This Southern California city gal was on a mission, which proved to be an unforgettable experience. An avid genealogist, I had made my first visit to Mississippi to attend a genealogy reunion, do further research, and find new subjects to paint. Armed with information that some of my ancestors were buried in the small town in which I had just arrived, I was eager to photograph their tombstones.

Stopping at a gas station/ general store, I searched for lunch among the shelves of horse liniment, fire ant killer, and bags of pork rinds. The friendly shopkeeper pointed up the road, where he had seen a sign for the old burial ground. I followed his direction, but saw no sign. Coming to a house where an older man was in the yard tying a calf to a tree, I asked for directions to the graveyard. When he said I couldn't "get there from here," I should have realized he wasn't kidding.

The man wore overalls, which bore evidence of the fruit of his labors. Where the overalls joined at the straps, both buckles were broken. On the left side, he had jury-rigged the buckle by using something resembling wire bread ties. On the right, he had threaded a plastic spoon peculiarly through it.

Proudly displaying the spoon, he explained how he had rescued it from a neighbor who was about to trash it. His name was Francis Gale Wilber. (That middle name was after another Mississippi dairyman - Gale Borden - of canned milk fame.) Mr. Wilber proudly proclaimed his age of 72 years. He jabbered on and I didn't know what to say, so I just chuckled in reply. He said the burial ground was "out in back" and that he would lead me. Pointing to a younger man on a riding lawnmower, the dairyman told me he would get his son to give me a ride on his all terrain vehicle.

Left alone, my first thought was that I might be featured on a future episode of Unsolved Mysteries. My second thought was of the stroke my mother might have if she ever learned I accepted my first ride with a strange man. I breathed a quick prayer for guidance and protection.

Mr. Wilber stopped the man on the mower and transferred him to a wheelchair. Okay, not scary, I thought. From the wheelchair he settled him on an ATV (which looked rather like a giant tricycle.) The son seemed quite shy but told me his name was Beverly.

Old Mr. Wilber disappeared for a few minutes and came back buttoning up a dress shirt atop his overalls. Having been treated to a lengthy view of his shirtless torso (behind the spoon), I was grateful for the shirt. He said the wife of a neighbor who died years ago had given him three shirts. As this shirt was stain-free, I suspected it didn't often see daylight.

He offered to let me ride some of the way shaded in his car. His son went on ahead. (Little did I know we were embarking on our own four-wheeling experience).

Learning I was from California, he wanted to know if I knew any movie stars. Had I ever had a date with Sal Mineo? "No," I quipped "but that was Sal's loss." I asked how many graves were in the graveyard. He guessed about as many as he had fingers (nine). He talked nonstop.

We bumped across more territory where I felt sure no genealogist had gone before. There was no road but since the trunk and back seat were filled with tools, canned goods, paper, and possibly a kitchen sink, we didn't bounce too high. I stopped wondering if my dental records were up to date and tried to remember if I had actually been in a pasture before. Eventually we came to a padlocked gate. I figured the gig was up, but he rummaged in his trunk for some tools and removed the hinge pins from the unlocked side.

Mr. Wilber said he no longer owned this land, but had made "good money" on the deal. It wasn't pasture but woodland. After he removed the rusted gate from its hinges, we returned to the sedan and clunked along "a ways" further - until Beverly reported back that it was too muddy for the car to proceed.

We both mounted the ATV (I'm sure I hadn't been on one of those before). In my most ladylike manner, I climbed to a wide metal shelf in back. I was thankful that I didn't have to share the seat with my arms around the driver; Beverly also appeared relieved. The Man-With-Spoon sat on the front fender.

We slowly toiled along while I tried not to be motion-sick or thrown from the "saddle." In the distance we spied two deer. I smiled, thinking how nice it would be to paint them while the men salivated at the thought of returning to hunt them.

Eventually, we came to another fence. I was aghast. We couldn't go in there! The graveyard was overgrown with small trees and big bushes, more dense than the landscape we had just traversed. This gate was open but blocked by a tree. Mr. Wilber said that we'd just climb over a broken place in the fence. (I could almost hear the theme song from Mission Impossible.) I didn't see how we could possibly navigate in that untamed jungle. I looked under the dense branches and did indeed see some headstones, but no footpaths.

"Just tell me which ones you want to see," he said, "and I'll clear the way." My curiosity overcame my fear of snakes and I followed my intrepid guide.

For an hour or more, he broke off branches and brambles barehanded. He needed a machete; apparently not among the vast contents of his auto. He paid no heed to scratches and scrapes, as he held branches back so I could photograph each marker. Although sweating and bloody in places, he seemed to be having a great time.

He was a comical guy, but it was more his backwoods vernacular than what he said that struck me funny. I suspected he might be tittering to himself at the thought of this crazy Californian coming all that way just to take pictures of stones with dead peoples' names on them. He probably figured all those earthquakes had rattled my brain.

He mentioned that 20-odd years ago, another woman had paid him $60 to take her to the graveyard and clear the brush from it and the road from the main highway. I pondered the thought that we were the only ones to see this place in two decades or more. He hadn't mentioned money but I determined to pay him something for getting scratched up and squandering his afternoon on me. Mr. Wilber patiently assisted me, as Bev rode his "Big Wheel" in search of deer.

Mission accomplished, he found Bev and we all mounted the ATV and headed back to the car. He replaced the hingepins in the rusty gate and we lurched out to the highway. Beverly returned home. Mr. Wilber asked if I would like to see the house where one of my kin used to live since we were near the place. He parked in the front yard. The former resident had died "recently" (30 years ago). The dairyman spied a plum tree in the back yard and went to pick some. There were boards on the windows, but other than that the pretty little house looked like you could move right in. I took more photos.

My tour guide returned saying, "There warn't nuddn' but one liddle ole green plum up in thur but I picked ya some blu'burries." He had a fist full and it took both my hands to catch the berries from his one four-fingered hand. Having nowhere to put them, I carefully pocketed them to enjoy later.

He took me down the road a bit further to show me someone's old shack. By now he had gotten the idea that I would take pictures of just any old thing. Perhaps he thought the salt water had pickled my brain, assuming all Californians live on the beach. Did I want to see anything else? he asked. Was I sure I never met Sal Mineo?

He told me all the cleared land we'd seen used to be planted in cotton. The price of cotton had dropped but milk had gone up, so he raised cows instead. I asked how many head of cows he had.

"That's not what you ask cuz it don' mattah," he said as we drove into his yard. "You ask how manah cows ahh'm milkin'. Raaht now ah think ahh'm milkin' sevumteen." He proclaimed his average income "a month fur the milkin.'"

Apparently I'd said something about being an artist because when we got back to his house, he wanted me to come inside and see some art he had bought. We threaded our way through the garage and kitchen, to the living room. Papers, clothes, tools, huge cans of tomato sauce, (and at least two kitchen sinks), were parked on every horizontal surface. Spider webs, complete with residents, hung like party streamers. The counters and sinks were piled high with dishes. He said his wife had "gone" about 10 years ago. I surmised the place hadn't been swept since, but I just kept giggling as he kept talking.

He showed me his yard sale finds. I smiled and nodded. They looked like the kind of prints you might find at Pic-n-Save (or for you Southern cousins: a Dollar General Store). He showed me the gem he was proudest of - a sweet farm scene with a smiling cow and the name Wilber over a doorway. He considered it quite a prize to get a "painting" with his name already in it.

He apologized for the place being a mess. I pretended not to notice.

"I could-a cleaned the place up," he grinned "but I was so busy out there takin' you aroun'." I howled. He thought that was a good joke so he repeated it and I roared again. Next, Mr. Wilber showed me a picture of Beverly taken when both of them had hair.

I made my exit and he followed me to my car. I glimpsed a broken toilet in the yard and was glad that I hadn't asked to use the facilities. I thanked him again and offered him $40 for his efforts. He refused to take anything. He said it was worth it all just for the pleasure of hearing me laugh at his jokes! I wondered how long it had been since any woman chuckled at his jokes. Thinking all afternoon that he was doing something for me, I now realized that perhaps I had given him a rare opportunity to be a hero by rescuing a damsel in distress.

My host finally took half of the money to give to Bev, but only at my insistence. I was sweaty and my jeans were starting to resemble his overalls (minus the spoon) but I couldn't help but be amazed ...a Mississippi dairyman had given me sweet milk of human kindness.

I later found the graveyard sign, but the overgrown road was impassable. I would have never found the place. I was able to pass photos along to other cousins who won't have the pleasure of a wild ride with Mr. Wilber.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of "Mr. Wilber" and his son.

	Debbie DeFoi is an amateur genealogist and professional artist from California. © 2002 Debbie DeFoi. All rights reserved.