Sitting Up With The Dead
We all have memories from our youth; most are good, and a few are bad, but all are etched and linger there for us to recall. As we age, these early memories become more vivid, prominent, and influential because they form the foundation for who we are today. These recollections form a tableau of “things” I experienced and want to pass on to our children and grandchildren. My early memories are from an era they cannot share. They are writing a book filled with the sum of their experiences, and I hope their memories are rich and interesting. “The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.” – Mitch Albom Going Home My mother’s family was from South Georgia, and in the 1950s, traveling there by car from North Georgia was quite a chore. Georgia is a much bigger state than many understand. A long trip from North Georgia on two-lane roads in the backseat of a car with no air conditioning was almost unbearable. The only relief from the heat was rolling down your window and allowing hot air to pass over you at sixty miles an hour. It seemed like a relief, but looking back today, it was like having a hair dryer blow across you and calling it refreshing. Our route was straight down U.S. 441 for about five or six hours to the little town of Adel. In those days, most of the streets were not paved, and during summer visits, shoes were left on the back porch for my entire stay. But this was a more somber visit, and shoes were a must. I learned on the way down that my mother had a great uncle who had passed away and that we were headed down to his funeral. Her family was filled with Methodist preachers, and this was one of those essential men within the family. I had heard his name mentioned before but did not know him. I thought this was nothing more than accompanying my mother back home for a visit. My grandfather and his brother were World War I
