As we post the obituaries every week, we try to recall that each one of those names represents someone who meant the world to someone else. He or she was someone’s baby, someone’s sweetheart, someone’s parent, someone’s best friend. All warrant extended obituaries, but we don’t have enough personal information to provide that service for you in every case.
The
recent death of Donnah Stewart McMaster caused the heart to skip a beat. Donnah was a
neighbor, an unfailingly cheerful friend, and a genuinely good person. When I first knew
her, she was Donnah Hampton. Before we even had a name for it, Donnah was the single
mother of two girls. They all lived with her mother, Grandma Swagart, who looked after the
girls while Donnah worked at the telephone company.
In those distant days the phone numbers in St. Johns were peculiar. Each party line had three numbers and a color. People who didn’t have a color after their number had private phones. Our phone number was 565-Red, and Donnah’s number was 565-Black. In the telephone office the operator would plug the line into the correct number and press a colored knob. When I wanted to call her daughter, Patty, I had to ask the operator for Black and then set the phone back down to give it time to ring. Sometimes when I would ask the operator for Black, Donnah’s voice would sing out, "Patricia can’t play right now, Jeannie. Call her again in about an hour."
After Patty and I were out of school, I went to live in a college dormitory. These were the days before cell phones, direct dial, and even telephones in the dorm rooms. We had one community phone in each hall, served by a switchboard near the entrance to the residence. When we had a phone call, a buzzer would sound in our rooms.
Many times in those years I would race out into the hall, pick up the receiver, and hear Donnah’s commanding voice. She would invariably inquire about my grades and my health. Then she would share a few tidbits of gossip from home before putting the call through.
One night early in the spring of 1962 I was called away from a choir concert. Donnah’s voice was not cheerful, and she had little to say. My aunt was calling from Clinton Memorial Hospital to say that my mother had taken a turn for the worse. She and my uncle were coming for me; pack a bag.
When I returned from the funeral, I was still feeling pretty much like I had been hit between the eyes with a board. I went to class, ate a little, and studied. But when the buzzer sounded, more often than not Donnah was there to tell me who was calling, what they wanted, and why they needed to talk with me. Donnah’s was a voice from home. She was familiar, and she was always there.
I wish now that I had taken the time to tell her what I have just told you.