​Ms. Belle’s Most Excellent Adventure

​If you had to be stuck on the side of the interstate, it was a lovely day for it. It was one of those midsummer days, somewhere near the middle of July. The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue, with the occasional cotton ball floating in it. Behind me there was a meadow filled with buttercups in full bloom swaying seductively in the breeze; and when the wind blew just right, it carried with it their fragrance which filled my nostrils with delight.

It was thirty some odd years ago, before the arrival of the smart phone. The accompanying state of frantic motion that appears to have become a societal contagion was only just beginning; so there I was sitting on the new mown grass with my back up against the casket enjoying the day while I quietly watched my newfound friend, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, standing by the side of the road trying to hitch a ride.

We were in between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina in the early 1990s; and there wasn’t much to be seen save buttercups, old tobacco barns and fields of half-grown cotton. A few miles back we had passed by an old farmhouse, but it was South Carolina in July and a bit warm, so making the trek back was less than appealing. I had already taken my turn at hitching, with no luck I might add, so it was Jimmy’s turn to do the deed. I guess it’s okay to use his first name, but I will leave his last name out of it.  

You know it occurs to me I may have gotten the cart before the horse just a little bit in this storytelling. Let me do some explaining.

Back in the early 1990s, I was studying to become a preacher, and part of that study involved C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education.) Most of my compadres chose to work in a general hospital somewhere so they could have prayer with the folks before they went into surgery or comfort families who had lost someone, both worthwhile and necessary skills. Now me on the other hand, I was a student preacher and had been on the job for several years and in my ignorance, I figured I didn’t need any more practice in general hospitals. So I chose to work at a branch of the state mental hospital over in northeast Columbia. I was assigned the sixth floor, which housed criminally insane women over the age of sixty. And yes, I was seldom bored.

I’ve got a whole host of stories I would love to tell you, but probably shouldn’t, so let me just tell you about Belle.

Now Belle wasn’t her real name, but she was from the Charleston area, so the name Belle is a good fit. Indeed Belle was a fine well-bred Southern lady. Her speech was immaculate, with just enough swallowing of the "ou’s" and blending of the "ar’s" to give her class.

I wasn’t privy to the histories of the ladies, and was appreciative of that, so all I know of Belle was what I learned from being with her.

As I said, she was a lovely lady of seventy years or so, friendly, a fine companion, and someone with whom I could talk. It was only on occasion that she would drift away, and at times like that, her precise language drifted as well. Whereas many of the ladies would drift into foul and inappropriate language, Belle would drift into preaching; not the quiet, benign Methodist preaching of my youth, mind you, but Church of God Pentecostal, born of the Spirit, washed in the blood, vivacious preaching. You know hellfire and brimstone, proper preaching; and she was good. When Miss Belle finished drifting, everyone in the room had hot feet and could smell the sulfur from hell with which they never wanted to be acquainted.

It was in early July when Miss Belle went to be with her Maker. The family wanted to have the funeral down in the Charleston area, and as was the custom, the deceased’s most recent pastor was asked to accompany the remains to the place of burial. It was my privilege to accompany Ms. Belle’s remains to her final resting place.

The hospital hired a local funeral home, which will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, to prepare the body and to provide transportation to Charleston.

It was on the way down to Charleston on that lovely July afternoon, that things got interesting.

Jimmy was a fine driver, smooth in every aspect, but as a mechanic he was somewhat lacking. In his haste to be on his way that morning, he had neglected to check the engine fluids of the old hearse assigned to us. It was somewhere between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina, that the friction between the pistons and the cylinders increased due to a lack of oil. The resulting heat caused the engine of the hearse to burst into flames.

​This put both Jimmy and myself in a bit of a predicament. We pulled to the side of the road as the flames began to lick the windshield and bolted, desperately wanting to save our own skins, but remembering that Ms. Belle had specifically requested burial and not cremation, we returned and through herculean effort we removed the casket from the hearse. We carried it about twenty feet or so away and after gently placing it on the verge of the interstate between the aforementioned buttercups and the highway; we turned to see the hearse completely engulfed in flames.  Unable to think of anything else to do, I took a seat, and it was there, leaning against the casket, that I was enjoying the lovely day and watching Jimmy at the beginning of this account.

It would appear that passersby found the scene a little off-putting and therefore refused to stop, I might add understandably. There must’ve been one good Samaritan among them however, who stopped at a gas station up the road and called the Highway Patrol to either rescue or investigate the two young gentlemen, the casket and the flaming hearse.

Within an hour or so, a bemused highway patrolman walked up saying something in the line of “Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” and asked how he could help. Jimmy climbed into his car and they sped away to find a funeral home, I supposed, leaving me to guard the casket.

Eventually even buttercups and blue skies become boring so I was a happy young man a couple of hours later when I saw a hearse, a brand-new hearse, coming towards me. We loaded Miss Belle into her new conveyance and headed not to Charleston but to Cane Crossing, on the outskirts of Wando, South Carolina, to the Cane Crossing Church of God Pentecostal.

The crowd was small, mainly family, and out of the crowd a fine looking elderly gentleman, who had to be the preacher, walked over to me. We shook hands, and he asked me what had happened. I told him, as gently as I could, and his response was a deep, resonating laugh. What else was he supposed to do?

After inviting Jimmy and myself to join them, he gathered his little flock of believers together in that old sanctuary for the service. Following a lovely prayer, he looked up and grinning told them that the service would not be nearly as long as was the wait. Then, barely holding back a laugh, he told them the story of Ms. Belle’s most excellent adventure. Afterwards, disregarding his sermon, he turned to the folks and said, “I think Miss Belle has probably had enough hellfire and brimstone for one day, don’t you?

As Jimmy and I drove back to Columbia that night, I remember thinking of and being thankful for Ms. Belle. In the short time I had known her, I had gotten close to her. Actually her preaching convicted me a couple of times. I was truly happy that I had been blessed to be in her presence, as unusual as the setting may have been. Over and above that, I was happy that she was finally free from that confused mind of hers and whatever part of the past it was that plagued her. I was reminded that our God is a God of forgiveness and love and yes, forgetfulness of our wanderings. Thank God for His forgetfulness and His unique sense of humor. Amen?
 

Tony  Rowell

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