CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sing We Now At Parting...
Leatrice and I went just about every day to visit. When we knocked, Sister Posey would always be there in the doorway, arms folded and feet planted firmly — like a guard dog. Sometimes she would say sharply, “You can’t come in. He’s sleeping.” Other times, she would say gruffly, “All right, come in. But, mind you don’t tire him.”
We weren’t afraid of Sister Posey any more. We knew that although she had a bit of gruff on the outside, she was as soft inside as a peanut butter ball. We would tiptoe into the bedroom and each take one of Brother Nickelbee’s hands. We’d remind him of happy times we had shared with him, helping him weed his garden, feeding him peanut butter balls, brushing his beard as we listened to the radio, making flapjacks, sipping lemonade while he told us stories of the old west.
We would bring him up-to-date on the latest adventures of Little Orphan Annie.
“Remember, Brother Nickelbee, how Punjab rescued Annie from those bad guys, an’ Sandy bit ‘em all to heck; so they let her go? Well, Daddy Warbucks took her away in his big car to stay at a dude ranch. An’ then she was kidnapped by some guys who wanted Daddy Warbucks to pay ‘em a million dollars.”
Leatrice chimed in. “An’ they tied her to a railroad track with a train coming; an’ Sandy rescued her by biting through the ropes.”
One morning, we were surprised to see Brother Nickelbee sitting up and looking almost like his old self and as though he had something important to say. We didn’t realize that we were about to hear our friend’s dying testimony.
“I think you know ‘bout muh tragedy — losin’ muh wife on the plains. Wa’n’t a thing I c’d do. Had no horse, didn’t know the land ‘er the Indjin lingo.
“There wuz the tracks o’ horses goin’ frum the river. Our captain, he sez it looked like Indjins, t’ him, ‘cuz the horses wa’n’t shoed. Some o’ the men in the comp’ny hed horses, an’ they tried ta follow the trail, but they lost it when the ground got rocky.
“Brothers an’ sisters in thet-there handcart comp’ny treated me kindly an’ he’ped me all they could; an’ they prayed fer the safe return o’ muh wife. But it wa’n’t ta be. Only thing I c’d do wuz jest ta pick up the shafts o’ thet handcart an’ go on.”
Sister Posey brought the invalid a drink of water and held it to his lips; but he waved it aside. Nothing mattered but getting his story out.
“Oh, my, ‘t’wuz hard! Without Emmy, ever’thin’ wuz sech a burden! Pullin’ thet cart over sand, an’ rocks, an’ through rivers; I jest sometimes wanted ta lay down an’ die. But, then I’d fix muh sight on somethin’ a good way off — a tree, mebbe, er a hill. An’ I’d say ta m’se’f, ‘I’ll jest pull til I git there.’
“An’ then, as I’d go on, the pullin’ ‘d git lighter; an’ I’d feel unknown hands pushin’ the cart fer’ me. An’ I’d rejoice an’ thank muh Father fer His care.”
Brother Nickelbee, cleared his throat, and then went on. “I don’t want you sisters ta think I hed it ‘specially hard, er’ thet I was ‘specially brave er anythin’. The Lord wuz with me; an’ thet kin make any burden light.
“I jest wanted ya t’ know how the Lord he’ped me; an’ He’ll he’p you, too, in all yer needs. I’ve hed a good life, a good life, with lots a’ friends. An’ now, I’m so happy, cuz soon I’ll see Emmy agin; an’ she’ll look jest like I ‘member her, with goldy hair hangin’ ta ‘er waist; an’ we’ll be t’gether.”
Our friend added, lastly, with great fervor, “The Lord may seem ta take away, but He alus gives back, in plenty an’ runnin’ over.”
There was a smile of such happiness on our friend’s face as we had never seen before. He settled back on his pillow; and Sister Posey shooed us out.
We continued to visit Brother Nickelbee as often as we could; but he had spent all his vigor. Sometimes, he was responsive. Other times, he lay with his good eye closed;. Then, the only way we could tell that he heard us was by a squeeze of his hand on ours. We didn’t want to put our fears into words, but we could tell, day by day, that our friend was getting weaker.
One evening, Sister Posey phoned to tell Daddy, “He’s sinking. Better come.”
Daddy phoned Grandpa and Uncle Roland.
As the men were getting in the car, I said, “Can Leatrice an’ me come, too?”
Daddy said, “This is very serious business, Beth.”
“I know — but we want to say goodbye.”
And so we went with our fathers and grandfather on their errand to do one last service for Brother Nickelbee. The bishop was there when we arrived. Leatrice and I watched as the four men laid their hands on the head of our old, dear friend and prayed that, if it was the Lord’s will, His servant, John Nickelbee, might go quickly and without pain.
As the men stepped back, I looked at Daddy. He nodded, and Leatrice and I drew close to the bed. We stretched our bodies on the breast of our good friend. We kissed his cheeks.
Leatrice said, “We haven’t forgotten what you want done with your things, Brother Nickelbee. I’ve got the list in my dresser drawer.”
His arm went around us in one frail squeeze, then relaxed and dropped.
It was not until we turned to go that Leatrice and I began to cry. It was Sister Posey who gathered us in her arms and murmured, “There, there. There, there.”
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There were so many people at Brother Nickelbee’s funeral it was like stake conference. The chapel and the balcony were filled, and people stood along the walls. So many flowers surrounded the coffin it resembled a flower garden. I remembered our friend remarking how fond he was of flowers and saying, “I think flowers must be God’s way o’ showing He loves us.”
One of the General Authorities spoke, telling us that Brother Nickelbee had been a true pioneer. He had known personally six presidents of the Church.
Doctor/Bishop Lindblum spoke of how loved Brother Nickelbee had been by all the Saints in the Valley. When he pulled his handcart across the plains and over the mountains, the western half of the United States was largely unknown. From the handcart to the automobile, his life had spanned almost a century.
Then Stake President Rush stood up. He reminded us that Brother Nickelbee had been one of the oldest settlers in Welcome valley. He had helped in building the Manti Temple and also in digging the canals that laced our valley. He had gone on four missions, two of them to the Indians.
Daddy and Uncle Roland sang a beautiful duet, “Oh, My Father”.
Sister Posey was the last speaker. As she spoke of the many favors she had received from her kind neighbor, her voice was high and shrill. I realized, then, that what we had always thought of as Sister Posey’s angry voice was mostly just an overflowing of emotion.
Brother Nickelbee was buried in the Welcome cemetery on a soft, late summer afternoon. Doctor/Bishop Lindblum dedicated the grave. Then, as the coffin of our dear, old friend was lowered into the grave, a great-grandson of the Mormon Battalion played “Come, Come, ye Saints” on a trumpet, the sound seeming to strike the Everlasting Hills and reach out to all the world.
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“Here’s what Brother Nickelbee wanted done with his things.”
Leatrice showed the will, wrinkled from her underwear drawer. Grandpa looked it over. “Well, it wasn’t notarized; but it seems pretty clear. I see you girls signed it, too, even though you’re legatees.”
“Lega — whats?”
“Legatees. That means Brother Nickelbee left you something. By law, you shouldn’t be allowed to benefit if you’ve assisted in the drawing up of the will.”
We stared at Grandpa. Our faces fell. Grandpa hastened to add, “I think we can overlook that, under the circumstances.”
So all of us mentioned in Brother Nickelbee’s will — Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Mabel, Uncle Roland, Mamma, Daddy, Leatrice, and I went around to the little cabin and selected the objects our old friend had wanted us to have. Uncle Roland received the gold nugget
; Daddy held the watch, looking at it thoughtfully.
We went out into the garden. Grandpa had brought a shovel to dig up the rose bushes: the one with small, pink roses for Grandma; the two large, red ones for Mamma and Aunt Mabel; the yellow, climbing rose for Leatrice; and the white one for me.
Grandpa wrapped the roots in gunny sacks. We carried the roses home and replanted them in our several yards. There they grew and bloomed for many years. Whenever I would look at my yellow rose growing up a trellis on the south side of the house, I would remember first, our dear friend now gone to the place, I was sure, where roses grew without end. Then I would recall that other rose bush in the Blossom cemetery, both of them testaments to love.
As Lambs to His Fold Page 18