Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, April 25, 1994 TAG: 9404260006
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Joe Kennedy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Rob is pastor of Calvary United Methodist Church in Salem. For seven years he served the four small churches on the Catawba circuit.
He kindly agreed to allow us to print his words. Slightly edited, they appear below.
``I would like to paint a picture for you, one you have probably seen: A country store nestles in the beautiful Catawba Valley. Within are shelves packed with every imaginable necessity, from seed to cereal. The hardwood floors are worn from the heavy traffic of people passing by, leaving the hectic world that speeds by on Virginia 311. Pausing from their busy lives for a moment or two, they enter a world that knows no time - the Catawba Mercantile, or better yet, Minor and June's.
``Minor would not want to be called a legacy, but you can't avoid the truth. For 51 years he humbly and quietly became one as he provided a service much more than selling the inventory at a general store. He provided a meeting house, a social institution, a place for gathering and swapping fishing stories, tall tales, preacher jokes and, most of all, for sharing and visiting.
``At the center of this festive place was the old stove which provided warmth in the cold Catawba winters and a place to set your cola in the summers. It acted like an altar inviting people to sit and enjoy the company, and offering what people needed: a place to be listened to.
``Presiding over the congregation of farmers, business professionals, homemakers and children was Minor. Standing behind the counter like a preacher behind his pulpit, with a perpetual cup of strong black coffee, he listened, laughed and held things together.
``The favorites of his congregation were the children. They seemed to bring new life to Minor each time they came in, and he and June made each one feel they were the most special things on this earth. Maybe he best understood the Master's words, `Suffer the little children come unto me, for to such belongs the Kingdom of God.' They were his joy. Maybe in them he caught glimpses of this kingdom.
``The Mercantile was much like the heart of the Catawba community. People would be drawn in with their needs and sent back out, like blood brought into the heart and pumped back out to do its job. Most times you left feeling a little better than when you came in. You probably didn't recognize it, but you were given a glimpse of something in every visit - a glimpse of simpler times when people were more than numbers, a glimpse of caring and family, a glimpse of warmth and hospitality that the world seems in such short supply of. It was a feeling you took with you, that you have with you even now.
``Minor will be missed because he laughed a lot, and we need more joy and laughter. He'll be missed because he saw everyone as special, because he sought the best in others, because he was not afraid to take a stand, because he believed in a hope that would conquer all setbacks, problems and even death itself. Because he loved, and we loved him.''
On the way out of the cemetery that day, Sharon, my usually mild-mannered wife, said, with sudden fierceness, ``I can think of a lot of people whose funerals I'd rather have gone to than Minor's.''
I tried to comfort her by saying that he'd had a long, productive life, and that the smooth surface of his personality undoubtedly had been shaped by the normal tide of painful events, including the deaths of people he loved.
The word choice, typically, pleased me, until my son, Michael, and I rode by the store later in the evening, after baseball practice.
It was closed. The Keffer family's cars were parked outside. That's when the emptiness hit me.
For me, Minor Keffer was the wiry guy in his late 70s who insisted on adding oil to my truck, or hefting a feed sack into its bed, because I was dressed in my office clothes.
He was the guy who invariably greeted me with, ``How ya doin', boy?'' - his tone indicating that he thought I was doing just fine. He was the man who always spoke to my children, telling Katherine how much she was growing, calling Michael ``Little Joe.''
His advice to Sharon was simple and unchanging: ``Don't hurry,'' he would say, whenever she rushed through the door.
I wish I had spent more time sitting by his stove.
June, who keeps track of the valley's youngsters and surprises them with birthday cards, is still running the store, and it remains the inviting place it has always been. That should help us heal; we're not ready to give up the Mercantile just yet.
We hear a lot of talk about making this region something more than it is. Sometimes it seems we won't be allowed to rest until it's identical to Fairfax.
That might not happen, but whatever it becomes, I hope it never loses its small-town flavor and gracious people like the Keffers.
We must cherish them. They won't be around forever. We only think they will.
Time Out, by Joe Kennedy, looks at life in the middle years - marriage, family and contemporary events - from a perspective both serious and light. It appears every two weeks.
by CNB