Notes for Rufus F. EADDY

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Notes for Rufus F. EADDY

UNCLE RUFUS
by Barry Myers

The Lake City Post
March 24, 1975, p. 2.

He's gone now, but for me, and for countless others who knew him well, he
will always live in the recesses of the mind that hold those we love
forever. He was my uncle, sixty-two years older than I, and I thought of
him more as my grandfather than my uncle, but most of all he was my
friend. Friday afternoon, I looked at him for the last time and wondered
what it would be like not to have him nearby anymore. He had lived so
long and so well, it was difficult to imagine his not being there.
Throughout his life he had always been among the regulars at numerous
funerals, in his younger years as a quartet bass singer and a friend, in
his later life as a friend and a comfort. Now it was someone else's turn
to pay respect to him. And it was respect he deserved.

I somehow feel that with the passage of time and the advancement of
progress we have lost some of the valuable aspects of our way of life
that Uncle Rufus exemplified. He was without a doubt one of the
sturdiest men I have ever known, clearing ditch banks in his middle
eighties, and in his younger days, doing battle with an obstinate mule
who had a difference of opinion with Uncle Rufus about exactly how far he
should have to pull the plow.

In a time of movies, shows, sports, and hundreds of other forms of
amusement, he still believed that the best entertainment was the art of
conversation, either around the constant fire he kept burning in his
hearth or around the oil heater in his sons' service station. In an age
of spiraling divorce rates he stayed married to, and in love with, the
same woman for over fifty-nine years. He took great pleasure in sharing
whatever he had with anyone who needed help, always giving with an open
heart and with satisfaction.

He was first and foremost a man who lived by what he believed in. He
believed in the importance of a strong family unit, and, with his wife,
raised five children who have yet to belie his faith in them. As a
farmer, he proved that with work much can be made from little, and when
his age forced his retirement from full time farming, he continued to do
what he could and spent his spare time with his sons, helping them in
their work as much as possible and giving out-of-state drivers a glimpse
of older America to take home with them.

He never quite understood the haste with which people more and more
infected their lives. For him, life was merely a brief interlude in
preparation for something more lasting later on; and, as such, was to be
lived at a pace whereby one could relish all the aspects of living.

This man, who was perennially young, was buried on the first day of
Spring. When he lay in the church for the final time, two trios sang two
of his favorite songs. The only thing missing was the bass. His passing
will not go unnoticed.

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