WHEREAS, Squire Derryberry gained the esteem of his fellow magistrates during that time for his fairness, his integrity, his conscientious dedication to the office and his gentlemanly conduct; and

WHEREAS, Squire Derryberry shall be missed by his fellow magistrates who shall always treasure his friendship and remember his example of unselfish public service;

NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED this resolution be spread upon the minutes of the Marshall County Quarterly Court this 16th day of October, 1967, as a memorial to Squire Sherman Derryberry, and that a copy of this resolution be presented to his family as a token of the esteem of his fellow magistrates.

Serman No. 585

Recently, Clay Derryberry, a student in one of my classes paid this well-written and meaningful tribute to his grandfather, Sherman Derryberry, "My grandfather was a wonderful man. I suppose everyone thinks his grandfather is fine, but mine was unique. He was born in 1889 on a farm in Marshall County, Tennessee, of middle class farm parents. His early years were saturated with hard work and loving discipline. His formal education only included the first eight grades, while the greatest of his knowledge, which was sizeable, came from the living of life. Those horse-and- buggy days gave him a toughness and love for work which he never lost. The last thing he did before he died was to plow a corn patch with a double shovel. He always had corn patches--extra one with beans and peas so he might give some to his friends and neighbors, and especially to those who did not have any...Somehow through his limited education and contact with life, he acquired the desire to read. He read, slowly and awkwardly often times, but he read the bible. His best merit in reading was that he would go back and be sure he understood what he read, and his greatest merit in life was that he practiced what he read devoutly. Not only that, he talked about it whenever he could and was blessed with a tremendous capacity for being fruitful in moral ideas...In fact, he lived what he read so well and in such a humble spirit that almost everyone in Marshall county and the surrounding counties knew his name, his faith, and his good works. Whenever he was around gross sinners they held their tongues and walked carefully. When he was aroung people who claimed to be Christians but still loved the world, they felt guilty and hid the beer they were drinking at the store at Christmas time when he happened in. I have heard them say so themselves...A well-known and respected person, he was on the county court. He was an elder in the church. He loved preachers and preaching, but even more he love the righteous living of life. It is believed by many that more people were at his funeral than had been at any other funeral in Marshall County for a long time. No one could say a truthful word against him...His life illustrated the power Christ can have in a life and upon those surrounding it. I believe that his life shows that a person does not have to be highly educated according to the world's standard to be a true and devout. Christian. His life and the influence of Christ in it remind of me Micah 6:8---'What doth Jehovah require of the, but to do justly, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with thy God.'" This truly is a beautiful tribute to a beautiful life.

Some remembrances from Andy Derryberry:

When you farm, you run into all kinds of critters. And some of them have stingers. Some of the worst stinger critters to tangle with are bumble bees. My grandfather, Sherman Derryberry, however, had a way with stinging things that I've never before or after seen.

We were hauling hay and storing the bales in the barn at Daddy's place. Some of the older hay needed re-arranging to make for easier storage of the new hay. So we tore into a small stack of old hay that needed moving. The only problem was that there was a bumblebee's nest in that stack of hay.

I observed bumblebees a lot while we milked the cows. The bees seemed to adopt an area and patrol it like a highway patrolman on steroids. But they only bothered other insects. They just flew around the cows and Clay and Daddy and I as we moved into and out of the barn while milking the cows. If, however, you threw a pebble through the bee's patrol area, it would chase and sting the pebble. Other bumble bees and any other flying insects got the same treatment.

The rules change drastically, though, when you get close to the bumble bee's nest. They then become devious, relentless stinging zombies. In the hay loft, the bees from the disgorged nest patrolled the floor at an altitude of about six inches ready to sting, sting, sting. They also assume the method of really mean dogs. They trail you at a distance until the opportune time and then ... attack.

Pa was not bothered in the least by the Bumble bees. I, on the other hand, was terrified. The dread of the sting is probably worse than the event itself and I was not ready to be stung. Pa proceeded with the business at hand, working the hay. The bumble bees flew around him considerably, but he got not a single sting. I stuck with the program as much as I could, but it wasn't long before I was being trailed by a persistent pursuer and I was terrified.

There was a stairwell to the barn loft near the corn crib that we used occasionally. I found no other exit but to dash down (drop actually) the stairwell to safety. I couldn't stay long, though, because everyone else was busy with hay. So, even though it seemed like I had broken something crashing down the stairs, I went back up to continue working the hay. And continue keeping a constant backward glance to have advance warning of aggressor bees. The bees finally relented and we finished the work without any significant delay. Pa, in fact, had never paid the bees any mind at all.

Before we began that day, Pa did notice a fairly large yellow jacket nest fixed to a vertical beam and located about chest high. This was an ideal location for the yellow jackets to score some quick and unexpected hits. Pa had his leather work gloves on and calmly walked over to the nest, grabbed it in one hand, gave it a firm milk farmer grip and tossed it outside. A few yellow jackets got away, but they didn't tarry long. Maybe the decided to begin a new nest in a less dangerous place (for them, that is).

Pa had dealt with the Bumble bees and yellow jackets like they were just a nuisance, like mosquitoes. Even from a prospective of of more years, I won't deal with Bumble bees and yellow jackets the way Pa did.

Pa was an elder at the Verona Church of Christ for many years, and he pretty much opened, closed and maintained the building when I was in grade school.

One Sunday there a person up for baptism, and on getting to the water tank behind the pulpit, which was kept for that purpose, it was found dry.

Even I as a child realized that this was one of the things that happen, and there was really no blame for anyone is such a thing. But Pa took it rather personally that the tank didn't have water in it when called for use. He tearfully apologized to the congregation for allowing the water to leak out of the tank. I though he was apologizing to a lot of people that didn't do anything at all to maintain the building, but of course, I was a child. What did I know.

Within a few days it fell upon us (Pa, me, and maybe Clay) to repair the offending pipe. Once under the building the leak was clearly marked with a small crack and lots of rust. We proceeded to attack the leak with many layers of plastic and other plugging material. I didn't think our effort had the slightest chance of working, but we relentless plied layer on layer of non-metallic patch to that iron pipe.

To this day I don't know if the pipe leaked any or held the water at all. That patch could still be on the pipe today, or it may have had to be redone right away. I do know that we worked hard for there to be water for the next baptism.

Pa was not the most mechanical of people. I never could understand this because my Daddy, Billy, has always been extremely mechanical. I, myself, have always had a mechanical turn of mind as well as my brother, Clay.

Maybe it's got more to do with our own time than ourselves. Pa grew up and lived in the age of non-mechanical agriculture. Field work was done with mules and the metallic implements that were designed for that type of power. While he saw the widespread use of machine driven agriculture, I had the impression that Pa was neither comfortable or happy with the noisy machinery of modern times. Daddy, of course was young when the gasoline engine took over and mastered its workings. I think Pa, perhaps, didn't need to know more about things that he didn't particularly like anyway.

I do know that Pa enjoyed farm work and worked the day before his last trip to the hospital. To see him clip the pastures with the pull mower and a team of mules was to see a man in his element. The quiet grunting and breathing of the working mules, and the placid clicking of the mower as he spiraled inward working around the field were Pa's place and I think he simply loved it.