Mama Pritchard and Papa Pritchard

The most memorable part of the weekend happened on Friday afternoon, on the 50-mile drive from Tupelo to Oxford. As we were leaving, Alan called to say that the main road into Oxford was blocked because they were setting up for the Double Decker Festival, and instead of taking Highway 6, we should drive to New Albany and take Highway 30 to Oxford. He mentioned in passing that that was the road to the farm.

Even as I wrote that last sentence, I stopped and smiled because when I was a little boy, I traveled the road from New Albany to Oxford many times. My father grew up on a farm on an unpaved gravel road that wound its way through the countryside. My father’s family has deep roots in northeast Mississippi. I don’t know all the connections, but I do know we are related to the Smiths, the Mayfields, and also to the Andings. I know about the Mayfields because Dad’s mother, my grandmother, was a Mayfield. Sometime in the early 1900s, she married my grandfather, David Pritchard. Together they raised five children on a farm about 12 miles from Oxford.

For all my life we called them Papa Pritchard and Mama Pritchard. In my mind Mama Pritchard comes first because Papa Pritchard died when I was four years ago, and I have only vague memories of him. I was 20 whem Mama Pritchard died, and I have good memories of the big meals she cooked whenever Dad drove us over from the small town in northwest Alabama where I grew up. She died during my junior year in college, and I drove through the night from Chattanooga to come to the visitation at the funeral home.

By that time we were mostly grown and didn’t go to the farm very often. A few years later it was sold. I don’t think I’ve been back to visit it in at least 30 years. On Friday afternoon as we drove from New Albany to Oxford, I remarked to Marlene that I had been on that road many times as a young boy, driving with my father and my mother and my three brothers to the farm. We passed a sign with an arrow pointing to a road that leads to Etta, a tiny community. “I think that’s where Mama Pritchard went to church and where she’s buried,” I said. A mile later we came to what I thought was the road that led to the farm.

“Let’s go see,” Marlene exclaimed. And so just like that, we turned off. Immediately I was plunged into uncertainty because the road was paved, and instead of the cotton fields I remembered, there were houses dotting the road. As we drove along, I looked for the fields and the home we used to visit and for the barn where my dad kept some horses. But it was all gone, or I didn’t see it, or maybe (I surmised) we had taken the wrong road. (We hadn’t taken the wrong road–but I didn’t realize that until I talked it over with Andy and Alan later that afternoon.) Thirty-plus years can play tricks with your mind. So we drove on down the country road, and I didn’t recognize anything. Finally we came to an intersection, and I said, “Let’s turn left. I think this will take us back to Highway 30.” We traveled less than a mile when up ahead I saw a white, well-kept country church with a cemetery next to it. The sign said, “Philadelphia Baptist Church. Est. 1847.” “This is it! Mama Pritchard and Papa Pritchard are buried here.”Marlene spotted the headstone before I did. Then we saw the markers. One for my grandfather. One for my grandmother. And next to the plot, there is a marker for a Mayfield. No doubt one of Mama Pritchard’s relatives.

As I thought about it, I realized that it had been at least 35 years since I had been to the cemetery, but honestly I don’t ever recall being there. Dad probably took us there but the memory of it is gone. As far as I was concerned, I couldn’t ever remember seeing the place where my grandparents are buried.

We took a few pictures, and noticed how well-kept the cemetery is. It looked like someone had mowed it recently. There are grave markers that go back to the Civil War, including soldiers who died in nearby battles.

Just before we left, I asked Marlene to take a picture of me at the headstone. “You need to bend down somehow,” she said. That’s how the final picture was taken.

As we got back in the car, a great sense of peace came over my soul. I cannot quite explain it except to say that happening upon the cemetery helped me feel connected in a way I haven’t felt in many years. It was a happy occasion to find the cemetery and to remember my grandparents and to think about them being buried in such a beautiful place. When I was growing up, I never understood why adults put such stock in taking care of the cemetery. What difference did it make? But on Friday I knew and understood.

The Lord arranged the whole thing. The Bible often mentions being buried with your own people. It is good to remember that you come from a long line of people who share one defining trait–they all died. It ought to make this life more precious to know that it won’t last forever. It certainly did that for me. After our unplanned visit to the cemetery, I felt at peace for the rest of the weekend.