keeping wasn’t one of my daddy’s strengths.” Sugarman flashed what I’m sure he considered his “regrettable” smile. Probably practiced it in the mirror while knotting his somber black ties. “Such were the days.”
Not everywhere, I thought.
Pvt. John Charles Lowery was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. (See army forms.) The body was flown from Dover, Delaware, to the Charlotte, North Carolina, airport. On February 18, 1968, accompanied by Plato Lowery, I met and drove the body to Sugarman’s Funeral Home in Lumberton, North Carolina.
At the request of Plato and Harriet Lowery, the deceased was transferred to a privately purchased casket and buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery on February 20, 1968 (Plot 9, Row 14, Grave 6). No additional services were requested.
Holland Sugarman
March 12, 1968
Note: Gravestone erected October 4, 1968.
Tossing aside Daddy’s useless report, I began pulling remnants of decaying fabric from the casket and dropping them to the floor. Lining. Padding. Head pillow. Blanket shreds.
Sugarman helped. The sheriff and lieutenant watched mutely.
The smell of rot and mildew heightened.
Within minutes the skeleton lay fully exposed, naked but for its postmortem armor of mold and charred gunk. The skull was in pieces. Every tooth crown was gone. As indicated on ident official Johnson’s diagram, the lower arms and hands and both feet were missing.
I evaluated the remains as best I could for compatibility with John Lowery’s known biological profile.
A faucet dripped. Fluorescents hummed. Beasley and Guipone alternated shifting their feet.
Pelvic shape said the individual was clearly male. A pubic symphyseal face suggested an age range of eighteen to twenty-five. Skull fragmentation made accurate race assessment impossible.
With a gloved finger, I scraped at one cranial fragment. Below the outer crust, the cortical surface was black and flaky. Again, consistent with Johnson’s report of body condition. The deceased had suffered a fiery event, either during or after death.
Besides the safety pins, the coffin contained one inclusion, an empty jelly jar with powder filming the bottom. No burial or dog tags, buttons, belt buckles, or insignia.
I made notes and took photos.
Finally, satisfied I’d missed nothing, I turned to Sugarman. The mortician donned new gloves, and together we maneuvered a blue plastic sheet beneath the bones. Then, gingerly, we lifted and transferred them to the new casket.
We all watched as Sugarman lowered and locked the coffin lid, then positioned the top of the transfer case. I helped twist the metal fasteners that held the thing shut.
Noticing the words Head and Foot stamped on the aluminum, I thought of the honor guard that would flag-drape the case, and of the respect with which it would be positioned in the plane and hearse.
It was five thirty when I finally washed my hands and signed the transfer paperwork.
We parted under the front portico. I thanked Sugarman. He thanked me. Guipone thanked all of us. If Beasley was appreciative, he kept it to himself.
Heat mirages shimmered above the parking lot. The asphalt felt soft under my sneakers.
Sensing movement, I glanced left. The driver’s door was opening on a blue Ford Ranger five slots down from my Mazda. A tiny alarm sounded, but I kept walking.
A man got out of the pickup and tracked my approach. Though his face was shadowed by the brim of a cap, I recognized the solid body and square shoulders. And the Atlanta Braves tee.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowery.” When I was ten feet out. “Too early in the year for such a hot day.”
“Yes, ma’am. “
“Could be a long summer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Above the coal black eyes, yellow letters double-arced the green silhouette of a landmass. Korean War Veteran Forever Proud. 1950–1953.
Though it was obvious Lowery had been waiting for me, he said nothing further.
Exhausted, dirty, and sweaty, I longed for soap and shampoo. And
Not everywhere, I thought.
Pvt. John Charles Lowery was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. (See army forms.) The body was flown from Dover, Delaware, to the Charlotte, North Carolina, airport. On February 18, 1968, accompanied by Plato Lowery, I met and drove the body to Sugarman’s Funeral Home in Lumberton, North Carolina.
At the request of Plato and Harriet Lowery, the deceased was transferred to a privately purchased casket and buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery on February 20, 1968 (Plot 9, Row 14, Grave 6). No additional services were requested.
Holland Sugarman
March 12, 1968
Note: Gravestone erected October 4, 1968.
Tossing aside Daddy’s useless report, I began pulling remnants of decaying fabric from the casket and dropping them to the floor. Lining. Padding. Head pillow. Blanket shreds.
Sugarman helped. The sheriff and lieutenant watched mutely.
The smell of rot and mildew heightened.
Within minutes the skeleton lay fully exposed, naked but for its postmortem armor of mold and charred gunk. The skull was in pieces. Every tooth crown was gone. As indicated on ident official Johnson’s diagram, the lower arms and hands and both feet were missing.
I evaluated the remains as best I could for compatibility with John Lowery’s known biological profile.
A faucet dripped. Fluorescents hummed. Beasley and Guipone alternated shifting their feet.
Pelvic shape said the individual was clearly male. A pubic symphyseal face suggested an age range of eighteen to twenty-five. Skull fragmentation made accurate race assessment impossible.
With a gloved finger, I scraped at one cranial fragment. Below the outer crust, the cortical surface was black and flaky. Again, consistent with Johnson’s report of body condition. The deceased had suffered a fiery event, either during or after death.
Besides the safety pins, the coffin contained one inclusion, an empty jelly jar with powder filming the bottom. No burial or dog tags, buttons, belt buckles, or insignia.
I made notes and took photos.
Finally, satisfied I’d missed nothing, I turned to Sugarman. The mortician donned new gloves, and together we maneuvered a blue plastic sheet beneath the bones. Then, gingerly, we lifted and transferred them to the new casket.
We all watched as Sugarman lowered and locked the coffin lid, then positioned the top of the transfer case. I helped twist the metal fasteners that held the thing shut.
Noticing the words Head and Foot stamped on the aluminum, I thought of the honor guard that would flag-drape the case, and of the respect with which it would be positioned in the plane and hearse.
It was five thirty when I finally washed my hands and signed the transfer paperwork.
We parted under the front portico. I thanked Sugarman. He thanked me. Guipone thanked all of us. If Beasley was appreciative, he kept it to himself.
Heat mirages shimmered above the parking lot. The asphalt felt soft under my sneakers.
Sensing movement, I glanced left. The driver’s door was opening on a blue Ford Ranger five slots down from my Mazda. A tiny alarm sounded, but I kept walking.
A man got out of the pickup and tracked my approach. Though his face was shadowed by the brim of a cap, I recognized the solid body and square shoulders. And the Atlanta Braves tee.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowery.” When I was ten feet out. “Too early in the year for such a hot day.”
“Yes, ma’am. “
“Could be a long summer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Above the coal black eyes, yellow letters double-arced the green silhouette of a landmass. Korean War Veteran Forever Proud. 1950–1953.
Though it was obvious Lowery had been waiting for me, he said nothing further.
Exhausted, dirty, and sweaty, I longed for soap and shampoo. And
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