I've Set My Last Post
The West Side Herald
Harry Tate was quite unlike any man I have ever known. He was a genuine Ozark product. He was a farmer by occupation, but a country philosopher at heart. He witnessed a lot of change in his eighty-five years, and he liked to discuss how it “was a sight on earth what the mind of man can conceive.” He was also an artist. Give him a cedar post, a pocketknife, and a little time and he could create the most marvelous, intricately carved walking sticks you have ever seen. As I am writing this, I am looking over into a corner of our den where one of his walking sticks is on display. Around our house we are quite proud of that walking stick because Harry was known to us as Grandpa Tate.
Harry was Lori’s grandfather by blood, but by the time I married Lori all of my grandparents were dead, and I received another full set when I said, “I do.” Some of the fondest memories of our marriage are the times when we were able to sneak off to northwest Arkansas and spend some time with Harry and Lori’s grandmother, Geraldine. It was always interesting to see what projects Grandpa Tate was working on – goats, beekeeping, raising his own chewing tobacco, the walking sticks – there was always something going on.
At some point in the 1990s, the Tates realized they needed to be closer to family, so they moved into a house they had built on their son’s property near Searcy. I am certain they deeply missed the place where they had spent so much of their lives, but Harry always had a matter-of-fact attitude about everything, and you had the feeling he was tough enough to get through just about anything. On one September day in 1997, we found out just how tough he was. He had gone over to his son’s house to borrow the Ford tractor. He mistakenly thought the tractor was out of gear. He was standing beside the tractor when he reached over to hit the starter. For once, the tractor immediately roared to life and the back wheel proceeded to run over Harry. To add insult to injury, the flatbed trailer which was hitched to the tractor did the same thing. That would at least take the starch out of the most fit young man, but when you are eighty-four? What did Harry do? After he caught his breath, he limped over to the tractor which had been stopped by a tree, crawled on it, and drove it home. Only after Geraldine insisted he go to the doctor did anyone realize he had broken some ribs.
However, the real test for Harry came in February of 1998. It was then that his beloved Geraldine died. Harry was deeply grieved, but once again his toughness and his faith shown through. I will never forget what he said to me at the funeral home the night of visitation. When we got there, Harry was sitting a few rows back on a pew in the chapel holding one of his carved walking sticks. I went over and sat beside him. He turned and said, “You know, I always wanted to go before she did, but now that it’s happened this way, I’m sort of proud because I wouldn’t want her to have to go through this.” That is what is known as real love.
In the months that followed, Harry managed to keep himself busy with his projects, although he was very lonely. When he and Geraldine had moved to Searcy, he was determined to build a fence around the place so he could raise some goats. One time I was walking out behind his house trying to find him. I found him using a chainsaw to cut down an oak tree with a diameter of about two feet. I wondered if I would even be able to pick up a chainsaw at his age.
In late October of 1998, he finished that fence. He came up to Lori’s dad and said, “Son, I just set my last post. I’ve finished my last project.” About five days later he died. I can’t help but wonder if he knew something. He had lived a full life, he raised his children well, he had seen his grandchildren married, and played many times with his grandchildren’s children. Not that I wonder if he gave up, but rather did he know he was finished – that God was about ready to call him home.
In this regard, I am reminded of the biblical account of Abraham’s death. It says, “And Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.” In a similar manner, Paul realized he had completed his mission when he told Timothy, “. . . the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith; in the future there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day; and not only to me, but to all who have loved his appearing.”
May God help us all, whether we cross Jordan while in our youth or while old and stooped with the aid of a carved walking stick, to keep the faith and someday wear that crown of life.
Jim Shelton