The house on the way to the river

March 6, 2003

Dear Leslie,

After we married, DC and I began going to her family's cabin on the Castor River a few weekends each warm month. The cabin is on a gravel lane off an asphalt county road. Two hills before the turnoff sits a well-kept house flanked by a large garden. DC made me honk the horn every time we passed the house because the Barnharts were old family friends and might be home. DC had been driving into the country and past the Barnharts' house since she was a teenager. I didn't know them yet but could tell they were dear to her.

When we drove past the house Sunday afternoon my hand moved toward the horn, then stopped. I knew they weren't home.

We continued beyond the turnoff to the cabin and on about a mile further to where Route 00 ends near the Cowan General Baptist Church. So many cars and trucks already had pulled into the drive in front of the church that Otto Barnhart's son, Carl, was directing traffic. People I didn't know stood outside talking, their arms cradling big bowls and cooking pots filled with food everyone would eat later.

The church is like Otto Barnhart wanted his memorial service to be -- nothing fancy. He built its two additions himself. On the wooden wall at the back, below a window air conditioner, hung a painting of Jesus on a black velvet background. The pews were made of wooden slats. The register board on the wall provided essential information: 14 people attended services the Sunday before, their offering was $107, and the church's building fund had eclipsed $6,000.

I got to know the Barnharts over the years. At the cabin, if there was venison sausage or fresh onions, they were gifts from the Barnharts. He and DC's father gave each other fish. He owned some land and had put a sawmill behind his house. People said there was nothing Junior -- most people in the area called him that -- liked to do more than cut down trees.

One day a few years ago something went wrong in the sawmill. Mr. Barnhart's foot almost was cut off. He couldn't tend his garden for awhile, so we did some mulching. He never asked for the help and probably was just giving us something to do to feel useful. In the country, people are always doing for each other. At the service, someone said Junior would help you whether you wanted him to or not. Everybody laughed.

The tiny church was filled with people he had done for in one way or another. I counted more than 100. The preacher read some Scriptures Bonnie picked out, and a quartet accompanied by a pianist and the preacher on guitar sang gospel songs.

People stood and said what they had to say about Junior, mostly that he was a good, honest man who would do anything for you. A man who lived by his word, Carl said. The preacher said Junior wasn't always laced that straight. Before he got saved, he cussed a lot and drank some. It amused me that I'd thought this 80-year-old man was always the way he was when I knew him.

When Mr. Barnhart got religion, he really got it. Some Sundays, the preacher said, Otto and Bonnie were the only ones at the church. Even after he became sick, his stoutness lost to cancer, he always made sure the church's wood furnace was stoked.

Mr. Barnhart served God and his friends and neighbors. In thanks they filled up his church.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.