Ambrose and His Final Plans (standard:drama, 3161 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Jan 31 2003	Views/Reads: 3709/2524	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ambrose fought in the ‘War between the States’, saw his fourteen-year-old brother shot, while he himself escaped and lived to marry and raise a family. When he was 83 he took a notion to build his own coffin. This is his true story.

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in his rough, big ones.  “Don't fret yourself.  I just want to be ready 
when the day comes.”  As the sun dipped behind the trees and darkness 
came down like a drape they went into the house and Ambrose put his 
arms around his wife, away from the prying eyes of neighbors.  “Stop 
upsetting yourself, Martha.”  He called her Martha and it didn't go 
unnoticed by her. 

By the next morning when Ambrose made his trip to town Martha was more
or less used to the idea. 

Ambrose held his cap in his big hands, at Ives Family Funeral Home, and
quietly explained to Milton, the senior Mr. Ives, his intentions.  Soon 
they held a catalogue between them and Ambrose perused the pictures.  
This one would be nice, but too expensive.  Why put all of your hard 
earned money into the ground?  This one was too ‘ladyfied'.  Look, here 
was a wonderful oak box, white satin lined, and it looked very 
comfortable. Besides it was within the price range Ambrose had planned. 
“Sold,” said Ambrose standing to leave. 

“Why you are in good health, Mr. Johnson, I will be happy to keep it
here in storage until the day comes when you are in need.” 

“Oh no, Milton. True, I am in good health but I am eighty-three years
old and who knows when I will be called up yonder.  I want to take it 
home to get used to the idea, to see if it is really where I want to 
spend eternity.” 

So it was that fourteen days later, on a Wednesday afternoon, a long
black wagon with the words, ‘Ive's Family Funeral Home' painted on the 
side arrived at the Johnson's door.  Two of the Ives boys carried in 
the oak box that was packed in a wooden crate.  After all it was not 
for today's use.  Ambrose was so pleased and proud he tipped both 
Jim-Joe and Alvin Ives twenty-five cents apiece. 

As the black carriage pulled away lace curtains parted ever so slightly
and curious eyes peered out.  Ambrose closed the door and carefully 
pulled the oak box out of the crate.  It was gorgeous, just as he had 
planned.  Martha put her hands on her hips and just stared.  “Get that 
thing out of this kitchen,” she said. Soon three of their children were 
coming in the back door.  Enid Pearson had made it her business to 
report the strange actions of their father.  Charles, John and Richard 
just looked at the scene dumfounded.  “Hey, boys,” said Ambrose as 
proud as though he had just given birth.  The boys were in their 
fifties and sixties but they would always be ‘his boys'. 

“Daddy, have you been in the sun too long?” asked Richard. 

“Has daddy fell on his head?” Charles wanted to know. 

Martha shook her head and made a pot of strong coffee.  Other family
members joined the three sons and when everyone was there Ambrose 
further shocked them by climbing into the casket.  “Stop that, you 
fool,” yelled Martha, “That has got to be bad luck, layin' yourself out 
in a coffin like that.” 

“It's real comfy.”  Ambrose crossed his arms over his chest and closed
his eyes smiling. 

“You a dang' fool!”  Martha yelled.  Her boys had never heard her say
such rough talk before.  Their mama was upset! 

That night Ambrose slept like a baby and even dreamed of the pearly
gates.  St Peter was there to welcome him of course and all the silvery 
angels floated on big fluffy clouds.  Martha was there too, but riding 
on an ironing board—and yelling.  Ambrose always an early riser, ever 
since he was a boy, but today he was up before the rooster began his 
morning tirade.  In fact he padded down the stairs in his wool socks 
and pajamas.  He couldn't wait to get another look at the ‘box' as he 
was calling it.  Yes, it was still there in the kitchen next to the 
black cook stove.  It was just as wonderful as Ambrose remembered.  He 
slipped his weary body into the satiny bed and felt very comfortable. 

Soon he heard a scream.  Martha was fairly jumping.  “You old dang fool!
You tryin' to give me a heart attack?  I swear I think you done lost 
every brain you ever had!”  Martha was beside herself.  Ambrose shook 
himself awake and only to humor his wife, got out of the ‘box'. 

Words passed back and forth; actually they flew through the air like
lightning.  Ambrose had never seen her so angry.  When the realization 
came to him, he wisely backed down and told her he would put it away, 
out of sight.  Ambrose thought he would take it to a corner of their 
bedroom, but when he saw Martha's eyes burn he backed down.  Finally 
between the two of them they reached a compromise and Ambrose put the 
‘box' in the pantry, just off the kitchen.  That afternoon Martha 
lugged some gingham from her odds and ends closet and sitting down at 
her ‘Singer' sewing machine, quickly stitched a curtain to cover the 
doorway and thus hide, at least to some extent, ‘the box'.  She tried 
to convince Ambrose not to tell anyone about the strange purchase he 
had made, but unfortunately it was too late. 

Not only did all the ‘boys' know about it, but also it was the fastest
traveling gossip to hit Jessup, Georgia since the day Merton Boyd's 
cows got loose and tore through the Logan's Mercantile.  No one would 
admit to letting them into the store, or indeed how you could get a cow 
to walk through a door like that, but it didn't matter.  That was a 
very exciting time along the Jessup pipeline. 

It seemed a larger crowd then usual passed by the house that morning. 
Some pointed and scratched their heads, some just stared.  Ambrose was 
a hit, all right.  And everyone would have come to take a look if 
Martha hadn't pulled all the window blinds down and locked all the 
doors.  She knew she was not being very friendly, but these were 
desperate times. 

In the months that followed the gossip died down and was up and running
on Willard Marshall running away with his cousin, thirteen year old 
Junnie Ellie Carson.  By that time Ambrose' ‘box' was history.  But old 
men by the fire loved to tell it to barefoot grandsons.  “Did I ever 
tell you about crazy ole man Johnson?” 

And for Ambrose' part—he didn't forget, not for a minute and many a time
when the grandchildren came for cookies they would find him asleep in 
his ‘oak box'.  It scared the daylights out of them and Ambrose loved 
it.  Even that got old but then the grandchildren took pleasure in 
finding some unsuspecting child who had never heard the story and 
slowly pulled back the curtain to Martha's pantry.  Like as not, 
Ambrose would be in the ‘box.' 

In addition to having his final home ready, his good wool suit was
stuffed in mothballs and a new pair of Sears and Roebuck black shoes 
was in the shoebox on the top shelf of the extra closet.  Everything 
else was tucked into tissue, from shirt and tie to underwear and socks. 
Martha's own ‘funeral clothes' were ready, too. 

The years went by and the oddity wore off.  Ambrose didn't have the
strength anymore to hoe the garden, but he did toss out the seeds and 
pick the lovely tender lettuce and zucchini when it was ready.  He 
still felt good and helped Martha when it became hard for her to walk 
unaided.  She never got so mad at him again.  And she had taken to 
calling him, ‘dearie'.  They spent more time together sitting in their 
matching rockers on the porch and talked more than they ever had.  The 
laughed remembering the night the ‘box' was delivered, and the way she 
had pulled the blinds.  From a distance it got funnier.  Most of their 
memories were good ones, and they lived on them now, like sweet canned 
peaches saved for winter. 

Martha lost weight she could ill afford to.  And sometimes she forgot
things, never the things from the long ago past, but near past, if she 
had eaten breakfast, if Mabel, her one daughter had come by this week.  
But she always maintained her sweetness.  Finally one day, she said, 
“Dearie, I think we have said about all there is to say haven't we?” 

Ambrose put his two big hands around Martha's small arthritic ones and
said, “I guess so, Mrs. Johnson, I guess so.  Just never forget how 
much I love you.”  Martha was 87 years old.  That night when she got 
into bed she put her cold feet on Ambrose, like she had done for 68 
years.  In the morning, her feet were still cold, and she was very 
still.  She died just like she had lived, with her best friend next to 
her.  No regrets.  She was ready to meet her maker.  It was an 
arraigned marriage so many years ago that Ambrose had little memory of 
it, except how tiny she was, how sweet, how soft, and how much he had 
come to love her.  They raised six children together and buried four 
others.  Love?  Oh yes, Ambrose loved her with a love so strong he 
would have given his life for her, but when her time came to answer 
God's call, there was nothing he could do but allow her to go.  There 
were no regrets and no words left unsaid.  They had a long good life 
and Ambrose looked forward to meeting her again, as the church 
quartette sang, ‘just inside the eastern gate.' 

Ambrose held her still body for just a little while.  He made the trip
to Mr. Ivey's with two of the boys.  Her homegoing was magnificent.  
She would have loved it. “Amazing Grace”, “I'll Meet You in the 
Morning” and all sung by the Methodist Church choir and Reba Puckett, 
whose voice had passed it's peak many years ago.  The words were still 
true and the sentiments truthful.  Ambrose was very quiet for the next 
week.  The boys and Mabel worried that he would die of a broken heart.  
But Ambrose was strong.  He grieved in his own way, in his own time, 
and from time to time he looked longingly at his ‘box.' But he was only 
89 years old. 

His life changed.  He moved into Charles and Myrna's downstairs bedroom
on his 97th birthday.  But his mind was clear and his back straight.  
Sometimes he took a 15-minute nap in the afternoon but not always.  
Most of his friends were indeed gone.  Some had grand funerals like 
Martha's, but most not as magnificent as that.  Ambrose was ready for 
his day.  Some nights he would lay awake wondering how it would come—in 
his sleep like Martha?  A terrific pain in the chest and fall gasping?  
Hopefully not with a lot of pain. 

God had kept him here on this green earth for almost 100 years and he
didn't intend to leave it screaming.  He still went to church with 
Charles most Sundays, although the new young preacher was barely more 
that a boy.  He did preach good though, nice and loud and his wife was 
the prettiest little thing; reminded Ambrose of Martha when she was 
eighteen, the day he fell in love with her.  They had already been 
married for six months and a baby was on the way then. 

On Sunday while Charles stopped to talk to churchgoers Ambrose took to
slipping through the gate into the cemetery next to the church.  It was 
very well tended.  He knew Martha would have been proud.  He stopped to 
look; just to look at the ground where her earthly remains were.  There 
was nothing to say.  They had said it all.  He walked over to the 
graves of the little ones they never had a chance to raise, and his 
three sons and daughter who died since Martha had, also two more 
babies—grandchildren.  People thought it was sad, this quiet place next 
to the white church, but not Ambrose Johnson. It was here that his love 
was, where he would be one of these days. 

In the spring he would place a rose and colored leaves in the fall
beside the grave.  “I will be here soon, too,” he said to no one in 
particular.  He had nothing to say to Martha.  It was all said. 

On his 102 birthday he sat in the rocking chair and 36 relatives sang to
him.  Gracious, he didn't even know all of their names.  Well yes, he 
did know the three little girls named Martha; Martha June was 10, 
Martha Mae 6, and MJ was a cute little three-year-old with blond curls. 
How tiny her hands were. 

Ambrose tried to keep fit and get into the fresh air everyday even if it
was just to sit on the porch.  Spring on his turned to summer the year 
he turned 107.  Summer turned to falling leaves and then a rare ice 
storm in Georgia.  “Stay in today, Grampa,” said young Charlie. 

“I can't, boy,” he said pulling on an old wool jacket and gloves that
barely covered his large hands.  Then Ambrose put his big foot on the 
first step. 

Charlie heard the thud.  “Daddy, Mama, Grampa's fell.”  Charles came
running.  Glory Joy with him. 

“Papa, papa, are you okay?”  But he was not okay.  He was 107 and his
bones were brittle.  He was ready.  ‘When the roll is called up yonder' 
he was there, ‘just inside the eastern gate' and the angels were 
floating on the clouds, just like in the long ago dream.  ‘...on the 
other side of Jordan' waiting on the shore was a being with curly 
blonde hair holding out her tiny hands welcoming him home. 

Ambrose lay in his oak box, arms folded across his chest.  His white
hair was fluffy on the satin pillow.  The good wool suit, a little out 
of fashion, was brushed fresh and clean.  Sears and Roebuck shoes, 
never been worn, were on his big feet.  On his face was just the shadow 
of a smile.  (Mr. Willis Ives, grandson the Milton, was known as an 
artist in the business.)  Ambrose Johnson, 107, father of 11, 
grandfather to 35, great-grandfather of 6 and great great- to two new 
babies—twins, Martha and Brosie. 

The family stood around the new dug grave and read the inscription
engraved long ago.  Ambrose Johnson, 1846- ____ Martha Birney Johnson, 
his wife, 1847-1934.  “Prepared to meet their God.” 


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