‘Johnny B, a good man’

Sometimes we don't realize who our true friends are; especially when the friendship is brief in time and when social and peer pressures prevail over what our heart tells us. This column is about one such man. My friends and I called him "Johnny B." I am still not certain what his last name is. Time has erased his image from my mind, but I will always remember Johnny and one day in 1964.

In 1964, I was a sophomore at Wofford College. My "running buddies" were Phillip Davidson, who also attended Wofford, along with Jack Layne and Roger Dale Morris, who attended Spartanburg Junior College. During our summer breaks, we would often hang around McFarland's funeral home on highway 108 in Tryon. I know this may sound strange, but another friend, Jimmy Sawyer, worked there part time in the summer. This is where we met Johnny B. Johnny was a "jack of all trades" at the funeral home. One of his unenviable tasks was to assist in digging graves (this was before the advent of backhoes to do the back breaking job).

Johnny B. was a black man with an ingenious mind and a dry sense of humor. Jack, Phillip, Roger and I would stop by the funeral home to joke around with Johnny and Clarence Scoggins, a man who fulfilled the oxymoron of being hilarious while working all of his life at such a serene place. We filled many summer hours outside the funeral home laughing and playing practical jokes on one another. That all changed in 1964.

It was a cold Saturday night in February. Jack, Phillip and I drove to the Beacon Drive In in Spartanburg to eat and to cruise around in Jack's Pontiac GTO. Roger met us there. Roger Dale Morris was the nineteen year old son of "Cotton" Morris who ran a flower shop in the little red brick building near Barnette's Esso service station in Tryon ( I believe the name of the shop was Lilly Flower Shop). Roger's dad and step mother had a boat house in the basin on Lake Lanier. It was one of our gang's most popular gathering places. While in college, we spent many summer days swimming off the dock there and playing cards on the deck.

On that fateful night in February, Roger pulled up beside Jack's car at the Beacon and asked if we wanted to play Poker all night at the lake house. Normally, we would have said, "sure", but that night we declined the offer.

Jack, Phillip, and I decided to spend the evening cruising around Spartanburg. Later we would go up to Pat Pruitt or Carolyn Smith's house on Markham Road to watch television.

The decision not to go to the boat house to play poker was one that would haunt us for years to come. That night Roger went to the boat house alone. In the early morning hours on Sunday, February 10, 1964, he decided to travel to his mother's house off Sigsbee Road near Spartanburg. Roger never made it to his mother's house. He apparently fell asleep at the wheel of his Corvair, overturned several times and was killed instantly.

Several days later Roger Dale Morris was laid to rest. I remember the graveside service like it was yesterday. Hundreds of people attended. The majority were young, college students. Jack, Phillip and I were pallbearers. Though we grieved over the lost of our best friend, I must confess that we also had a dark sense of being in the spotlight at the service. We were being noticed by all the other people, and felt "special" even in our moment of sorrow. Other people were shedding tears, but we were men and were not supposed to cry. That is until we looked up on a hill near the grave site.

There on a hill above the grave site, but away from the crowd, stood a lone, muscular black man leaning on a shovel. It was Johnny B. As I looked at him, I could see tears streaming down his cheeks.

When the service ended, Jack, Phillip, and I walked up the hill. We embraced Johnny. Jack questioned the fact that Johnny had to fill in the grave.

A smile broke through Johnny's tear stained face, and he said, "Don't worry I'll tell Roger a few jokes while I'm doing it. He would like that."

We never stayed in touch with Johnny B. after the funeral. My research indicates that he may be still living in Chesnee, South Carolina. Johnny B. this column is for you.

You are a good man.

I hope to hear from other school friends and classmates. E-mail me at shefner@savcps.com.