As with any project sanctioned by a governmental body of any size, the project took longer than the size of the project would indicate. Digger had warned the board, “This will be more complicated than you think,” and he was right. No one anticipated the number of regulations involved and permits required to expand a cemetery. But after several more board meetings, dozens of phone calls, and even trips to two different state offices, the permits and plans were completed, signed, and ready to be put into action.

The cemetery was crawling with activity for several months. A crew with tractors and chippers removed all the brush and trees, a team of surveyors tromped around and measured every square foot, Larry Belvin’s crew carved out the roads with a bulldozer, and Reed Zeigler hired lots of eager high school guys to help with digging holes and setting the new metal posts in concrete. Once that was done, Reed’s crew would install the sections of fence being fabricating in his shop to match the original fence. Meanwhile, the oak saplings were ordered and the eventual burial plots were laid out on paper. The sign was ordered even before the surveying was done, and when the sign’s delivery was scheduled, so was the ribbon cutting.

Quite a crowd showed up for the ribbon cutting, more people than usually congregated for the combined Baptist and Methodist Churches’ Christmas Eve service. One end of a wide yellow ribbon was tied the sign, the other end to a stake temporarily put in the ground on the other side of the new road. The sign was sturdy and stately, modeled after a state historical marker sign, black metal with a raised silver border.  The words were etched rather than raised in order to allow adding the year of David’s death later on.

Chairman Knolls made a few statements, and then to everyone’s surprise, he said, “This project would not have been completed without the cooperation of one person, David Murphy.  I’d like for him to say a few words and then have the honor of cutting the ribbon.”

David, embarrassed but please, stepped forward and took the scissors. He was a man of few, but always carefully chosen words. “It is indeed an honor to be a part of the history of this wonderful cemetery, even before I become a resident of it.” Chuckles all around. “I cut this ribbon for each of you and for the generations to come. If Bynum grows in the future, a coming generation will face this same dilemma of needing more space. If Bynum declines like so many towns like ours seem to be doing, at least we know we and your immediate children and grandchildren will have a place to be together for the decades to come. I am proud to be the speed bump for this town and this cemetery.”

He cut the ribbon, a cheer went up, and everyone in attendance, even A. J. Barnett, was compelled to pause and smile as each stepped over the speed bump and herded into the new cemetery annex.

In the weeks that followed, the cemetery continued to take shape. Saplings were planted at 20’ intervals along the three newly completed fencerows. A.J. was the first to purchase a new family plot. He was in hopes that his three grown children, their children, and the generations to follow would want to return for burial in the new plot, even though all three children had moved far away and showed little sign of wanting to return for more than a long holiday.

Life and business went back to normal in Bynum. One conspicuous addition to the cemetery was a new white wrought iron bench that appeared on the side of the speed bump opposite the sign. No one knew where it came from, but in a very short time, the bench became a frequent resting spot for people who came to Hillside for a few moments of quiet. Several weeks later three folding chairs with “First United Methodist Church” stenciled on the back stood against the nearby oak, allowing a weekly group of old friends to sit in the shade over a thermos of coffee to talk about the price of cotton or gasoline.

The bench became the halfway point of Bill Wilson’s morning walk. His doctor told him he needed to move more if he wanted to preserve what was left of his lungs, so he chose a daily walk to the cemetery as his route. Each day, at the midway point, he stopped and sat a spell on the bench. After enjoying a few minutes of serenity, he lit a cigarette, smoked it halfway down, then stubbed it out. After all, he was cutting back. He dropped the unsmoked half in a Maxwell House coffee can that was tucked discreetly behind the tree. He then stood, stepped purposefully over the speed bump, said softly to himself, “Loosen your grip, Bill,” and headed home. The End.

I hope you have enjoyed The Cemetery Speed Bump. This story was inspired by a friend who, having given his place in the family plot to a relative, said he’d probably be buried in the road and end up being a speed bump.