I have been impressed in life when meeting talented people; Ernie Pyle in Tunisia, George Patton in Palermo, Ernest Hemingway in Key West.
There is nothing visibly distinctive about funeral directors. You would not be dining and know a mortician was sitting at an adjacent table.
I was in the drug store in Stone Mountain, having a thick milkshake after playing golf at Mystery Valley. It was a ritual after too many bogies. My consolation prize for playing a lousy round.
A man beside me looked at my cap. “You play golf?”
“Yes, I began playing when I was ten.”
“I tried the game but never was any good.”
“I’m also hooked on milkshakes,” I said.
“Me, too.” He smiled, taking a noisy slurp.
“What do you do for a living” he asked.
“I’m a furrier, York Furs in Buckhead.”
“I’m a funeral director.” He smiled. “I’m Billy Wages.”
“Our family has used your services” I said.
“I’ve never known a furrier.” He looked quizzical.
I explained. “After World War II, I went to Butler University and needed extra income. I recognized some furs on a manikin in a shop window in Indianapolis and having trapped as a kid I went in and asked for a job.”
“You did my mother’s service,” I said. “I didn’t see you. I like your antiques. It’s like a museum. I doubt I saw everything.”
“If you have some extra time I’ll give you the grand tour,” he said
Wages Funeral Home in the village is an experience; hushed silence, a rush of air, plush carpets, a feeling of solemnity, wondrous chandeliers.
“He began to point. “I found these while traveling.”
The place was like a museum, treasures seen in chateaus and castles. Antiques that caught my eye were a Michelangelo stone carving of Madonna and Child on a pedestal, a Howard Miller grandfather clock, a Czechoslovakian chandelier with teardrop prisms. I was in awe.
We continued on the tour; a bronze sculpture of an Alaskan whaleboat, a brass clock mantled by miniature roses, a glass enclosed fixture with myriad bells in porcelain and blown glass, another case with Royal Doulton likenesses of famous people.
By writing about Native Americans and visiting Indian reservations, I was intrigued by a bronze statue of a family depicting the Plains Indians culture.
We walked by urns from Oriental dynasties, massive paintings and glorious figurines, colorful plates from all over the world.
With sun streaming through the Tiffany stained glass windows there was a kaleidoscope of color flooding into the area as we entered another parlor.
On a trestle table were wondrous scrimshaw carvings of medieval chariots, like those driven by Charlton Heston in the classic movie Ben Hur, pulled by prancing steeds with the warriors erect, reins in hand. They were satiny ivory, centuries old, carved by an unknown Asian artisan.
Between them sat a turbaned monarch on his throne dispensing discipline, justice and wisdom.
Treasures can be found nearby, the fulfillment of one dreamer’s dreams.
Bill York has lived in Stone Mountain for 35 years. Email him at sioux2222@gmail.com.
