I tend to live under a rock, a rock that the world generally insists upon turning over so I’m forced into the sunlight.  Or as is usually the case in our neck of the woods, into the rain.  Meaning I don’t always know what’s going on around me as far as news is concerned.  It’s a nice place to be, even if I only get to visit occasionally.

That’s probably why I didn’t have a clue who Nick Cordero was—not until Robin Meade via HLN introduced us one morning as I was making my traditional oatmeal.  For those whose knowledge is equivalent to mine, he’s a Broadway performer who contracted COVID-19 and then suffered possibly every setback known to the medical profession.  It began with pneumonia, morphed into septic shock, brought about several mini-strokes and blood clots . . . and the amputation of one leg . . . and eventually required the use of a pacemaker and a ventilator.  Throughout it all—all 90 plus days he spent in ICU—his wife Amanda Kloots kept the world apprised of his condition . . . and begged for prayers of healing and comfort with a faith that was amazing.  There were improvements followed by setbacks followed by improvements followed by more setbacks, until the final one took his life on July 5 ^th .  He was 41 years old.

I had never met him . . . never seen him perform . . . didn’t even know he existed until three months ago.  But his wife chose to share their battle with the world, providing updates and encouragement and inviting everyone to walk with them on their journey.  I did to some extent—and because of her openness to all, I find myself saddened by the death of someone I don’t even know.

His death was closely followed by that of Charlie Daniels, country/rock legend and headliner at the first concert I saw when I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee at Martin.  It was either January or February of ’75.  My then boyfriend now husband and I drove to the fieldhouse and enjoyed an evening of his music.  Then we came outside and pushed the car out of the parking lot, compliments of the six inches of snow that had fallen while we were inside.  And it took us over an hour just to be able to move it.  I didn’t know Charlie Daniels personally but I’d enjoyed his music for years (a particular favorite being “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”—the unedited version), and when someone dies who helped make good memories in your youth, it’s hard not to be affected by their departure even when you’re decades older.

Cue death number three—J. W. Holt from our own little town of Savannah.  Again, I didn’t know Mr. Holt personally, but every morning on my way to work and every evening on my way home, I drove by his house.  And any time I passed by and he was out, he waved.  And I waved back.  Mr. Holt was retired Army, spending 23 years in service to his country—service that included combat duty in Korea and Vietnam.  Having been promoted to the rank of Master Sergeant, he was entrusted with training the new recruits—a task in which he took great pride.  His service continued when he returned to Savannah; he worked with the Savannah Police Department for six years, followed by employment with the Hardin County Sheriff’s Department for another 19.  This man retired three times, but only the last one stuck.  He was a fixture of our community . . . a servant to all . . . and a man who will be greatly missed, even by those of us who never knew him personally.  I know I will when, every morning and every evening, I pass his house with the knowledge he is no longer there.

The three deaths I’ve just recounted represent what I like to call “long-distance loss”.  I knew of them.  My interactions with them ranged from limited to nonexistent.  But each one had an impact on my life—which meant their death did as well.

My last “death of the week” was far more personal.  As a child of a funeral service family with a father who was extremely active in all the professional associations, I attended probably more than my fair share of state and national conventions (yes, even funeral directors have conventions . . .), and met more than my fair share of directors and sales people from across the state.   I grew up with good people like Paul and Ruby Alexander, Marvin and Teedie Rogers, Wayne and Margaret Solomon, Jim and Sonya Andrews, Ellis and Chris Galyon, and so many others.  And then there was Bubba and Kay Woodfin from Murfreesboro.  As a child I couldn’t figure out why anyone would name their son “Bubba” and, although I eventually figured out it was a nickname, I’m not sure I actually knew he was John Benton until I read his obituary.  Scattered throughout my childhood convention memories are his infectious grin with his twinkling eyes—and honestly, I always thought he was kinda handsome.  He even came to our rescue one year when the state convention was held in Gatlinburg in whatever that round hotel is (or was?) that’s perched on the side of a mountain.  We ended up with a flat tire on Dad’s Barracuda (I’m not sure how we got the four of us and all the luggage in it, but we did) and in the summer heat Bubba was out there helping Dad change the tire.  And now one more connection to my childhood . . . and my parents . . . is gone.

Four different people.  Four different lives.  Four different relationships.  And four different types of grief at their departures.  In case you’ve never thought about it I’ll tell you now—grief comes in degrees, and the lack of a deeply personal connection to someone is no guarantee their death isn’t going to hurt.  Maybe not as much.  Maybe not as long.  But it still does.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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