He was my neighbor up the hill, a spot he had carefully chosen and purchased in 2018.  It was .36 acres, neatly settled size-wise between a quarter and a half.  And it was his . . . and only his.  No one financed it.  No one bought it for him.  He saved until he could afford it because he was an independent soul who didn’t want to owe anyone for anything.

That’s why his first residence there was a pup tent.  He had moved from out-of-state with all his worldly belongings in his van . . . and his beloved Indian motorcycle trailered behind it.  Little by little—as he could—he began building what would be his home for the next few years.  He designed the one room cabin, planned its construction, and did it himself, with a bit of help from a neighbor down the road and the occasional consultation with a carpenter who’d drop by for a visit.  He might not actually take his advice, but he at least would ask . . . sometimes.

We often talked about his family, especially his ancestors.  Family was important to him, whether still living or long since dead, and he wanted to learn as much as he could about his history.  At one point he gave me an assignment (one I gladly accepted)—to locate a few family burial sites.  He’d been researching for a while but had never been successful.  I didn’t fare much better, but we texted back and forth for several days, me relaying what I’d found and him adding to the story I was slowly weaving.  I did figure out one of his ancestors was buried on their home place in the Counce area.  The only problem was that no one knew where the “home place” was.

One day he sent me a picture of the back end of a fully loaded truck, telling me “Well Lisa this didn’t get dumped on your property . . . they turned right around and left.”  He was always looking after the land . . . his road . . . my little spot . . . and he didn’t tolerate people who weren’t respectful of others or of what God created.  They didn’t necessarily have to be nice to him, but they better not mess with anyone else.

That cabin I mentioned?  He eventually managed to set up a kitchen in its confines, complete with a microwave and a hot plate, so he could cook instead of having to forage for food.  There were provisions for bathing and other bathroomly functions on the lot, but the original cabin construction hadn’t included an actual bathroom; the money simply hadn’t been available at the time—and he wasn’t about to let anyone help him with the cost.  That was going to change though; he’d bought most of the necessary materials and made most of the necessary arrangements so he could add a shower and toilet to the interior of his home.  It was something he had worked toward . . . something most of us cannot imagine doing without . . . but for him it was a goal.  And he was willing to wait for that goal to become a reality.  He had a plan.  And he knew the value of patiently following it.

He’d never really had a bed the whole time he was living there—just a twin mattress on the floor.  It wasn’t that it was uncomfortable (even though it kinda was) but getting up off of it was just plain hard.  That had changed maybe two weeks ago when he bought an actual full-sized bed—one he could just roll out of in the mornings.  He was so pleased with his purchase; it was one more step forward . . . one more goal achieved.  The walls of his home had been insulated with foam board, but never sealed, and he’d finally been able to start that process.  But the work was getting harder because he was getting weaker, his health declining due to a faulty heart and a failing liver.  Still he pushed; still he worked as much as he could.  There were things he wanted to finish before he had to surrender his independence and move away from his little paradise and closer to his brother.

His work came to a close on July 9 ^th , just one day shy of his 63 ^rd birthday.  Not having a shower yet, he would visit the bath house at Pickwick each morning.  That was where one of the park visitors found him.  That was where the ambulance came that was summoned by the ranger who responded, but it was too late.  True to his nature, he’d never told his brother how sick he was or that his time on earth was drawing to an end.  He didn’t want to be fussed over like a mother hen fusses over her chicks.  He didn’t want anyone’s life disrupted because of him.  When his brother came to make his arrangements, I was the one who met with him.  I asked if I could tell you about this remarkable human being . . . and without hesitation, he said yes.

In a day and a time when many people are focused on the material things of this world, Perry Guyton was a walking lesson on how to live.  He was a good man . . . a character, most definitely . . . but a man who thought far more of everyone else than he ever did of himself.  If you needed something he had, it was yours whether he could really spare it or not.  If there was anything he could ever do to help you, it was done, even if you never asked.  Just seeing the need was enough for Perry.  And you shouldn’t anticipate ever being able to return the favor.  He never expected or wanted anything back; the opportunity to make a difference was his reward.

I’m sure there are a lot of people just like him in this world . . . people who make it their mission to take care of those around them, who work hard as long as they can, and who have learned to be content with what Life affords them.  I’m equally certain the world could use more of them.  I would never say he was a simple man—far from it—but his needs were simple and his wants were few.  Perry managed to bless the lives of a lot of folks in his almost 63 years on this planet—and I was lucky enough to be one of them.

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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