Last month I received a call from my cousin Judy in North Carolina. Her mother (my first cousin), Juanita Loretta (Harris) Dills had died at the care center that evening. The day prior she had become unresponsive and never regained consciousness.
Juanita Loretta Dills was the daughter of Charles E. Harris and Helen Smith Harris. Her life spanned August 15, 1938 to May 13, 2023. Juanita was raised by my father’s family after Uncle Charles went to prison for murder. This was around 1940. She told me once that she did not care for that time in Madison County and had many bad memories from there. Helen Smith apparently ran off after she was born and staying in Marshall, having nothing to do with her. My cousin Angie told me that Grandma Cary would take Juanita along to town, whenever they needed to get supplies. Juanita would see her mother at the drug store and have ice cream or a soda and visit. That was the extend of her relationship with her mother.
Juanita met Bob Dills and they were married May 20, 1960. As a young child I remember going to their small brick home on Davis Branch as early as 1971. There was a small creek running down the mountain only a few feet from the house. I’d fall asleep and wake to it when staying there. I remember the large family Bible under the coffee table in the living room and the smell of cornbread and biscuits baking. When company came, they were expected to eat two meals before traveling on. We moved away, first to Asheville, then to Cole Camp, Missouri. Visits became fewer and then only funerals warranted the trip from the Ozarks to Appalachia.
Over they years they had four children: Bob Jr., Judy, Angie, and Tammy. Bob Junior died in 1991 from lung cancer, leaving a young wife and two children. He wasn’t quite 30 years old. I traveled back for his funeral. When there I stuck close to Angie, she rode with me to the funeral. Judy married young and remained in the area. Angie moved to Washington state. Tammy also remained close to Bryson City. Bob died a seven or eight years ago. A few years later Juanita moved to a care center as she was falling, nearly blind, and no longer able to care for herself.
Services were held at the Mount Vernon Baptist Church. I’d always known it as “the church in Alarka.” I’d been there four times before. First for Bobby Jr.’s wedding. Then Judy and Rick’s wedding. Then Uncle Charles’ funeral and later for Bobby Jr.’s. It hasn’t changed in decades, except the parking lot is now paved.
My cousin Angie flew back from Washington State for the service. I met her at her parent’s place by the creek, though the original home burned years ago, a new one was placed in the same spot. There are quite a few more homes along Davis Branch than I recall. It used to be all pasture. Angie rode with me to the funeral, much as we did 32 years ago. Only this time in my truck and without her young daughters, who are now grown women with families of their own. She seemed to take it harder than her sisters. Of course, they have been here while Angie made a life in the Northwest. We talked, and she said that she and David would remain in Washington when the time came as that is now home. I well understand that. The mountains of North Carolina, while familiar and comfortable to me are no longer home, as Cole Camp supplanted them some time ago. Even my father, intensely proud of his southern Appalachian roots admitted that to me many years ago.
The funeral was a simple, Primitive Baptist service. The preacher looked familiar, and as he talked, I realized I probably knew him briefly as a child. The sermon was short, mostly personal memories, with very few scriptures and no altar call. Music was provided The funeral procession wound it’s way across the mountain roads, back to Davis Branch to the cemetery only a few hundred yards from Juanita’s home. She was buried on the side of the mountain, next to her husband, son, and father.
Last week, I got another message, from my cousin Michael on my mother’s side. He told me his brother Adam’s son, William, while working his summer job in the recycling center, was crushed between a tractor and trailer. Emergency services were called, but there was nothing to be done. He was sixteen. The family is devastated.
I don’t really remember William. About ten years ago, we all got together at Mom’s place and had a cookout. He would have been one of any number of children running about. This service, wasn’t a service, so much as a gathering of family and friends. The family is not religious, as far as I can tell. I had no words of comfort for my cousin. Cremation will follow at some point in the future.
Time is fleeting. Cliched, perhaps, but true. Also true is that life is short, whether 84 or 16 years. The brief mortal span marking life is defining of humanity. I personally believe life is a gift of the Creator. Our immortal intelligences, souls if you will, wedded to a mortal body. One expires, the other does not. I resolve to do better with the time I have. Will you?
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