Like it or not, a person’s self-worth these days is most often measured by what people say about him on social media.
If you carry that through to the life and times of Dewey Hastings, it just might appear that the longtime funeral director had his own personal Thesaurus of Heart to help in that effort — even if he was too busy serving families in Morgantown and across the region to realize it.
Hastings, the chief director of Morgantown’s Hastings Funeral Home, died last week at the age of 97.
That same funeral home, which he and his wife Mary co-founded in 1952 and is still doing business from its same location at 153 Spruce Street, was entrusted with his arrangements.
His services were Wednesday at WVU’s Erickson Alumni Center.
For most of the funeral home’s 70-plus years, Hastings was part of its proceedings, as he helped families navigate their grief in the tough, sad transition of having to say goodbye to a loved one.
And Mary was there, too, right up to her passing last spring.
Families marveled at the gracious overtures extended by the couple during visitations and services — which is why a lot of the same words to describe Dewey keep popping up in all those tribute posts to him.
Words such as “compassionate,” “gentle” and “nice,” which were among the top three.
And “empathetic,” “kind,” “measured” and “caring,” for the other re-occurring entries in that special document with the director’s name on it.
“Well, that was Dad,” said his son, Dan Hastings, also a Hastings funeral director who joined the family business in 1974.
“I mean, he was genuine, and families could see that,” Hastings, the younger, continued.
“He was perfect in that role. He and my mother, both.”
‘There goes Smitty’
Hastings, the elder, was born Dewey Smith Hastings in 1925, and grew up on the family’s dairy farm near Morgantown.
“Hardscrabble,” was the word for that one. The Depression was on.
“Smitty” Hastings, as he was then known, toiled hard at his chores — but he manufactured his own farm-kid fun every chance he’d get.
“Dad would always be kind of smudged and dirty from the work,” his son said.
“He had this pony he’d ride around the farm. He loved that. He was this blonde-haired, little dude with freckles. People would say, ‘There goes Smitty.’”
He graduated from Morgantown High School and was working his way through WVU. When World War II broke out, Smitty dropped out — to enlist in the U.S. Army Air Corps.
A once-little kid who liked riding his pony didn’t waste time saddling up for what would be his life’s work when he came back from the fighting in 1945.
He signed on for a two-year apprenticeship with a local funeral home, and enrolled in the Pittsburgh Institute of Mortuary Science.
Hastings graduated in 1949, the same year he and Mary walked down the aisle.
They had mutual friends, Dan Hastings said.
“Way to go, Dewey,” they said — after she said yes.
“Yeah, my mother was a beauty queen,” he said. “It was like, ‘Hey, she’s goin’ out with Smitty.’ But they had a blessed life together.”
Which also included a professional life together.
On a February day in 1952 in Morgantown — it was the day after Valentine’s Day and temperatures weren’t too far from the teens — Dewey and Mary turned the key to the door of the funeral home that’s been there ever since.
Family support (and more family support, after that)
Dewey’s parents, George and Jeannette, mortgaged their farm and its equipment to help finance the venture, and Mary’s family opened their purses and wallets, too.
“When dad told me that,” Dan Hastings said, “he just looked at me and said, ‘Danny, you talk about an incentive to achieve.’”
It was a family business, through and through, Dan said.
He’s coming up on his 50th in the business. His brother, also named Dewey, became licensed also, to join his brother on Spruce Street.
The boys wanted to help their folks.
No tears …
Because their parents were from Morgantown, that meant they were of Morgantown, too.
Mary did charity work at the old Vincent Pallotti Hospital on Willey Street and Dewey joined Rotary, among other outreach organizations.
The couple regularly held court at Sons of Italy Lodge No. 14, where they had their own table, and they were known for their arm-in-arm strolls down High Street.
Dewey did some charity work out of the public eye also, Dan said.
Several of the families who Dewey knew as a hometown guy weren’t in the best economic circumstances, Dan said, but his father always made sure their kids had clothes for school and other needed essentials.
“He didn’t want his name attached,” Dan said. “He would just say to a teacher, ‘Hey, let me know.’”
In the days after his dad’s passing, his son has found himself on the receiving end of the human charity, as it were.
People come up and express condolences, using many of the same words highlighted in that aforementioned Thesaurus of Heart — for a patriarch who knew how to ease the passage.
“I’m so appreciative of that,” Dan said.
“I thank them and shake their hand,” he said. “What they say means so much.”
Then, he smiles.
“Hey, no tears for Smitty. We’re celebrating him, because he knew how to do it.”
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