"I wonder who this Thurber guy was?" he was probably thinking. "My Gawd, it's raw out," he said to no one in particular, and he shivered. When he was through, he turned his roughened, weather-beaten face to the sky. Working silently, he spaded in half a wheelbarrow load of heavy gravel-mixed cement, and on top of that he placed twenty shovelfuls of top soil. His gloved hands carefully picked up the bronze urn - polished and radiating bands of metallic highlights from its surface - and like some gaunt pirate of old, he placed his trophy out of sight in the bottom of the hole. Working under the green canvas tent, he rolled back the artificial sod, fully exposing the neat square excavation, much like a plug in a watermelon. The Reverend Karl Scheufler, pastor of First Methodist Church which the Thurber family attended, read the short prayers and a verse from the Methodist hymnal:įrom a distant part of the cemetery, came the cawing of a flock of winter crows.Ī few minutes later the figures, some 40 of them, bundled against the cold, had entered their cars and departed. Smallsreed, Sr., retired editor of The Columbus Dispatch and a fellow reporter during Thurber's days on the paper, came to pay his last respects.Īnd, there were cousins of the Thurber and Fisher families who had known James Thurber when they were children. Tom Meek, New York stockbroker, was present, head bared to the light snow sifting down from the slate-colored November sky. Gude, a longtime associate and his literary agent, was present.įriends from Ohio State University student days and his early newspaper days in Columbus included Elliot Nugent, Thurber's collaborator on The Male Animal. Burgess Meredith, of stage and screen fame, and the director of The Thurber Carnival, stood out in the small crowd of mourners in his Cossack hat and greatcoat. There were friends from the New York theatrical and literary worlds.
His two brothers were there, William and Robert, both residents of Columbus. Thurber had remained close to Rosemary and later to his grandchildren. Thurber's daughter by a first marriage, Rosemary, and her husband, Frederick Sauers, of La Grange, Illinois, were present.
His closest friends attested that his burden had for many years been lightened by Helen's affection and loyalty. For many years she assisted him in copying, reading, and re-reading manuscripts and drawings, as well as being a friendly critic.
His wife, Helen, was there, calm and composed after the long vigil that had begun a month before.Īfter his eyesight had completely failed, Thurber called her his seeing-eye wife. In a brief and simple graveside service, the ashes of the world-famous humorist and humanitarian were buried in the family plot among the Fishers and Thurbers who had been immortalized in many of his stories. The ceremony was held November 9, at 3 p.m.
Thurber was cremated and his ashes were brought home to Columbus from New York City for burial in Greenlawn Cemetery. The operation was successful, but he contracted pneumonia which was too much for his weakened body to resist. He had been stricken with a blood clot on the brain October 4 and underwent emergency surgery. I first learned of James Thurber's death in the papers.
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