About us

My name is Cory, and I was born on August 26, 1974, in Sumter, South Carolina. My grandmother Christine, great-grandmother Alma, and great-great-grandmother Florence raised me. In July 1982, when I was 7 years old, my great-great-grandmother passed away. I remember like it was just yesterday: my younger brother Shamrock was in the room with her when she slipped away. All of my family came over, and they each took a moment to go into her room and say goodbye before the funeral home came to take her away. I was standing in the front yard when the light blue hearse pulled up in front of the house, and the two men got out of the car.

They placed her in the hearse, and for some reason, the hearse remained in front of the house for some time, and some of the local kids came by to look inside the hearse just to see what was going on. I remember just standing there looking at the hearse that held the remains of my dear great-great-grandmother. When the day of the funeral arrived, I remember that a lot was going on in the house. I was standing in the front yard in my suit waiting for the funeral home to arrive when two light blue Cadillacs pulled up in the front yard. That's the moment my perception of life and death changed. Mr. Robert John Palmer, a larger-than-life figure to me and the most influential person in my life, stepped out of the first car and took complete control of everything. He was a large man in stature, and he had a booming yet comforting voice.

I remember when he tried to take my aunt Tonya's hand, who was on crutches, and help her into the car; she jumped straight in so as not to touch his hand. Then that same light blue hearse that had days earlier taken my great-great-grandmother away had brought her back again this time to lead her and us to the country church to lay her to rest. I don't remember much about the funeral itself because I was asleep during most of it. I just remember waking up, asking my Aunt Pamela, who was like a big sister to me, "What happened to the casket?" which was in the vestibule of the church for the final viewing. At the graveside, I remember crying after hearing the words ashes to ashes, dust to dust and seeing Mr. Palmer hitting the switch and the casket jerking to lower my dear great-great-grandmother to her final resting place. I will always remember the distinct sound of the lowering device.

After that day, my focus changed; as a matter of fact, I don't believe I had a focus until that point in my life. I started riding my bike to local funeral homes, looking around and questioning owners and staff members about anything and everything. But none compared to the integrity and excellence of Mr. Robert John Palmer, or "R.J.," as he was called. During one of my weekly trips down to Palmer Memorial Chapel, I became close to their young embalmer, Renault "Butch" Davis, who took me under his wing. I would work for free just to be in their presence. I washed cars, swept floors, and even polished the brass. At this point, I wanted to bury everything, living or dead. I had so many graves in our yard that it could be called Vaughn's Cemetery. I wanted to go to everyone's funeral, whether I knew them or not. I would critique the local firms and see how I would have done things if I were in charge. Then, on Sunday afternoon, everything changed. I was in my usual position sitting next to Butch on the couch in the break room watching the fishing show and waiting for Mr. Palmer to get ready to leave for a funeral. When he got to the back door, he looked back and said, "Come on, son, let's go." So that day I rode in the hearse with Butch, and Mr. Palmer drove the limousine. My first funeral was a high and a low point wrapped into one. When we reached the church with the family in the limo, Butch and I got out, and I immediately put on my dark shades. Mr. Palmer said, "There will be no showboating, son," so I took them off quickly and tried to regain my cool.

Then it was time to take the remains into the church for the service. Butch and I were on the casket, and Mr. Palmer led the family behind us. As we reached the front of the church, I turned the casket in the wrong direction. Luckily for me, the viewing was going to take place in the rear of the church. As we walked out of the church, Mr. Palmer said You gentlemen know that casket is turned the wrong way and quickly said We will fix it. After the committal service was over, Mr. Palmer said to me again for the 2nd time that day, "Let's go, son," but this time he added, "You know how to drive a hearse?" This was my first time working a funeral, and I was driving the hearse! WOW! I must have been dreaming. I worked for Mr. Palmer until his untimely death in 1995. Then I worked under the leadership of his daughter Lorin, who is still in charge today. After college, I moved to North Carolina for two years, and I worked on the weekends until I moved to New Jersey in 1998.

Then I met the most dynamic female director I have ever known, by the name of Carolyn Whigham. I started working for Continental Airlines in Newark, New Jersey, and one of my co-workers died. I attended his funeral that evening, and that's when my life changed yet again. I got involved with the funeral industry again after four years. Working with Carolyn Whigham is what led me back to my first true love, and YES, she had me driving the hearse at my 1st funeral service with her. Then I began working in NYC with Doris Bell, who instilled love and compassion, and Frances Bell Henry, who taught me how to manage and meticulously run a business. After several decades since I saw Mr. R.J. Palmer step out of that light blue Cadillac car, I am fulfilling my dream of being a funeral home owner.