It was the lunch-time rush on Fairburn Road in Douglasville, rain was falling in sheets and I was in a hurry. I was headed to I-20 because I had to return to Atlanta do an interview, retrieve some documents from the office and then make it home in time for the cable guy.
I passed a slowpoke and had a clear path to the interstate when suddenly all the traffic ahead on my side of the road stopped dead on the right curb lane. In the oncoming lanes, a Douglas County sheriff’s car flashed its blue lights.
Accident ahead? Road hazard? Construction zone?
No, the recently departed was headed our way. A funeral procession was taking someone’s earthly remains, anonymous to us idling drivers, on one final ride through town.
Boy, that’s old school, I thought. I forgot they still do that. People in Atlanta barely acknowledge speeding, 60,000-pound firetrucks, much less slow-moving funeral processions.
I called Jones-Wynn Funeral Home in Douglasville and told the lady on the phone what I had seen.
“That’s how we roll in Douglas County,” said Rebecca Thompson.
Members of a landscaping crew near the funeral home stopped working and took their hats off as the procession passed, she said. Pedestrians stopped and put their hands over their hearts. Some motorists, she said, even got out of their cars to stand when they noticed the American flag covering the casket, indicating the deceased was a veteran.
This was the final ride of Bob Cooper, an 87-year-old Douglasville resident.
'I'm glad to see they're still doing it'
I called one of his sons, Timmy, who said dad joined the Marines in World War II but missed action. So later, he joined the Navy and served in the Korean War, bringing in supplies and taking out wounded soldiers.
Bob Cooper sold ads for The Atlanta Journal before he got the entrepreneurial bug, started his own business and ultimately employed a couple sons. He was the quintessential citizen: scout master, youth sports coach, Optimist Club member, Baptist Sunday school teacher.
He knew most everyone in town and succeeded in business until computers killed it off. After that, the widower occupied himself with dances at the senior center and yard sales.
His final send-off drew perhaps 50 vehicles — about twice the size of an average funeral — and his sons noticed the tribute on the byways.
“I noticed some people out saluting; I’m glad to see they’re still doing it,” he said. “This county still holds onto some of the respect. The family appreciates it.”
I called Wayne Garner, the former state senator and prisons chief who also found time to bury people from a funeral home that carries his name, Whitley-Garner.
It was said that if Garner was seen walking up a driveway with pimento cheese, someone was having a bad day.
“I’ve always referred to it as a Southern thing,” said Garner, who sold the business years ago and now is mayor of neighboring Carrollton. “I think it bodes extremely well for us. You hear of all the meanness and it’s nice to see people still pull over to take a moment to show respect.”
'In Sandy Springs, it ain't gonna happen'
Jerry Braswell runs Georgia Motor Escort, a Douglasville company that has retired cops and military guys escort funerals on motorcycles. He works with 22 funeral homes in the metro area but tries to avoid downtown Atlanta.
As a rule of thumb, he said, the further from Atlanta, the more people pull over. But some of the suburbs have also gotten too busy to abide by tradition.
“In Sandy Springs, it ain’t gonna happen,” he said. “There you have to make them stop.”
Increasingly, he said, people are ignorant of cultural morés like pulling over and also get irritated when a procession blocks an intersection.
One guy was so irked that he followed the procession to the cemetery and later confronted Braswell.
“I was in a hurry; I had a meeting,” the man sputtered to Braswell.
“You’re in a hurry and you followed me to tell me that?” an incredulous Braswell responded.
Yes, folks get stupid behind the wheel. Some motorists even sneak into processions to blow through a few red lights.
“Can you imagine that?” he asked.
Sure. Atlantans hate red lights.
A moment of Southern good taste
As it turned out, the procession for Bob Cooper was not the one I saw. Upon further checking, I realized that the Fairburn Road procession came from Garner’s old business and was for Betty Quakenbush Gooden, a 73-year-old Douglasville resident who, according to her obit, left behind a husband, a son, five grandkids and a “beloved canine companion, Abbie.”
She helped send neighbors on vacation while working for a travel agency for 10 years and then worked for the Douglas County Housing Authority for nearly two decades.
The dozen drivers ahead of me watched as Mrs. Gooden’s procession passed. Some were observing a moment of Southern good taste. Others, like me, pulled over mostly so as not to look like a jerk.
As the last few cars passed, I noticed someone was in a bigger hurry than I was.
A small red car, its driver obviously irritated by the 60-second delay, revved his engine and screeched into the left lane, heading off to something, no doubt, important.
