Wilburn

In June I attended Wilburn's funeral. He was 99 years old.

I had visited him three years ago when Schewels had opened its new store in Harrisonburg, but until then I had probably not seen him for fifteen years. Although I had heard mention of his daughter Linda many times, I had never met her or any other members of his family. I don't like to go to funerals -- who does -- but I went to this one, even though I had to drive to Harrisonburg and sit in the church as a stranger among people I didn't know.

I went for the reasons we all go to funerals: to grieve with the deceased's family and friends and to celebrate a life.

One is tempted to ask: do we really grieve the loss of a person who has lived a full and complete 99 years? It's surely not as tragic as the deaths of two teenagers killed in an automobile accident -- reported two days ago in the News and Advance. But my reaction to Wilburn's death was not much different from my reacton to hearing of others dying: sympathy for loved ones; the shock of the event, no matter how much we have been conditioned to expect it; a momentary but poignant feeling of personal emptiness; and a lingering sadness that the deceased has lost forever the future experiences of this mystery we call life.

I think that, in Wilburn's case, I was grieving as much for members of my own family and nostalgically for a past Wilburn represented and encompassed as I was grieving for him. And it was a grieving engendered not by his death but by a remembrance and celebration of his life, which, though it intersected with mine only tangentially, made a profound and enduring impression on me. In this sense, the grieving and the celebration became indistinguishable.

I do not know the exact circumstances of Wilburn's hiring. He was only 23 years old, a native of Altavista, perhaps working for the Lane Company, who somehow came to the attention of Mr. Abe Schewel, who saw something in the young man that portended a bright future. Even back in those days, it was difficult to say "no" to Mr. Abe, and so, when offered the position of managing the new Schewel store in Harrisonburg, Virginia, Wilburn really had no choice but to acquiesce. It turned out to be one of the best decisions he or the company ever made.

This was Schewel Furniture Company's first venture outside its founding headquarters in Lynchburg, and it was a risky one. In the early years of the Depression, this fledgling enterprise, owned and operated by three brothers, was going to open a satellite store, three hours from home, and entrust it to this inexperienced youth. Not only the survival of this store but the entire future strategy of the company -- to expand into new markets -- was riding on his performance.

From the outset, Wilburn demonstrated outstanding traits of character and personality which validated Mr. Schewel's judgment. His winning smile, friendly manner, natural graciousness, and innate charm not only yielded sales growth and loyal customers; they earned him recognition and respect throughout the Harrisonburg community. He was the model of a successful businessman: astute, decisive, fair, and creative; a great communicator and motivator; and an inspiring leader. His skill at evaluating and hiring talented, dedicated individuals laid a foundation for the company's growth. He was a man whom I never heard speak ill of another, nor did I ever hear anyone say a negative word about him. And he was a man of the utmost integrity, an indispensable attribute for an absentee owner in an era without computers and instantaneous, sophisticated reporting instruments.

His full name was Wirt Eldredge Wilburn, but I call him Wilburn because that was how my grandfather Ben and my father Bert always referred to him. If an important company decision had to be made or if Ben or Bert was contemplating a special merchandise purchase, I never failed to hear the familiar refrain: "Ask Wilburn," or "Get Wilburn on the phone," or "What does Wilburn think?" As a child growing up in the business, I had constantly heard about "Wilburn," and it was only after I had been working for the company about a year that I realized that "Wilburn" was his last name, not his first.

Actually, his last name should have been Schewel, since he seemed so much a part of the family. Those were simpler times, fifty years ago; the company was smaller; there were fewer rules, regulations, policies, and procedures. To use a cliche, business could be conducted on a handshake and often had to be, in the absence of the checks-and-balances so prevalent today. In such an environment, Wilburn became more than an employee or business associate. There developed a degree of camaraderie, closeness, friendship, and good humor between him and Mr. Ben and Bert that is rarely seen -- and almost impossible to replicate -- these days.

Mr. Wilburn's success in Harrisonburg encouraged the Schewel family to seek out opportunities "in his territory," the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Mr. Wilburn found the locations, hired the managers -- some of whom he had already "groomed" in the Harrisonburg store -- fixed up the buildings, bought the merchandise, and prepared the ads. Although the sign over the door said "Schewels," these were his stores -- Luray, Winchester, Lexington, Front Royal, and Culpeper -- and he nurtured and supervised them until his retirement in 1976.

I had the dubious honor of succeeding Mr.Wilburn that year. Although he loved Schewels and he loved his work, I got the distinct impression that he welcomed his retirement, since he also loved to play golf. He took me around to his stores, introduced me to his managers, and advised me where to eat and where to stay. "Always ask for a better rate -- and a room on the first floor," he said, closing with: "And Markie," which is what he called me (payback for "Wilburn"), "I'm leaving you some good stores. Keep them that way."

When I last saw Wilburn at the nursing home where he was living out his final years, he was having lunch at a large round table accompanied by three or four female residents. His eyesight was nearly gone and he was in a wheelchair, but he looked the same as he had that day thirty years ago. And he had lost none of his charm. He was regaling his audience with some tale from his past, but when told that I was present, he smoothly transitioned into one -- or many -- about Schewel Furniture Company, Mr. Ben, and Bert Schewel, evoking from me a tear and a smile as I both grieved and celebrated.