Mrs. Chester L. Sumners, known as Miss Bessie by her many friends and admirers, died at her home in Oxford on May 8, 1997. A regular participant in the Faulkner and Yoknapatawpha Conference, Sumners enjoyed discussing her friendship with Faulkner that began when they were in elementary school together. At the time of her death she was one of the oldest living alumnae of the University of Mississippi. Elizabeth Richardson, a teacher from Douglasville, Georgia, and a close friend of Miss Bessie's since 1991, pays tribute to her in the following essay.

The first time I passed through the "portals of Yoknapatawpha" six years ago I had the strange sensation that I was passing through the frame of a picture into an exotic, make-believe land. I knew very little about William Faulkner or his writing, so I could not attribute the feeling to that. Bessie and I met that first year through a cousin of hers, Charles Nelson. I was unavoidably eavesdropping on a conversation taking place in that endemic American icon, McDonald's, and characteristically could not resist joining the conversation that Mr. Nelson was engaged in with several other interesting people. Only minutes into our meeting, Mr. Nelson became very excited and exclaimed that I must meet his cousin Bessie. Then he practically dragged me to a public telephone, called Bessie, and put me on the phone with her. "This woman will think I am an absolute lunatic," I thought. Somehow I managed to mumble a few words and gave the phone back to Mr. Nelson, wondering just what I had stumbled into.

Later that week, Bessie and I met following her presentation on a panel of women who had known William Faulkner. We were attracted to one another instantly, began talking, and never stopped until her death in May of this year. I suppose what engaged me so thoroughly with Miss Bessie was her absolute energy level. She never seemed to wind down. Here was an attractive, dynamic woman, 93 years young, who absolutely ran circles around me.

In the ensuing years, Bessie and I were to have many wonderful experiences together. First, however, I had to be straightened out regarding my wearing apparel. One evening shortly after we met, I was heading for the square, dressed in what I considered to be an appropriately modest sundress. "You can't wear that outfit to the square," Bessie informed me as I headed out the door. Thinking I had soiled my dress, I began looking it over for the evidence. "Why, you're sure to inflame some man's passion." Wordlessly, I marched upstairs, removed the offending dress, and changed into something that I hoped would be more acceptable. So what if I was over 50. Bessie had already made a lasting impression on me.

Soon, we were going to what seemed to be every party in town. One year we were at a wine and cheese party at Square Books, where, as usual, Bessie had the attention of all the handsomest men in the room. I was getting a bit tired and ready to retire for the evening, and when Bessie allowed one of the gentlemen to escort her down the stairs from the top level of the bookstore, I thought we would soon be in our comfortable clothes, discussing the events of the day before going to sleep. "We've been here long enough," she said. "I'm ready to go somewhere else." The only place I knew that stayed open past midnight was the Hoka, so the Hoka it was.

The last full year that Bessie and I were to spend together was the best ever. It began with Pat Conroy in April and ended with our crashing an Elvis party in August. Faulkner was sandwiched somewhere in between. We were both thrilled to meet Mr. Conroy. One afternoon, we were at Off Square Books where he sat, signing book after book without pausing for a break. After observing him for a while, Bessie remarked, "Young man, you'd better take care of that hand," and proceeded to give him precise directions on how to do just that. He laughed, and I took a picture of the two of them together. Bessie could charm any man alive. Later that same year, during the Faulkner conference, the phones were ringing in Oxford early on. Apparently, Miss Bessie had been spotted whirling around the square in a foreign convertible, top down, laughing and enjoying the midnight air with a somewhat younger companion.

One night we attended a party at Off Square Books that almost turned out to be our undoing. It started out well enough; I had managed to get a good afternoon nap so I could try to keep up with Bessie. All was looking good until a lawyer friend quietly informed me that he thought my skirt might fall down at any moment. With my face almost as red as my dress, I ducked under a table just in time to pull it up, almost spilling the contents of the table including food, books, and drinks in the process. My zipper had given out a the most inopportune time and I had almost upstaged Bessie in full view of a plate glass window open to God and all of Oxford. I quickly looked for Bessie, thinking that maybe now was the time to leave while at least part of my dignity was still intact. She was outside engaged in conversation with a nice-looking, but rather serious appearing professor. Just as I approached, I witnessed Bessie's teeth flying at good speed across the sidewalk and landing at the professor's feet. I cannot possibly describe the look on his face so I will not even try.

How does one properly eulogize such a unique individual? Bessie lived until she died. She took each day as it presented itself, unwrapping each day's adventures with the enthusiasm of a child delighted with the gift of another 24 hours. Her dignity never failed, regardless of the situation in which she found herself. She had a profound effect on my life, and I suspect on the lives of countless others. She was my friend, my confidant. She opened my eyes a little more to the wonders of the world around me. She often told me that she wanted to die peacefully in her bed. I will be forever grateful that this wish was granted. Rest well, dear one. You deserve nothing less.