Rhonda Rich

Syndicated columnist

A few years ago, an Atlanta newspaper obituary caught my eye and I clipped it out. I came across it recently and again, as then, I found myself fascinated by how it summed up the man who died and what that summary says about our society.

Honestly, I don’t know which fascinated me more.

It is not uncommon for me to save an obituary, especially one that begins “today the bells rang in heaven” or “Mrs. Bertha Mae Wilson went home Tuesday to join her beloved husband, Franklin, who has been waiting for her there since he left this world in 1979.”

I often smile when I read an obituary with the headline “Beloved Wife and Homemaker.” For really, is there anything more important in this life than women who proudly and lovingly make homes for their families? I can’t imagine.

Also, as I read the obituaries, I wonder if this is what the deceased wanted to say about his life, or if this is just what those left behind think should be said.

Those thoughts fascinate me too.

But this obituary does more than fascinate me. haunts me I keep thinking how seconds on Peachtree Street in Atlanta would doggedly follow a 29-year-old man to his death. Although he lived 74 years, his entire life would be defined by 25 or 30 seconds. Every loving moment as a family man, every kindness extended to a stranger would be hidden by the mud that covered him for the rest of his days.

And I suspect that what that obituary said was not what the man or his family would have ever wanted for the last words of his life. But sometimes a few seconds of time can be so powerful, so life-changing, that all control is lost forever.

Of course, if it hadn’t been for her, what happened on that steamy August night on Atlanta’s most famous street wouldn’t have been such a newsworthy event, and chances are it would have only affected her life, maybe even it would have changed it for him, but it certainly wouldn’t have defined him.

But she was, so what happened to him was because of what happened to her.

People never let him forget, his daughter said. He stalked him like an enraged skunk for the rest of his days. He tearfully apologized to both the audience and the judge, then hung his head solemnly and left to serve 10 months and 20 days for those 25 seconds of reckless driving and 67 feet of skidding, including the seven legs he had dragged after his car. he bumped into the little woman who tried to struggle to get away.

Fate, however, cannot be overcome. And it would seem that both she and he had a date with destiny that night.

She fought to live for five days before succumbing to head surgery on August 16, 1949 at Grady Hospital. It also fascinates me that two of the South’s most famous and beloved icons would have the same date of death: August 16th. Elvis, however, would die many years later in 1977.

She was the most famous author of her generation and is still, to this day, hugely revered in the South. She won the Pulitzer, inspired an Oscar-winning movie, and set sales records that still stand by creating those immortal characters of Rhett and Scarlett.

He and she never met, but both of their obituaries would bear each other’s names, and she would even share equal billing in his title: Hugh Dorsey Gravitt, 74, Taxi Driver Who Hit Margaret Mitchell.

Two strangers bound together for eternity, each life ended by the other. I find it fascinating.

Ronda Rich is a best-selling author from the South. Visit www. rondarich.com to sign up for her newsletter.