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta equated to their smallest basic stones which were more expensive than I expected.  As it turned out, my understanding of the size and cost of the Sonora grave stones and that of the Kelly grave stones were grossly inaccurate.   But I would not fully understand and appreciate the difference until the following month when I arrived in Henryetta to pick up the new grave stones.

Because nearly ten years had passed since Geraldine had purchased the grave stones in Kansas and considering that the ones I had ordered from Kelly were a little bigger, I rationalized that the difference would be well worth the price and that I would be able to handle the placement of the new stones myself without much trouble.  After all, I have always done a lot of manual work.  That is how I was raised and through the years had worked on many projects with Dad and on my own in the various homes I had owned.  However, my entire professional career had been spent behind a desk in an air-conditioned office. 

In preparing for the trip to Henryetta from my home in The Woodlands, Texas on June 24, 2010, I packed some short 2x4 and 2x6 boards in the trunk of my Acura sedan and placed a ball cap, gloves, shovel, hoe, and a rake in the back seat floor area.  Added an ice chest with beer and water and felt like I was well and wisely prepared for the task.

Arriving in Henryetta late that afternoon, I checked into the former Holidome Inn which by that time had become very run down.  There were still a few hours of daylight available so I decided to drive out to Salem and prepare the grave areas where the stones would be placed.  I had never visited the cemetery alone.  Driving out the old lake road past Nichols Park, memories of my younger days ran through my mind like a slide show presentation as I passed familiar landmarks tied to moments spent with family and friends during the 1950s. 

Beyond the last Nichols Park entrance, a mile or so over the large wooded hill, the blacktop ended and the old familiar sounds of wheels on gravel and the vision of dust billowing up in the rearview mirrors took me back to memories of funeral processions along this road toward Salem.  Finally arriving at the cemetery road, I took a left turn up the steep incline off the rough gravel road onto the dirt lane that led a quarter mile north through pastureland past the driveway to a homestead.  Beyond that driveway the last 50 yards of the cemetery road becomes more narrow, recalling occasions when it had been muddy and treacherous.  On this nice evening, however, the large trees overhead provided a welcome shade as I made the sharp right turn through the open cemetery gate beneath the prominent sign “Fairview Cemetery - Salem”.

The cemetery grounds were nicely mowed, presenting a quiet peaceful scene.  The sounds of birds and other creatures of the woods and meadows were all that broke the silence of the place.  I was alone there.  The single gravel drive cutting straight east through the center of the cemetery provided a distinct separation between the older tree covered portion to the south and the slightly elevated area north of the driveway where only a few scattered trees dotted the remainder of the land.  Fairview Cemetery is not a very large place, probably ten acres or less.  But it was a very important place for the families who settled in the area during the late 1800s.  My Middleton ancestors were part of this early community before statehood when it was part of the Creek Nation in Indian Territory.  According to my dad, his father’s family was granted ownership of several burial plots in return for their labor in clearing and fencing the cemetery property which was near their home place around the Ryal community.  Those plots were in the southwest area of the cemetery beneath large cedar and other shade trees.

As I walked around those seven graves I was able to read the names of some from the remaining aluminum markers.  For others, I had to refer to a reference document provided by my brother-in-law, Glenn, who had done extensive genealogy research on our family.  I removed the aluminum markers and laid them temporarily out of the way at the foot of the graves.  To my surprise, the original sandstone rocks which had been placed at the head of each grave presented varying degrees of difficulty in removal.  Some were not too big but a couple were longer and embedded a foot or more into the ground.  After removing the stones, I then dug holes for each next to the spot where each grave stone would be placed and buried them deep enough that they would not impede the mowing and maintenance of the graves but shallow enough so that they were still visible for appreciation of their historical significance.  Even though the sun was low in the west and the large trees provided a dense shade from the remaining sunshine, an hour or so of work with those garden tools had me sweating profusely.

By the time I had filled in the holes and smoothed out areas I assumed would be large enough for placement of the new markers, I was drenched in sweat and very dirty.  My now wet jeans were soiled from kneeling in the fresh dirt and my t-shirt and arms were muddy from the sweat soaked dust that had accumulated upon them in the process.  It was definitely time for a beer.  Grabbing a cold one from the ice chest, I strolled around the cemetery until it was almost dark pausing first at the graves of my parents and next to them the graves of my dear Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert.  Nearby was also the grave of cousin Johnny’s son, Terry, who had died tragically at a early age.

Across the rest of the cemetery, I wandered, slowly, appreciating some familiar family names that had been common to us back during my first thirteen years of life in Henryetta.  Leaving the cemetery that evening at dusk, there was a nice satisfaction at having made good progress.  I was feeling proud and confident.

The next morning, a Friday, I drove out on West Main and up the hill toward Westlawn Cemetery.  Just part way up the hill on the right was the entrance to Kelly Monuments.  Although I had passed by this place many times during my lifetime, I had never stopped there.  Pulling in across the large gravel parking area, I looked around trying to decide where to park.  The property was dotted with numerous cemetery monument products like an outdoor showroom.  To my right appeared to be a residence and to the left was a long building with what appeared to be an office at the front end toward Main Street.  So I pulled up and parked near the office door.  Inside was a nice older lady.  Previously, by phone, I had discussed the details of my order with a younger woman and was surprised not to find her there.  I told the lady who I was and that I was there to pick up the seven grave stones.

She showed me out to the adjoining work area and called for a middle-aged man there to show me the engraved stones for my inspection and approval.  I was somewhat surprised and impressed with them.  They were larger and thicker than I had expected and had the look of a high quality product.  They were 18” to 24” long 10” to 12” wide and probably 3” to 4” thick.  I had already paid for them in advance via credit card over the phone, so the next step, after verifying the information on each, was to load them into the trunk of the Acura.  Because of their size, I let the worker know that I wanted to make at least two trips to haul them out to the cemetery.   He asked what kind of vehicle I was driving and when I pointed to the sedan parked outside, he seemed a little skeptical.

So I went out to the car and backed it up to the loading area.  I arranged some of the boards on the floor of the trunk to make a platform for the first layer of what I expected might be two or three stones and placed the remaining boards on the ground near the car.  Then I went inside where now a younger man had joined the other guy.  I asked, “How much do you think these things weigh?”  The first man answered, “Well, the smaller ones might be 80 or 90 pounds but some are a little bigger and are probably 110 or more.”  I looked them over and decided to start with what looked like the smallest one.   Wearing my leather work gloves, I grasped the stone and picked it up.  It is amazing how heavy something that dense and compact can feel.  Slowly and with considerable effort, I turned and carried it out to the car.  At this point two thoughts simultaneously occurred to me.  I have always been very particular about not damaging my vehicles when hauling stuff in them and now here I am in the awkward position of needing to rest the stone on the edge of the trunk in order to assume a better posture and grip before putting it down the additional foot or so into the trunk.  The second thought is of the many safety training sessions I had participated in at work concerning proper lifting and the hazards of bending under stress in an awkward position.  But they were watching me and I was beginning to feel more than a little embarrassed.  So I made the most proper looking move I could muster as I bent over and placed the heavy stone into the trunk.  About that time one of the workmen came out carrying another stone and placed it in the trunk.  I was already breaking out in a sweat as I turned to head back for another one. 

That is when I first heard his voice, “Were any of the folks on these monuments related to Wayne, Everett, or Robert Middleton?”  Standing there in the doorway of the shop was an old gentleman in blue & grey striped coveralls.  Thinking he was a custodian or perhaps just someone who hung around the place to visit, I said, “Yes, Everett was my dad and Wayne and Robert were my uncles.” as I stepped around him intent on getting on with the loading but beginning to question the wisdom of my plan to haul these grave stones on my own.  How would I get them up out of the trunk without hurting my arthritic back with which I had a history of occasional mild but painful bulging disks?  “Just hang in there, be careful, and take it slow”, I thought to myself.

“Wasn’t one of them boys married to a Childs girl from Bryant?”  It was him again.  I was surprised at how familiar he seemed to be with my relatives but thought it not too surprising in such a small town.  “Yes, mom was Berneice Childs and Uncle Robert married her sister, Mildred Childs.  What is your name?”  Thought I might as well rest a minute and find out who this man was.

“I’m old man Kelly” he said with a laugh.  Hmm…”Kelly”, I thought….must be a relative of the owner.  

“Didn’t your mother have a brother by the name of Luther?” he asked.  “Why yes, she did.  Did you know Uncle Luther?”  “I sure did.” he said.  “Luther married Beatrice, my mother’s stepsister.”

Without saying much more, he turned to the two workers standing nearby and said “Boys, load the rest of these monuments up on the big truck and take them out to the Salem Cemetery for this man.  And drop each one of them right where he wants them to go.”

I was stunned and watched as the guys disappeared behind the long building and returned in a beautiful nearly new heavy-duty truck, the kind with a hydraulic boom/hoist and of the type apparently used by successful companies in the business.

Stammering, I offered to pay a proper amount for this service which by now I knew I desperately needed.  I don’t recall exactly what words he used to brush aside my suggestion; something about not having a job scheduled that morning.  He just smiled as if it was no big deal.

Soon the two workers had the other stones loaded on the truck and headed east on Main Street as I followed along behind in the Acura, its rear-end sagging a little under the weight of the first two markers.

At the cemetery, I hustled to walk ahead of the men as each one carried a monument stone.  Referring to my reference sheet, I pointed out the proper spots.  In no time at all they had the seven stones dropped where I had indicated and were on their way back to town.  Talk about gratitude.  I was so appreciative.

As it turned out, the original spots I had smoothed out were not big enough or level enough to properly place the new markers.  Again, I was on the ground shoving the heavy stones around and using the garden tools to better prepare the placement of the markers.  That morning as I worked my thoughts were on old man Kelly.  Something about his manner and his generous support made want to go back there to thank him again and find out more about him.  Even though the most difficult task of hauling and placing the stones had been done for me, I was surprised at how severely the heat and humidity that morning had affected me.  Once again I was sweating profusely.  By the time I was satisfied with the leveling and positioning of the grave markers, I had begun to feel as if I was overheated.  I put the tools away in the car which was parked in the shade of one of the big trees, sat in the driver’s seat, started it up, and sat there with the air-conditioner on trying to cool down.

Eventually, I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and rested up a bit.  It was mid-afternoon when I returned to Kelly Monument in search of old man Kelly.  In the office I again found the nice elderly lady I had met earlier in the day.  She told me she was Georgia, Mr. Kelly’s wife.  They had been married over 60 years and had been operating this business most of that time.  When I asked to speak to Mr. Kelly, she told me he never spends time in the office because it is air-conditioned and “He doesn’t like air-conditioning!  You will find him out in his shop.  Just walk on back that way through the monument shop.  He is probably working on one of his VW bugs” she said as she got up from her desk and opened the door to the monument workshop and called out, “Junior, Mr. Middleton would like to talk to you”.  “Just walk on back that way.  I am sure you will find him back there”.

There was nobody else in sight.  But as I walked through the spaces, a series of shop areas one after the other down that long building, each with its own garage type of door, I saw him come walking toward me.

“Hello there.  Did the boys get you taken care of out there this morning?”

“Yes they sure did.  And I am very grateful to you for helping me out the way you did.  Please let me pay you for that.  I am not sure I could have done it alone.”

“That won’t be necessary.  Like I said this morning, we didn’t have any jobs going on and you sure looked like you could use some help!”, he said with that laugh.

“Well I really do appreciate you doing that for me.  I didn’t realize how hot is was out there.  And the humidity!”

“You probably work in an office and aren’t used to working outside.  That’s why I don’t like the air-conditioning.  I just prefer to stay out here and work on my projects.”

“That’s right.  I have worked in an office for 36 years.  My wife even hired someone to do our lawn and gardening about 10 years ago, so I guess I bit off more than I could chew.  I underestimated how heavy those grave stones would be.”

“Well, Mr. Kelly, I am very interested in hearing more about what you know of my family.  We really didn’t get much time to talk this morning.  Would you mind if I interview you and record it here on my iPhone?  My brother-in-law and sister have done a lot of research on our family history.  They even published a 400 page book on all they learned.  It would mean a lot to me to record your memories or stories about any relatives you recall around here.”

Mr. Kelly agreed.  But first he showed me around his shops.  He told how the inscriptions for the monuments are done.  There in his building are three generations of the process.  The two older methods, though abandoned, were left in place, like a sort of museum.  The latest was a computerized system with high tech methods of engraving.

He was a slight man with wispy gray hair under the cap he wore outdoors.  In those coveralls, he looked very comfortable; a wiry man with a weathered face.  I learned he was about a year younger than my mother.  At the time of the interview he was just two months shy of his 87th birthday.

That afternoon, I had returned to thank him with hope of hearing some stories about his life, especially what he knew about my relatives.  What I discovered, in addition to all of that, was a man of great personal accomplishment; achievements and motivation that his faded coveralls and quick laughter belied.  Here was a man who from an early age began entrepreneurial endeavors in several fields of business while embarking on a unique and challenging U.S. Postal career at the same time.  This ambition led him into businesses involving portable community movie theater, movie theater equipment, cemetery monument sales, Volkswagen Beetle restoration, and private aviation.  Despite this kind of drive and ambition, he maintained a low key family life and followed a simple lifestyle.

Following is a photo of Mr. Kelly which I took on the afternoon of the interview accompanied by the actual voice recording of that interview: (although the recording is rather lengthy, you may skim through it if you like and I encourage readers to listen for at least a little bit just to appreciate this man’s unique character)

Edward Kelly Interview

Less than two years after my interview with Junior Kelly, I learned that he had passed away.  I am grateful for the opportunity I had that hot June afternoon to sit with him out in his shop and listen as he related in colorful style, stories about my uncles and about his unique life.

Here is a copy of his obituary:

Obituary for Edward Junior Kelly

Edward Junior Kelly a resident of Henryetta passed away on March 23, 2012 in Henryetta at the age of 88. Born September 1, 1923 in Henryetta to John and Dorothy Kelly. Junior served in the US Army Air Corp being stationed in Alaska and the Aleutian Islands with the 15th Tow Target Squadron, 28th Bombardment Group checking and maintaining airborne radar sets. His group received a Citation for outstanding performance in action against Japanese from April 1, 1944 to August 13, 1945. After the war, he married Georgia Selvidge on December 25, 1947 and made a carrier with the US Postal service and helped with the family business “Kelly Monuments”. He started with the Postal Service as a railway clerk and then a rural mail carrier and retired after some 40 years of service. He graduated from Henryetta High School, attended Oklahoma City University and was a member of the Masonic Lodge, VFW and American Legion and attended the Nazarene Church. His parents and a sister Lorene Winters precede him in death.
Survived By
Wife: Georgia Kelly of the home
2 Daughters: Sheila Burney of Henryetta
Connie and Mike Pinkston of Henryetta
2 Grandsons: Cole Pinkston of Sapulpa
Kyle Pinkston of Glenpool
Great Granddaughter: Scout Pinkston
Brother; Frankie Danels of Palmer, Alaska
Step brother: Claude Danels of Joplin, Missouri
Graveside service will be 10:30 Tuesday, March 27, 2012 at the Westlawn Cemetery under the direction of the Rogers Funeral Home.