Living over the store

The pun is horrific, but I’ll write it anyway: Ferrell Mowell’s moving story is very moving.

On August 30, the old house in which he grew up was pushed, shoved, and pulled from its foundation on North Jeff Davis Dr., Fayetteville, to a rescued-house office park about a mile away on Ga. Highway 85 South. I hope you read Ferrell’s narrative.

The Mowells have been friends since soon after we moved to Fayette County. C.J., a ranking Mason, helped us get my mother into a Masonic home in Pennsylvania. His gentleness helped soothe a difficult family crisis.

He was also chief of Fayetteville’s then all-volunteer fire department, and since that department and Peachtree City’s provided fire protection for the entire county, we saw each other quite a lot.

At that time, the old house on Jeff Davis was one of three funeral homes in the county and so welcoming we’d find excuses to drop by whenever we were in Fayetteville.

C.J. had an elaborate model train collection on display - Dave enjoyed that - and I loved wandering through the graceful old “parlors” when they were unoccupied. I tried to time a visit Dec. 25, youngest child David’s birthday, when Red Velvet chocolate cake was in the oven.

I was doing errands on August 8, 1974 when my car radio said the President of the United States was about to resign his office. I wheeled into the funeral home parking lot and made myself at home upstairs with Faye, C.J. and whatever children were home, watching history on TV, live.

To me the most amazing thing about the old house was the contrast of life and death going on within its walls. Downstairs were the preparation room, the business office, and the parlors where the dear departed lay in state. It was not uncommon for guests of honor to spend the night down there.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Faye Mowell was charged with raising four lively children between newborn and 7 years of age, and keeping them quiet. She had meals to prepare (had to be careful about strong-smelling foods when there was a family downstairs), homework to oversee, rooms to be tidied, phones to answer. The apartment had only two bedrooms; I never did quite figure out who slept where.

If you read Ferrell’s account of life over a funeral home, you may have noticed that he gives his mother credit for the success of the business. I asked him if his father wouldn’t resent reading that.

“C.J. already knows he is Number 2,” Ferrell replied.

Faye and C.J. married in 1963 and lived briefly in Newnan, where C.J. worked for Hillcrest Chapel. When the Arnold House in Fayetteville came on the market, C.J.’s father bought it. Father and son incorporated as Carl J. Mowell & Son Funeral Home.

The couple moved into the apartment and went into business February 15, 1964. Becky was born within a month. Thus was also born the reality behind the Mowells’ slogan, “A Family serving Families.”

In their first year, they had only two funerals, one of them for Faye’s grandmother. In Year 2, there were 11 services, but the young couple was still struggling with debt.

Because they could not afford full-time help, they did everything themselves: cleaning, maintaining vehicles, filing death notices, bookkeeping.

As the children grew up, the boys were pressed into service cutting grass, sweeping driveways and washing cars, even tending the door when visitors gathered. C.J. told me once that the boys did everything except the actual technical aspects of preparing a body.

The family was bonded by the fact that they simply did not have money to spare, C.J. says. The kids sometimes resented interrupted birthdays and last-minute cancellations of family outings, but their dad believes they learned to appreciate the service they provided to the community.

In 1966, C.J. was elected to an unexpired term as county coroner when the incumbent died, and remains in office to this day. I believe he has been challenged only once.

He likes to describe how unaccustomed the county was to real coroner cases. He requested the purchase of a $39 camera for recording evidence. The county commission told him he could borrow the one belonging to the tax commissioner’s office.

When Carl, Sr., died, C.J., Jr., moved up in rank and added an “s” to Son, indicating that both Ferrell and David were part of the business.

Ferrell stayed about 15 years and now teaches at Gupton-Jones College of Funeral Services in Decatur. The “s” came off the sign out front. David would be heir-apparent to the family store.

When the family moved out of the apartment into a “real” house in 1984, C.J. was homesick. I interviewed him a few years later at the funeral home where he said he still felt most at home, “We struggled here together,” he said, glancing about at the antique furniture and homey appointments. “We lived upstairs for 20 years plus two days, in two bedrooms, a small cozy kitchen, a living room, and no closets.

“I wish we were still up there,” he said wistfully, in 1988. “My 93-year-old grandmother lives next door and when I’m working late, she brings me tea cakes and fried pies. I’m very comfortable here. This is home.”