The
four of them sit shoulder to shoulder to shoulder on an orange, brown and white
couch, Ruth, Katie, Cora and Carrie. You can tell they are sisters with just a
passing glance. That becomes even more unmistakable when you study the faces
and discover the similarities, even down to the hair styles and glasses each
one wore. Probably when the picture was taken two of them lived in Michigan and
two of them lived in Georgia, so the photo was likely taken when two of them
traveled to visit the other two.
Cora
died recently. She was 93 and was the last one of her brothers and sisters to
die. Ruth had passed within the last couple of years. The others, including
Katie, Carrie, Carl and Cecil, had passed away earlier. A generation now gone.
I
always knew her as Cory and when I heard of her passing, I thought of this very
picture of the four sisters. It hangs framed in my memory like it might have rested on a shelf or coffee
table somewhere in one of their homes. I suspect it was taken around the time I had figured out, for
the most part, who each one was in the family and how we all connected
together.
Looking
at that picture makes me miss these people. I miss the good memories they left
behind that I find scattered around from time to time. It makes me realize how
unique and special each one was in their own way.
Ruth,
always quiet but always looking immaculate in what she wore. Her husband,
Hayden, thin, wiry, crusty and sometimes crabby, pulling a drag off a
cigarette. Katie, the sweet but tough homemaker and chicken-and-dumplings cook
extraordinaire. Her husband, Claude, forever driving his baby blue Ford pick-up
and singing bass like he belonged in a gospel quartet. Cory, the one who made
others laugh and always had a smile that lit up the room. Her husband, Billy,
the one who joked about having a wooden leg, well, because he did have a wooden leg
and constantly calling Cory "Flossie", his pet name for her. Cecil, or Doc,
as everyone knew him, and his welding truck that rightly proclaimed he could
weld anything but broken hearts. His wife, Evelyn, the tiny and sweet Granny to
so many. Carl, the big brother
to them all. His wife, Gladys, a quiet, strong force for good. And my grandmother, Carrie, the one I miss the most, the one I see now
when I look into my own mother’s eyes. Her husband, Andrew, my grandfather, the one
who often had a mischievous grin on his face.
I
miss them all. I miss the places we all have in common, Sugar Creek, Macedonia,
Boardtown, Cashes Valley, Stanley Creek, Bushy Head, Fightin' Town Creek. I miss hearing their voices, accents
dripping in the dialect of north Georgia mountain people, an accent that still sometimes reappears when I speak. I miss hearing their stories, even the hum-drum, day-to-day
things that make up so much of lives being lived. I miss just knowing they are
no longer around. I miss them every one, and now, they are all gone.
As
I look at that picture in all it's glorious gaudy 1970s goodness, I realize once more, this time with a certain resigned feeling, how quickly time moves. I can’t help but think how the time we share
together really is so short in the grand scheme of things.
Some
might say now they are all together. Maybe so. I like to think that. Thinking
that sure makes it all easier to accept if not totally understand. Besides, you
have to have something to hold on to when those you realize are the roots of
the family tree begin passing away and you are left with the understanding that you and the family left behind are the ones now filling the gap for the generations that will follow. And, somewhere in all that is the hope, mixed with just a bit of fear, that we can be as strong and as rooted as those who stood in that gap for us.
