The loss of my last brother

As my readers know, I come from a large family, with four brothers and two sisters.

We were seven. Yesterday, February 25, we buried my last brother, Max. 

I have not lived on the farm where I grew up since 1995 when Barry and I moved to North Carolina. Yesterday as we drove down Fleming Road to the family cemetery on the farm, I saw the damage done by the horrendous tornado that raced through the area a few years ago. The wooded areas I knew are now flat grassy fields with small pines popping up. 

I was happy to see the clean fence rows on the farm that had been neglected so long after my father died. He was a stickler about keeping the fence rows clean. That was the work he and his sons did in the winter when no crops grew.

I made a mistake by going back to the five acres which Daddy had given me when we married. We built our dream home there and I thought we would never leave. But we did and lived the happiest time of our lives in the mountains. In the past twenty-five years, when I visited the farm. I refused to go back to see that house. I couldn't bear seeing others in it. The first year after we sold it, I had horrific nightmares about it. In those dreams, I went into my house and it was filled with people I didn't know. They were having a party, laughing, dancing, and I screamed at them, "Get out of my house. What are you doing here? This is my house. Get out!" but no one left. They looked at me as if I were the intruder, not them.

I had heard from my nephews how the former owners let the yard deteriorate. I had grown the most beautiful azaleas and many other plants and trees when I lived there. I couldn't stand to see the damage those people had done to the house and place I loved.

Barry in front yard of our dream house

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Since those owners died and sold the house to a couple that my nephews like, I learned that it had been remodeled and the yard was now in good shape. So, yesterday, before going to the cemetery, I bravely asked to be taken to see my former house. 

Before I saw my house which sits in the middle of the five-acre tract, I was totally shocked! The first thing we saw as we approached was a junkyard for old automobiles. I was horrified! 

My brother Hal and his wife, Yvonne, had lived on an adjoining five-acre tract. We had beautiful grounds around our houses and she and I mowed all summer to keep everything neat. I wanted to cry when I saw what the owners of my "dream house" had done. I don't know why they had all those junks in front of that beautiful house, but I do know that I will never go back there again.  

Again I am reminded that "You Can't Go Home Again."     

That all added to the grief I was already feeling. But as the family gathered at the graveside to honor my brother and send him on to be with his wife, his brothers, his sister and his parents, I had to gird my loins for strength and read words I had written about the man I knew and most of the people there did not know, not even his sons. He was ten years old when I was born, fifteen years old when I was five. He was unique in that he played with his little sisters, teasing us as well as telling us stories from the books he read. He loved nature and enjoyed showing us and telling us about birds and other creatures of the wild. He was an artist, creative in so many ways. He made a difference in my life that others did not know about.

I already miss him but I am glad he is not suffering. His last year was very hard with illness and the loss of his wife of 67 years. He had asked that I read at his funeral the poem Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant. Thanatopsis is a poem of encouragement and reverence for life and death. It informs us of the fact that everyone dies, no matter how great or small one is in life. We all share this ending and should, therefore, embrace death with security and comfort. 

Every person who has ever lived is in the ground ("the great tomb of man") and everyone who is alive will be soon dead and in the ground too. This idea is meant to be comforting, and the poem ends by telling us to think of death as a happy, dream-filled sleep. 

That is what Max wanted his loved ones to think.

His son, Gabe read selected parts of that poem.

So, my dear readers, this post is about my going home again and what happened there. It was sunny and warm with spring popping out everywhere. That is the good thing about South Georgia, spring comes early.