The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [115]
And then the Century died. The whole Century itself, which had lasted for an even hundred years, was dead. It would be no more. Those who had been born during it, as all of them had, grieved for its passing. Old Jacob Ingledew especially, who had lived through more of it than anybody else, mourned its irrevocable demise, and took to his bed, never to rise again. It was some small consolation to him that during the first year of the new Century the people of Arkansas elected another Ozarks mountaineer, Jeff Davis, as their governor, but even that good news was not enough to give him something to live for, and he expired. He said to his wife, seated at his bedside, “Sarey, feel my pulse.” She felt for it, could find none, and told him so: “You aint got ary pulse, Jake.” He then said, “That’s what I figgered. Wal, afore I go, Sarey, promise to tell me somethin.” She promised. “Tell me, Sarey, how come, all our life long since you and me was hitched, we never…did…get our things together more often than once a month at the mostest.” Sarah blushed, swallowed, and, because she had promised, but because her “friend” who was also Jacob’s ladyfriend was present in the room, she bent down and whispered the somewhat lengthy answer into Jacob’s ear, and he smiled and closed his eyes and died. While he was lying in state, the next day, Sarah lay down beside him and followed him out of existence.
Everybody else who had not died came to their joint funeral, which was the grandest funeral ever given in Stay More, despite a constant rainstorm. Brother Long Jack Stapleton gave the eulogy: a five-hour show of Jacob’s entire life condensed, and considerably censored. Everyone present realized that there could never be another life like that, and because they already realized that there could never be another Century like the one late lamented, they were inconsolable and lachrymose. For weeks after the funeral no one was able to do anything. It was as if everybody was temporarily recovering from the frakes. John Ingledew in particular, who already had such a doomy air, was plunged into gloom over the loss of his grandparents and the loss of the Century. We too should pause here for a minute of silent meditation.
Death cheapens the value of life. As dying becomes commonplace, grieving is rarer, shallower. So many people had died in Stay More that nobody cared anymore who was living or not. Death was a fact of life. Some people did not get sick at all, and felt guilty, and committed suicide, leapt from Leapin Rock. There were incidents of poisoning, arson, shooting, lynching, all unheard-of before. More unheard-of were the incidents of rampant ruffianism. Nearly all Stay Morons had been noted for their simple gentleness, but now several of them turned mean and rowdy. If there had been one distinguishing difference between the mountaineer of the Ozarks and his kinsmen the mountaineers of Kentucky and Tennessee, it was that the latter were noted for bloody feuding while the former, even if just as impulsive, was not quarrelsome. But now men began beating and shooting one another in earnest. Take, for example, Ike Whitter, who was possibly the worst rowdy in Stay More. He was a rugged six-footer, barrel-chested, brawny, hard as nails. When sober he was merely ill-humored; when drunk, as he was every Saturday, he became ferocious. Any man bold enough to fight him had to agree to his rule that the taking of eyeballs was permitted. Three men each had an eye gouged out before everyone conceded that Ike Whitter was the toughest customer in the village…next, of course, to Isaac Ingledew, whose strength was so legendary that Ike Whitter never even gave a thought to challenging him, even though Isaac was getting pretty close to sixty. The people always knew that there was one man who could always lick Ike Whitter, so they let Ike have his fun, and even enjoyed the spectacle of his gouging out an eyeball