“To have known one good old man — one man who, through chances and mischances of a long life, has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, waving all discords into peace — helps our faith in God, in ourselves, and in each other, more than many sermons.”
— G.W. Curtis
Pretty much near every month for some 30 years I sat in a rickety chair at a handmade table, kicked the table leg back for stability and shared a meal with John Robert Arnold, as did many in the Sessums community. The food table was covered with dishes of black-eyed peas, butter beans, deviled eggs, casseroles and the two boxes of fried chicken, one spicy and one mild, brought by John Robert. Even though his wife, Mary Ann, prepared homemade delicacies, the table never failed to have those fried chicken boxes. Every attendee owes their knowing the words to the Doxology to him, as it was led by John Robert before every meal.
His earliest memories of the Sessums Community Club were in 1936, before tables, when he and his family would balance food plates on their knees. It was his first memory of square dancing. By 1950, John Robert would be president of the neighborhood function and remained so ’til the day he died.
It’s certain of the thousands of mourners at John Robert’s death, from the lowest to the highest, each one felt they were John Robert’s best friend. He was that kind of man. He moved slowly, he spoke quietly; he laughed easily. He was interested in people. At every neighborhood dinner or chance meeting he wanted to know what was going on in your world. He listened, he was generous.
He came by it honestly. His mother, Mrs. Ruth, heard I was looking for a claw foot bathtub. She offered one she had in her garage, the one that had been in the home John Robert grew up in.
“Is it in good shape?” I asked.
“Well, it was when I put it there,” she said.
Meeting up with John Robert, I told him about the gift of the bathtub and asked, “Did you take baths in that tub?”
He thought for a minute, grinned and said, “Well, I guess I did.”
For years John Robert played Santa Claus to the neighborhood. For a period, there were no young children close by. Not one bit deterred, John Robert had teenagers and adults sit on his knee and share their Christmas wishes. Once Mary Ann sat on this knee and asked for a new Cadillac. I suspect she got it. Not much for new cars himself, John Robert drove “vintage” station wagons. I’m sure there had to be more than one, but they all looked exactly alike.
He always wore his signature hat and a long-sleeve shirt, telltale by his elbow out the open window year-round. If John Robert seemed to have a spring in his step, it was because he did. His specially-made shoes had springs, to compensate for a foot malady, long before springs were fashionable.
Those who grieve John Robert’s passing, though certainly not without hope, hold special memories close to their heart. For me, there once was a neighborhood dog, pitiful and abandoned by its owner, who grew wild and sick. In time, John Robert managed to get the dog to a vet where it was determined the dog would not survive. John Robert allowed the vet to end the animal’s suffering and paid the bill.
No one will ever know all the good that man did.
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