Make Memories... Don't Be One

Have you had your annual mammogram yet? I hope so. One simple test can mean the difference between making memories... or being one. It's as simple as that.

How would I know? On the morning of October 30, 1993, my phone rang at 5 AM. It was my grandfather, in tears, telling me that my grandmother had died in his arms a short while before. Irene Brookshier had just lost her fight with breast cancer. My grandfather had just lost his partner of sixty years.

My grandmother (left) circa 1922

My mother was a librarian, and I grew up in the village library, but the roots of my love of reading lead straight back to Irene Brookshier, my maternal grandmother. She was a bright, intelligent young girl with blue black hair who, once she caught sight of my happy-go-lucky, handsome grandfather, fell in love and never looked back.

The Depression lingered on in our part of central Illinois. Times were tough when my mother was born in 1935, and she and my grandparents lived in a room in the old hotel on Main Street. During World War II, my grandmother worked in a factory in Decatur while my grandfather joined the Navy and fought in the South Pacific. She grew pale and quiet when letters from my grandfather didn't arrive, and she dealt with his horrendous nightmares when the war was over and he came home. In 1948, my grandfather was well on his way to becoming a master electrician, and they bought an old house in town.

My grandmother and me, 1955

I came on the scene as the only grandchild in 1955. As I went through old photos, I realized something. There are several of my grandmother and me when I was five-years-old or younger, but the more independent I became, the more I became Grampa's girl.

I worshiped my grandfather. I was a tomboy who preferred spending much of my free time outdoors with him instead of staying behind with my grandmother, whose weapon of choice was her sewing machine and her natural milieu her kitchen and flowerbeds. Homemaking was boring. I wanted to get out and explore. Sewing, weeding and cooking were not for me!

My mother and grandfather were outgoing, funny people, and I gravitated to them as naturally as breathing. My grandmother always seemed content to take a backseat to the three of us. Many people in town thought she was stuck up because she didn't socialize much outside the family. She just never seemed to have much to say to anyone she met on the street or in the store. It wasn't until I was eighteen and moving away to college that my grandmother and I ever really sat down and talked. That one short conversation was my first hint that my grandmother wasn't the person I'd grown up believing her to be.

My grandmother in Kentucky, 1991

The years passed. I moved to Arizona right after college graduation, and I kept in touch with my grandparents through letters and phone calls. But in 1991 it was as though a homing beacon had activated, and I found myself flying back to central Illinois to spend some time with my grandparents.

I drove them down to Lexington, Kentucky, and the three of us had a wonderful time exploring. As I watched my grandmother indulge in her favorite hobby of photography, I made a note to myself to buy a higher grade camera and start taking more photos. When we got back home to Moweaqua, my grandfather went to see how his garden outside of town had fared over the weekend, and my grandmother and I sat and talked. Really talked. It was the first sit-down conversation the two of us had ever had in which my grandmother treated me as an adult on equal terms. She told me family secrets that just aren't trusted to phone lines or paper, and my eyes were opened to things that had happened long before I was old enough to understand. I looked at my grandmother with new respect, as an adult, not as a grandmother. And I liked her.

My grandmother in her kitchen, 1991

In 1992 my mother drove back to Illinois, and after finishing up a training job for Target, I flew back. As usual my grandmother insisted on taking photos of us all. My mother was notorious for refusing to be in any photographs, but this time she demanded her share of time in front of the camera. My grandparents were shocked and thrilled. I looked at my mother and knew there was more to the story. There was.

Mom had had a premonition that this would be the last time the four of us would be together. She was right. Shortly afterwards my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and she had a radical mastectomy, followed by chemo and radiation. But they hadn't caught it in time, and at 5 AM on October 30, I got a phone call no one wants to receive.

My mother and I drove back to Illinois together. It was a cross country trip in miserably cold weather, and neither of us were in the mood to talk. The funeral service was surreal to me, and the weather was so bad that the few people who showed up didn't hang around long. After all, my grandmother had never had many friends, and it wasn't the sort of weather to be out in.

That evening my mother and grandfather ate quickly and went into the living room to watch television and grieve together. I was left at the kitchen table with my own thoughts and a mess to clean up. As I stood at the kitchen sink, my back aching because the counters were made for my five foot tall grandmother, not five foot ten me, I listened to the sad voices murmuring in the other room. And my mind began to wander.

It wandered down through all the years and all the meals when-- after the most cursory help-- my mother, grandfather and I would adjourn to the living room and leave my grandmother alone in the kitchen. My grandmother, who always seemed content to remain in the background. My grandmother who wasn't stuck up but shy. My grandmother who loved to read and was passionate about travel and genealogy and loved photography so much that she built her own dark room. All those years, all those meals, all those times we just left her there. Alone.

Did she ever feel like the hired help, as I did that night? Did she ever feel like taking out the trash and just walking down the alley, down the street... and never coming back? My mind flew through dozens of mental snapshots: we both loved books and flowers and birds and traveling just to see what was on the other side of the hill. We both started turning gray at a very young age. We both hated clutter and frilly clothes. Some people thought I was stuck up, and I wasn't... I was... shy.... Just. Like. My. Grandmother.

That's when it hit me. Although I'd tried, I could never be outgoing like my mother and grandfather. I often wondered why I didn't really fit in the family when all the time I did. I was just staring at the wrong two family members. I had my match right there all along.

I resemble my grandmother, intellectually and emotionally, more than I do anyone else in my family, and due to breast cancer and my own blindness, I was denied having a real relationship with her.

It's pointless to dwell on might-have-beens. Regrets are a waste of time. All I can do now is share this woman with all of you and urge everyone to do everything they can to be around for a good long time. Please... make memories, don't be one.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

May you receive lots of books, glorious books!

Thank You, Uncle Gene

Yes, I've been at the family photos again (and of course you can click on them to view them full size). The young man in the middle of the back row happens to be my maternal great-grandfather. The rest of the group are his brothers and sisters. Good-looking bunch, aren't they? You'd never guess that, just a few years before this photo was taken, these children were orphaned. No one had much money at the time, so basically they were taken into the nearest town where relatives came and took the children they wanted.  Something mean-spirited happened to Aunt Sadie in the front row on the right, but that's another story. This story involves the little boy in the middle of the front row. See him? Meet Eugene Brown, known by all his family and friends as Gene.

I was digging through a box of family photos and papers when I ran across this photo on the right.

This is Gene all grown up and part of the US Army in France during World War I.  I didn't even recognize him until I turned the photo over and saw "Eugene Brown" in my grandmother's handwriting. Then I could see that little boy in the group photo.

Uncle Gene was sent to Camp Zachary Taylor right outside of Louisville, Kentucky, so he didn't have far to travel from southern Illinois for basic training.

Camp Zachary Taylor was the largest training camp in the United States at that time, and they tried to make sure the men had everything they needed to stay in contact with their families.

Almost the very next thing I found in the box was this postcard you see to the right. Picturing your loved ones relaxing in such a homelike atmosphere would be a lot easier on the nerves than thinking of them in the trenches, attaching bayonets to their guns and getting ready to go over the top. Postcards like these were undoubtedly a bit of propaganda for both the men and their families.

One thing I wish Camp Zachary Taylor had provided all their men was ink pens because, after almost one hundred years, this pencil has almost faded to complete illegibility!

This letter was written in France a little more than a month after the end of the war. Let's see how much of it I can read...

Dear Bro. & Sis.


As I am not busy this evening I will scribble a few lines to you. I am OK. and hope all of you the same. I have seen quite a bit of France and more of England than I want to any more. You know I always wanted to cross the pond, well I still want to cross it & then I think I will shut my eyes when I even cross the Okaw River [now called the Kaskaskia River] ha ha. For I have seen enough water & foreign country.


We sailed from Montreal Canada the 2nd of Sept. & got 900 miles on our way & then went back to Quebec & got on another boat & landed in England the 25th of Sept. so you see we wasn't in any hurry crossing. & talk about riding the waves we did. We were in England till the 1st of Oct & then we landed in Cherbourg, France & then we had a train ride, (rode in box cars) south, down close to Spain. We were treated fine by the French. Slow days & then our Div.  were [illegible] & sent to LeMans, France. From there I started for the Front, but the Armistice was signed before we got there so we went to the 29th div & we are still in the north eastern part of France & don't know when we will leave for the states but hope it will be soon. 


In this country it rains nearly every day, so we have mud instead of dust or at least it is that way since I have been here. I was in one place 13 days & it rained every day we were there. We just left a place where it was muddy, about knee deep. There isn't very many American farmers that would keep hogs in a place like it, but now it is O.K. for we are in a town.


We had a good Xmas dinner but the day didn't seem like Xmas. We didn't have any snow that day but it snowed a little the next day. We haven't had any winter yet but it gets chilly here & [illegible] but it will get cold if we don't leave here soon.  I hope you are having some real winter snow, but don't have to be out in it all the time.


Well I am going to close. From your bro.

To the left you can see the envelope the letter came in-- as well as the stamp and signature of the censor who read it before it was put in the mail bag.

Even though Uncle Gene didn't really talk about much-- travel, weather and food-- it was obvious he was homesick. An Illinois farm boy so very far away from home.



Finding these papers from Uncle Gene was a very potent reminder.

Thank you, Veterans, for your service and your sacrifice. If not for you, I wouldn't be enjoying the life I am now.

I remember. I am thankful.

Remembering the Man on the Wrong Side of the Fence

Columbia, Tenn.
Nov 25, 1864

Mrs Lucy Brown

Dear Wife
I am well and hearty and feel as well satisfied as I expected. We got here on the morning of the 23rd and got to our regiment the 24th in the morning. This is a nice place for camping, it is high and dry, and very hilly. We had some very cold weather while we was on our way here. The people at Nashville said that it was as cold here as it had been for several years. I think from the appearance here that we may stay here for some time, but we can't tell for certain one day what we will do the next. I am getting anxious to hear from you and the children. I want you to write to me as soon as you get this letter and tell all my friends to write to me.
...There has been some skirmishing with our cavalry and the Rebels for the last 4 or 5 days but all is quiet today. The weather is warm and nice. One man made a bet of $100 the other day that the war would end in 3 months and offered to bet $900 more that it would end in 5 months. The opinion of some is that we will know by the first of January how it will be but we can't tell yet. I want you to keep in good spirits till I come home for I feel as though I will come out all right.... Now we are called to get our arms.
I have got back and had dinner. We can hear some cannons, they appear to be 2 or 3 miles off.

The words above are from the last letter James Henry Brown (the man in the photo) wrote to his wife, Lucy Ann Sarah. Within ten days, he was dead-- killed in the Battle of Franklin. The Battle of Franklin saw some of the bloodiest fighting in the American Civil War. In places bodies lay as they fell in tall piles. You couldn't walk without stepping on the dead. The ground was soaked deep red with blood.

James Henry's wife (seen to the left) didn't understand about war. All she knew was that she wanted her husband back home where he belonged. She insisted that his body be brought home for burial.

She didn't know-- and from my reading I think it would be safe to say that she didn't care-- about just exactly what that demand meant. Men buried in mass graves. Men with very little, if any, identification. By the time her request went through all the necessary channels, months had passed. The poor souls assigned to looking for James Henry's body had little more to go on than approximate height, Union soldier, red hair, full red beard. I'm sure that the second they found a body in a blue uniform that had red hair and a red beard, they stopped looking. And let's be honest: under the same circumstances, wouldn't you?

James Henry's body arrived home (south of Vandalia, Illinois) in June of 1865. The war was over. The Battle of Franklin had been fought over six long months ago. People gathered to bury him in the family cemetery, but before the coffin could be lowered into the ground, Lucy Ann Sarah made one more demand: "Open the coffin. I want to see my husband."

Many folks tried their best to get Lucy Ann Sarah (she was always called by all three names) to change her mind. If you can tell anything about her from that photo above, I think you can see that DETERMINATION should have been her middle name. She would not be denied. The coffin was opened, and Lucy Ann Sarah took a good long look. Most of the other folks didn't look at all. After several minutes had passed, she said, "That is not my husband. That is not James Henry." Her will was so powerful that whoever was in the coffin was not buried in the family cemetery.

Over one hundred years later, as a teenager, I joined many other family members down in the hills and hollers of southern Illinois. I couldn't take you there today if my life depended on it because the route consisted of little-traveled country roads. My great-grandfather was in the car with me, my grandparents and my mother. We were depending on his directions to get us to the old church and cemetery. All I can remember is that we had to turn left onto a little road when we got to Frogtown. (Frogtown was all of one old weathered wooden building that looked as though a stiff breeze would blow it into the next state. Truth be told, that old building is probably standing today and will stand long past my own death.)


The Brown family had gathered because the family church, old Center Church, was a hazard and was going to be torn down. My grandfather collected bells and went to the trouble of getting the old church bell down from the tower to be taken home to Moweaqua. The old family cemetery, located on some land out in the middle of fields and pastures, was overgrown. While some folks tended to the bell and the church, the rest of us got our gloves, hoes and rakes and started tending to the cemetery.

In the photos above, you can see old Center Church to the right, and the cemetery to the left. The tallest gravestone just happens to be Lucy Ann Sarah's, and you can see a field and an old barn right behind the graves.

In 1968 when all this clean-up was occurring, I was thirteen years old. I pulled weeds, hoed and raked just like everybody else, and I didn't get too bored because the all the names on the tombstones represented people who were related to me. At that stage in my life, I'd been in many old cemeteries, but this was the first time that all those dead folk were kin.

My interest began to wane just as everyone was finishing up and deciding which farm to go to for lunch. It was a typical hot, muggy, bug-laden Illinois summer day, and I looked over to the woods, knowing that a creek ran through the trees. I squeezed through the gaps in the barbed wire fence and started to head over to the woods when I saw a weathered marker lying on the ground on the pasture side of the fence that ran around the cemetery. I went on over to take a look.

The old pieces of wood had originally been in the shape of a cross. With the tip of a forefinger, I traced shallow carving in the crosspiece until I deciphered the marks: UNK. For some reason I knew not to make a big production out of this find, and I went over to my mother on the sly and told her what I'd found. That's when Mom told me about James Henry and Lucy Ann Sarah declaring that the body they'd shipped from Tennessee wasn't her husband. "You've found where they buried the man she rejected," Mom said.

Mom's attention was almost immediately claimed by someone else. I picked up a rake and a hoe and climbed back through the fence. I put on my thick leather gloves and cleaned up the afterthought of a grave that Lucy Ann Sarah gave to "Unknown". I found some bits of wire and fixed the cross and set it straight in the ground where it should be. I looked into the cemetery proper, at all the graves decorated with stone markers and flowers. I looked down at this grave scratched out in the dirt of a pasture where any of the livestock could stand on it.

I sat down by the grave and put my hand on the cross and felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. "I don't know who you are, mister, but you deserve respect just like anyone else who's buried here. My family didn't do right by you, and I apologize for that."

To this day when Memorial Day rolls around, the first person I think of is a lonely man buried on the wrong side of a fence that surrounds an old family cemetery. He fought and died for his country. He is deserving of respect.