The bells were tolling at the white Methodist church in rural Alabama. Dr. D. had died in his sleep.
      I mourned him as a friend and a colleague. New to the area, a Canadian doctor recently located - he offered me a genuine friendship. We established our rituals: lunch every Thursday and breakfasts on Sunday.
      It was on these Sunday morning breakfasts that he recalled old times. We sat in the small cafeteria of the hospital. Over grits, biscuits and coffee, Dr. D. relived the most exciting time of his life when, in World War II, he served with General Chenault and his flying tigers in Burma. "I can remember how proud I was to patch our wounded pilots as they bounced down the runway all shot up after an air sortie on the Burma Road," he would reminisce. "You know I was the only surgeon. Me, a country boy from the black belt!"
      On the other side of the counter, Gloria and Rose, the cooks, shared all their strength in their large bodies, with staff and patients alike, in the form of ample Southern breakfasts and spirituals. "Amazing Grace" and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" provided a fitting musical background for Dr. D.'s war stories. Exhausted from emergency room duty I inhaled the food and talk of adventure.
      It rained hard Saturday night, so Sunday morning was hot and steamy. The five pallbearers and myself met at 10:30 a.m. in the large wooden vestibule of the church. Shorty, the head pallbearer, gave us all red carnations. The burnished stainless steel casket shone brighter than the summer sun, brighter than the jewels decorating Dr. D.'s daughter's nieces and cousins.
      Outside, large Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles sporting New York and Michigan licence tags lined the red clay road. Despite the ceiling fans in the church, the men sweated in their dark blue suits and methodically chewed tobacco. Many carried styrofoam cups as spittoons. Their wives dabbed at their eyes clouded with tears and running mascara and adjusted their mink stoles.
      The family wished this to be a segregated affair. Only the African American women and children remained outside the church, starting their ceremony by singing in harmony, "We are Climbing, Jacob's Ladder", a tune Dr. D. often hummed. Gloria's voice led the chorus and punctuated each hymn with a "we love you, Dr. D., Hallelujah."
      "Jeeze it's hot," I said pulling at my tie. "Have any of you tried to lift that casket?" I kept thinking about Dr, D's last visit to me. According to my nurse he weighed in at 250 pounds. He loved to eat those massive Sunday breakfasts. We'd be having one now if he was still alive.
      "It looks heavy," said Shorty, eyeing the ornamentation on the metal of the casket. "This must be your first southern funeral, huh Doc?" He winked at me, "if you stay here long enough, the Methodist's will get you if the Baptists don't."
      With the boom of the organ, six good men and true, slowly marched two by two toward the casket at the front of the church. As I was the lead pivot man, I had to circle the casket and take the first handle with my left hand. Even before lifting it , I started to envy the three men using their right.
      The sermon began slowly, the preacher stretching his words to fit the wide shape of this man. He paused frequently and droned on, oblivious to heat, time, or the buzzing of flies. I let the words slide by but watched for him to signal us forward.
      Shorty whispered, "this is it, boys, one quick lift and slow step it to the limo."
      I wondered if we could do anything else.
      Veins in our hands, faces and necks stood out. We slowly marched out the centre aisle, trying not to grimace. I pictured Dr. D. laughing at our efforts but pitying our plight. I imagined him chortling, "you know boys, I wouldn't have et all those plates of grits and butter if I'd known you'd be so hot and I'd be so heavy."
      To get the casket into the hearse took an extra heave onto the rollers. The springs on the Cadillac sank lower and lower as we slid the casket in.
      "Wipe yourselves off boys," said Shorty. "It will be tougher at the cemetery. This time of year, that red clay is bound to be slippery."
      Gloria, the lead, had started singing again, the rest of the women harmonizing. But the hymns seemed faster, with a syncopated beat. Hands clapped, braided cornrows bounced and patent leather shoes kept time as the children followed the mourners to the burial grounds. We walked past the massive redwood tree; past the graves of three hundred confederate soldiers who had died 140 years ago at a makeshift hospital in town. The air felt heavy, the ground gummy.
      "All them high heels is going to take a beating in this mud," said Shorty, falling in step with me.
      "We're going to take a beating too," I said.
      Shorty sighed, "I sure hope Dr. D. 'preciates this," then added ."I could sure do with a co'cola."
      Plowing mud the hearse beat us to the prepared gravesite.
      Shorty pointed to the site, "just as I expected. Only three - four by fours across the grave. I hope they hold the casket and Dr. D. We may have to hold the casket with those canvas straps if the timbers give way. Too bad all us pallbearers didn't have a say on the type of casket. Musta been those women from Deetroit who chose it."
      With a super human effort we retrieved the casket from the back of the hearse.
      A few sliding steps got us to the grave. By digging in our heels we managed to avoid slipping into the hole. The timbers creaked with the weight of their burden.
      "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the prayer started.
      "Where's the dust?" I muttered as we lifted the canvas straps to allow the agile gravediggers to remove the timbers.
      "We're on our own boys, hold tight," whispered Shorty. "Keep your ends up. This preacher drawls real slow."
      I thought of Dr. D. training at Tulane University in the lazy heat of the Mississippi River and then freezing in Minnesota during his surgical training. He shared case after case with me, a woman in prolonged obstructed labor, Dr. D. administering the anesthetic and delivering by C. Section her son. He was over 6 feet tall now and the woman constantly pronounced Dr. D. was "her goodness and her savior." She wasn't alone in her feeling. Dr. D. lost none of his compassion over the years. I performed my last act as a pallbearer, I pictured him back with General Chenault, flying as high as he ever would get.
      We lowered the casket containing our good friend. Down he went. All gathered to pay their last respects, a flower in one hand with some red clay in the other. Soil and blooms soon covered the casket.
      Gloria's full-bodied soprano voice led the mourners in song. "Though the road is steep and rugged, though the road is steep and rugged. Though the road is steep and rugged, we are climbing on."