Recently, with the permission of his family, we posted about Jimmy Ruth on the funeral home’s Facebook page.  Mr. Ruth was an unassuming man who spent his life driving for bus lines and trucking companies, living a rather normal, somewhat uneventful life . . . except for that time in 1961 when a professor at A & I University in Nashville, Tennessee asked him if he would drive a group of student activists to Jackson, Mississippi.  Known as the Freedom Riders, these groups were usually met with violence—violence directed not only toward the Riders but also to those who ferried them across the country.  Jimmy didn’t let that possibility stop him from doing what he believed was right, even though four other drivers had already declined to make the trip.  It proved to be a peaceful journey with what Jimmy termed some of the nicest people he’d ever met.  But he didn’t know that would be the case when he agreed to go.

His story led me down a path of memories, one that tested my ability to recall names and events (neither of which I‘m very good at, so I enlisted our local brain trust [i.e., the other employees] and our handy database . . . as well as the all-knowing internet and our store room full of records).  It didn’t take long before I had a list of quiet, unassuming folks who’ve passed through our doors and on to better things, their lives at the time of their deaths never hinting at their past.

For example, decades ago we were assisting the family of a gentleman who spent most of his life as a commercial pilot.  A most worthwhile and necessary occupation, but nothing really remarkable . . . until his family mentioned in passing that he was the pilot for the Beatles during their first U.S. tour in 1964.  As a matter of fact, if the funeral director wrote the information down correctly, he was their preferred pilot on each of their three tours around the country.

Before I mentioned that though, I needed confirmation, so I called the person I thought had waited on the family.  Turned out I had chosen poorly, but he had at least heard the story; however, he believed the group being flown around wasn’t a group at all.  It was a person . . . named Elvis.  Further conversation led us to the conclusion that he might be mixing his stories, since he knew he assisted a family whose loved one gave Elvis guitar lessons.  Think about that for a minute.  I know somebody had to, but . . .  He. Taught. Elvis.  I mean, would Elvis really have been Elvis if he hadn’t developed that particular talent?  And what if no one else had taken the time to help him learn?  So here was yet another name to add to my list.

Then there was the sweet little lady with whom I attended church for years and years.  She was short of stature, carrying a little of the weight that often comes with age.  Her eyes were clouded with cataracts and, as time progressed, her ability to get around became almost non-existent.  When she died I walked into the stateroom to pay my respects . . . and saw all the pictures of her from days gone by that were on display.  She had been a professional dancer in New Orleans and the photos that were scattered about the room—set to the music of the Roaring 20s that played softly in the background—told the story of a beautiful young woman, full of energy and life . . . a very different person from the one Time eventually crafted . . . from the one I had known.

The longer I thought the longer my list became, and perhaps someday I’ll revisit a few more of the extraordinary ordinary folks we’ve been privileged to serve.  But before I end today’s stroll down memory lane, there’s one other gentleman I want to mention. He lived just down the road and around the corner from the funeral home.  I would often pass his house and make a mental note of his presence in our community.  He was a veteran, as are many of our residents, having served his country honorably during World War II.  But he’s the only veteran I knew who survived the Bataan Death March, a harrowing ordeal during which 80,000 Filipino and American prisoners of war were moved from various points around the Philippines to Camp  O’Donnell, a one-time American base that was used as a POW camp after the Japanese invasion of the islands.  Of the 80,000 that began the journey, only 54,000 completed it . . . and thousands more died while being held at the camp.  I cannot imagine the horror of what he must have endured, but he returned home and married, raised a family and worked at the paper mill until he retired.  And when he died his obituary mentioned his service in the Army . . . and nothing more.

All around us are people who have lived ordinary lives, punctuated by extraordinary events.  Each has a story to tell, even if it’s been kept tucked away from the world, known only to a chosen few—and I am always in awe of those people when their stories come to light.  They may not have understood or appreciated or even cared that those moments were unique to them—and amazing to the rest of us—but those stories allow me to look at them with fresh eyes . . . with a deeper appreciation of the life they lived . . . and the person they became.

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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