My Family: George

I was five. Up until then, I may have never been to a cemetery, but in the past six months I had become familiar with them. Familiar enough to run around with my sister Katey while my mom talked to the man who was there. I’m sure my mom must have told us not to touch any of the headstones as we’ve never stepped into a cemetery when one of my parents didn’t tell us not to touch the headstones, but the man soon stopped our running about. He pointed to a stone, fallen over on it’s face, not an unusual sight in an older cemetery. But he then told us that a little girl my age had been playing in the cemetery, caught a hold of that stone and pulled it down on top of her. It crushed her to death.

I’ve never touch a headstone again.

The picture above was taken at my grandparents’ wedding in 1951. The building behind these people is Bethbirei Presbyterian Church, located in that same cemetery I would run around in 36 years later. The people in the photo are probably all related to me somehow, but I only know five of them by name. First, the older man and woman in the middle of the front row who are my great-grandparents Bert George and his wife Annie Maple Lucille Hayes George (in the dark dress). Directly behind my great-grandmother is their son Macklin (“Mack”) with his lovely wife on the left, Elinor (pronounced “Elnor” with the right Southern draw). The toddler in the picture is their son Phil. It was a beautiful, happy day spent at their home church. Six years later, another family get-together there would come to a tragic end.

My maternal grandmother’s maiden name is George. She was born June 6, 1932 in Lewisburg, Tennessee. She had one older sister born in 1925, but Lucille died shortly after birth. Her loving, protective elder brother Mack was born in 1927. Although very poor, I think they were happy. And their history entwined with my life quite a bit.

I had just turned five when we moved to my parents’ hometown of Lewisburg. For the first six months we lived in the little house that had been my great-grandfather’s. Daddy Bert had died a month after I was born, so I never knew him or my great-grandmother “Sally” (as her grandkids called her) who had died in 1964. But I heard plenty of stories from my mom who loved them. Down the street lived Mack and Elinor. (Always referred to as “Mack ‘n Elnor” as if they were one. Which in so many ways they were, for after 58 years of marriage, they died three days apart this past spring.) Even after we moved closer to town, we spent a lot of time at Mack ‘n Elnor’s house and then at their newer house they built on the opposite side of their property. Family get-togethers. Fish fries every September for Mack’s birthday. And searching for Christmas trees every December,

In time, I would learn who their four children were: Phil, Janet, David and Kenneth. Like any adult with childhood memories, mine are a little funny. The only girl and the exact image of her mother (the first time I saw the picture above I swore Elinor was Janet), Janet had two kids we played with – Mary Leigh and Matthew. Kenneth, the epitome of “baby in the family”, was a bachelor when I was a kid and I thought him great fun (probably because the word “irresponsible” wasn’t yet a part of my vocabulary). He now has two sons…and is on wife number two. I first heard Phil, an attorney, described as an “ambulance chaser”. You can probably imagine what pictures a child’s mind conjured up over that phrase and I confess I still internally giggle every time I see him. He now owns/runs the winery on the property, and has two grown daughters from his current wife #3. David, who was apparently so quiet he was easy to overlook., I didn’t meet till I was a teenager. At the time, he was still quiet and easy to overlook. I hear he can be quite talkative now. All of them are in and out of memories from my years in Tennessee, people my mom would talk about and lives that I eventually understood connected to mine by blood. So, when I was about sixteen and made up my first family tree, I thought I had them all listed. But when I showed it to my mom, she shook her head and said, “You forgot Sheryl.”

Sheryl?

I had never heard the name. Possibly because it had never been spoken. For with the recent deaths of my grandmother, Mack and his wife; I asked Mom if they ever spoke of Sheryl. She thought a minute, shook her head and said, “I guess not.”

“Do you remember that day?” I then asked.

She thought and then once again shook her head, “I was three. I remember something, but not clearly.”

I could understand why. For the five year old little girl who pulled the headstone down on top of her? That was my second cousin Sheryl.

They were having a family get together at Bethbirei. The little cousins were playing in the cemetery. Maybe she tripped and caught it. Maybe she was just being curious as children are and pulled it over. Whatever happened…today local tell a ghost story of her haunting the area.

Families have histories. Happy histories. Tragic histories. Whichever they are, they make us who we are. Which is why I want to write some of them down for my kids…and also why they will never touch a headstone.