The Surging Storm

Lisa Thomas • September 22, 2021

In Savannah, there is a room off the service hall, close to the double doors that lead to the carport where the hearse lives and families park for funeral services.  We call it the flower room . . . because it’s the room where florists leave flowers.  But in the corner of that room, tucked away where most people won’t notice them, are boots—nine pairs, to be exact.

Those boots are strategically placed in that corner because they’re out of the way but readily accessible when a service ends in the chapel.  If the weather requires it, the funeral staff heading to the cemetery will grab their coats from the rack nearby and their boots from the corner of the flower room.  And then they make their way to the hearse or the flower truck, ready to wade through whatever muck and mire may be awaiting them at their destination.

I looked at those boots the other night, as I passed through the flower room and into what is known as the casket receiving side of the garage . . . as opposed to the first call car side of the garage which is on the other side of bookkeeping . . . which occupies what was once the center bay.  All of which is beside the point.  When members of the funeral staff grab those boots, it’s because they know the next few hours are going to be messy, possibly cold, definitely rainy, or perhaps snowy (though that’s not likely around these parts).  They know even if the family chooses to visit the grave later, when the work is done and the weather is better, they’ll be going now unless there’s an approaching tornado or violent thunderstorm.  Monsoons don’t count.  Neither does bitter cold or sweltering heat.  They will be escorting someone’s loved one to their final resting place.  Because that’s what they do.

But to me those boots represent a whole lot more than protection from Mother Nature’s messier moments.  I see in them a willingness on the part of our staff . . . actually, any member of anyone’s funeral staff . . . to go when they are called, no matter the day or the hour or the conditions they will be facing.  They may be headed to the local hospital in the middle of the day—or Florence, Alabama in the middle of the night.  They may be called to the scene of a fatal accident, to homicides or suicides. Many of them walk into an arrangement room to sit down with the families and help them find a way to honor their loved one.  Many of them walk into the preparation room and diligently work to give families the best last memory possible under the circumstances, while others make certain things are ready at the cemetery or all the paperwork is processed or the building is clean.

There’s an awful lot that takes place from the time the phone rings until long after the last scoop of dirt fills the grave or cremated remains are returned to a family.  And all of it requires going and doing on the part of every employee, from housekeeping to maintenance, from the grave crew to the secretaries—and of course, the funeral personnel—every one of whom wears their own pair of metaphorical boots.  Unfortunately, compliments of COVID, the phones at funeral homes all across the United States have been ringing far more in recent months . . . and sadly many of those calls are coming from the same families time after time.

We’re tired.  For a lot of us, we’re beyond tired, to the point of being overwhelmed.  Mentally.  Physically.  Emotionally.  But we continue to go, despite how heavy those metaphorical boots are getting.  The real ones provide some protection against the elements; we can take them off, clean them up as best we can, and pile them in the corner until the next time.  But the others? As long as this storm is surging, we cannot put them away.

 

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

By Lisa Thomas August 20, 2025
Carl Jeter had walked out on the deck of his house to survey the flood waters of the Guadalupe River—and to be certain the level was no longer rising.
By Lisa Thomas August 13, 2025
It was bedtime in the Guinn household and six-year-old Malcolm had decided tonight was the night to declare his independence.
By Lisa Thomas August 6, 2025
They had been married almost 25 years when Death suddenly took him. Twenty-five years of traveling around the country with his work. Twenty-five years of adventures and building their family and finally settling into a place they believed they could call their forever home.
By Lisa Thomas July 30, 2025
It was quietly hiding in the chaos that was once a well-organized, barn-shaped workshop/storage building, one now filled with all the things no one needed but with which they couldn’t bring themselves to part.
By Lisa Thomas July 23, 2025
Do you remember when new vehicles didn’t come with on-board navigation systems and if you wanted one you had to buy something like a Garmin or a Magellan or some other brand that would talk you through your trip?
By Lisa Thomas July 16, 2025
Recently I found myself playing a rousing game of “Chutes and Ladders” with my grandson and his mom (my daughter)—a game I soon realized I was destined to lose.
By Lisa Thomas July 10, 2025
Facebook is like the double-edged sword of social media. On the one hand, it can be the spreader of good news . . . But it also serves as the bearer of all that is bad.
By Lisa Thomas July 2, 2025
I don’t actually know how Facebook decides what I like or what topics might be of interest. It’s understood there is some mysterious algorithm quietly running in the background . . .
By Lisa Thomas June 25, 2025
With her head bent low and her eyes laser-focused on the sidewalk before her, she slowly made her way around the park. Step by step, one foot in front of the other.
By Lisa Thomas June 18, 2025
It was dark outside when the phone rang; a glance at the clock revealed the day was still in its infancy, which explained why the funeral director’s brain did not want to engage. Years of experience prevailed however, and he answered the call, finding on the other end of the line a hospice nurse requesting their services for a death that had occurred in a home.