They Became Men
My dad shared his childhood with four siblings. James Bryan was sandwiched in the middle with an older sister, June, brother, Wendell, and a younger sister Betty. His father and mother were both minsters who lived simply in the service of God’s kingdom. Financial status did not denote class or dignity. They had that in vast supply, so life was rich with good. Recently the beloved big brother suffered the greatest grief known to man. Cancer took his son at much too young an age. Heaven grew a little more precious to each of us and this truth became very personal: God watched His son die too. Through this unspeakable grief we are reminded that in love, everything was gained and NOTHING was lost.
In the quiet of a morning following my cousin’s memorial, I begged my father to once again tell of the simpler days of his childhood.
In Paragould, Arkansas there is a canal, Eight Mile Slough. Deep winter froze it solid making a wonderland for the imagination of local boys that trekked the alley ways of town to its banks. The cold, mixed with every youngster’s fascination with fire, resulted in leaves, sticks and small logs being lit………in the clearing, on the ice! A quick lesson on melting speed was learned, everyone escaped a little wiser and as far as is known, no parents ever discovered the mischief of their sons.
Dad and Wendell had a common shotgun, a gift from their father. Birth order gives preference in things like shooting turns. To hear dad tell, Wendell shot, dad watched. (I’ve yet to know uncles’s perspective.) Knotholes and small tree branches were favorite targets. One afternoon Wendell shot high into the trees and from a distance the brothers heard an agonizing groan. In terror they ran home, hid the gun and awaited word on the mysterious death of a community member. Days passed, no constable came checking and no funerals were announced. Age gave way to knowing a falling shotgun shell would not hurt anyone, but a greater respect for living things had grown strong.
Like the shotgun, the brothers shared an old dilapidated bicycle someone had given the parsonage children. The bent and jagged end of the pedal shaft ripped into flesh if the rider wasn’t proficient and careful, but the greatest impediment to its use for transportation was the nearly flat, rear tire. This only slowed the boys, it didn’t stop them, and one afternoon as Wendell hopped on the seat, dad reached to squeeze the rear tire and check the air pressure. Wendell pushed forward and dad’s hand spun up under a rusty, filthy fender making a large gash across a little hand. All dad could think of was the rubbing alcohol his mindful mother would use to clean the wound and assure the health of her child. So the cut was hidden in pant pockets for days. Today dad still has a scar to remind him that all dirt isn’t dirty but he’s still lucky to be alive.
One summer night in the community of Pickens Chapel, Wendell and his friends took off with guns and lanterns to possum hunt. Bryan followed. There was a serious lack of small game, so the big boys decided it would be a lark to run ahead, put out the light, hide and wait for Bryan to cry. Instead, knowing it was his last night on earth, as he would die alone in the dark woods, dad sat down, leaned on a tree, thought of how mad his mom would be that Wendell let him die, and bravely waited for death’s peace of come. Soon the orneriness of the older boys turned to fear as they could not find the object of their joke. Under a warm blanket of stars dad learned the strength of decision, resolve and determination and in keeping with the honorable and loving character of my uncle, and I know he must have walked away bigger on the inside too.
From lighting firecrackers in the house, to sneaking off to the train station and following the circus to the fair grounds, my dad shadowed his brother every step of the way. In the stillness of our morning’s reminiscence dad looked me straight in the eye and said, “Wendell often picked me up and carried me on his back through fields of burrs, snow or mud bogs. I knew he loved me.”
Years later both of these great men became fathers and family lore tells they reverted back to the fun of their childhood clowning around with the toys meant for their sons and daughters. They took us on many adventures with lots of laughter and love. When their precious sister died at the age of fifty leaving four, young adult children, these two wonderful men stood together keeping our family closely connected and strengthened. In time their own father passed. They and their baby sister cared jointly, compassionately and civilly for their mother’s needs until, at the age of 94, she joined her husband at the Throne of God. They are amazing in their ability to be incredibly different and yet, share deeply in a common love and drive for mankind’s spiritual welfare.
Together they became men. Their escapades were many and bound them in faith, hope and love.
Gretchen
