The Grave Digger - A Southern Trilogy, Part II

Last week’s was about Henry, ‘The Tire Kicker’ (Part I of the Trilogy). We sit on a bench outside Edenfield’s Buffet, c. 1950’s, in Metter, GA, heat index 112. He used to dig graves. Reciting his travails is a grave undertaking.

I’d promised Henry the tailings of Edenfield’s Buffet if he’d tell me about grave diggin’. We grab a booth, get sweet tea and graze on the buffet remnants. We hustle, since all leftovers go to the jail. We’re lucky. The Saturday-night drunks aren’t.

We swoop down on the fried chicken, split the last slice of meatloaf and ration the rutabagas and remaining veggies. The lone surviving biscuit of gigantic proportions calls me by name. We flip for the last piece of apple pie.

Henry attacks the chicken like a condemned man eating his last meal. With a drumstick in each hand, he alternates a hand-to-mouth routine. He resembles the conductor of a poultry-house symphony. His lips gleam from the grease, and he swoons in some state of nirvana.

I ask Henry about grave diggin’. Ignoring the napkin, he slides the back side of his right hand across his lips and says, “Don’t take nothin’ but a strong back and a weak mind. I got both. Only problem if there’s lots of funerals, we gotta dig at night.”

“What’s it like diggin’ graves?” I ask.

He multi-tasks, sucks on a drumstick and thinks. He says, “Tedious, but scary at night. I seen shadows, hear moans and wails. One night a grave spoke to me. It called my name. Said it was the devil. Said I was botherin’ him. Me and Willie took off.” I often hear the same voice.

I tell him graves don’t talk. He says, “The dead ain’t dead in the cemetery. On my first night dig I seen two ghosts dancin’ on a tombstone. They seen me and hollered and chased me. I ain’t got over that yet.”

I laugh. “Henry, cemeteries are where teenage boys take girlfriends to scare their pants off.” He licks the drumstick and ponders the possibility.

I ask him why he lost his job. He says, “Nursing homes. Too many folks dyin’. We can’t dig holes fast enough to bury ‘em in. So the boss bought a back hoe. Me and Willie can’t keep up with no back hoe.” And we wonder why unemployment’s high.

I ask about his strangest experience.

He says, “Me and Willie’s diggin’ a grave and we hear this buzzin’ comin’ from the ground. We ‘fraid we done messed with the devil again, but it’s a hornet’s nest. They eat us alive. We knows the funeral’s in a few hours, so we had to do somethin’ fast. So we lit a stick of dynamite and run.” He pauses, contemplates the chicken bone.

“What happens?” I ask.

He says, “We blowed up some tombstones and a hole big enough for a Mack truck. There wuz caskets flyin’ and body parts and bones scattered everywhere. We knowed we was in big trouble with the law. So we jus’ raked up the parts and dumped ‘em in the hole and covered it up. They ain’t found out yet, and we ain’t talkin’.” I tell him a lot of people would like to bury their past this easy.

I ask who Willie is. He says, “My brother. Some says he ain’t right, but he is. Folks calls him The Knee-Jerker, ‘cause he’s got a wigglin’ leg. Born like that.” How lucky can I get on a Sunday? I ask if I can meet Willie. He says, “Shore. Let’s go.”

We walk out of Edenfield’s as the Sheriff’s van pulls up for leftovers. Outside, a dry, vagabond breeze blows down the deserted street. Yellowed leaves, dead and dying, scurry in confusion at our feet. We pass a boarded up bank with paint peeling from its pillars. Weeds grow in crevices along a forsaken strip of sidewalk that ends at the edge of nowhere.

I pause and glance at the scene. Is this a metaphorical dream of today’s life in a small town bypassed by time? Who can make this stuff up? The Tire Kicker, The Grave Digger, and now, The Knee Jerker.

Life can’t be figured out…you just gotta show up and dig.


Bud Hearn
August 25, 2011