For most of my life, the end of the year holidays – Thanksgiving and Christmas – were joyful celebrations. Those falling earlier in the year might be ignored or impacted by the necessities of farm labor, but these two came after crops had been gathered and, on good years, there was money for celebration.
There was plenty of food. On both sides of my family, the males were hunters – mainly quail or doves – and hunting was woven into these family-centered celebrations. Exchange of gifts was not a part of Christmas in my father’s family and I never heard why. But gathering together to eat and visit was almost sacred and there was hunting for all the males who could walk for miles and handle a shotgun properly.
On Mother’s side there was eating, always an oyster stew supper on Christmas Eve. A dedicated hunter, Granddaddy Williams liked to begin the day early with a quail hunt. After supper, there were gifts, ranging from marbles or “bob jacks” to cap pistols or dolls.
Then, Annette and I were married and I got another family that celebrated these holidays, the Slaters. Dad wanted a heavily-laden eating table and Mother was a world-class cook, even when feeding a multitude. As far as I am concerned, her fruit cakes were far better than any others. Gifting was routine. And there was Joe Rogers, my brother-in-law, who was like a brother. He had many acres of farmland well-suited for both quail and dove hunting in season.
But they are gone. At this time, only my Branch brother and two of my Slater brothers remain, all in their 80s and too disabled to get together and celebrate – no hunting, no gifts among people whose needs cannot be met by humans.
To be honest, I stopped celebrating. Daddy’s death at Thanksgiving erased the luster of that holiday. However, it was Annette’s death more than 10 years ago that banished my joy. I have learned the hard truth that grief can be everlasting, depending upon the nature of relationships between those lost and the losers. The ongoing sorrow and recurring depression have nothing to do with lesions in the brain, thus not mental illness. They are expressions of a broken self, results of continuing to live after someone who has been a central part of that self is taken away.
Oh, I understand that she and all of the others that are now gone out of my life were unmeasurable blessings. My special cousin June Williams Edwards died this year and I soon realized how precious her phone calls were. Rich blessings can mean a deeper sense of loss when they are gone.
Something happened a few nights ago that demands a certain amount of change in my thoughts and feelings. Being alone and somewhat disabled, I watch a lot of TV, channel hopping in search of something worth watching. I landed on Austin City Limits and caught Kris Kristofferson singing some of his own compositions, marvelous lyrics mostly made famous by other artists like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. He sang one that I had not heard before, a tribute to a loving life together. The closing line was “I’m so glad I got to be with you for a moment of forever.”
He was singing my song and it held a message about thanksgiving.
No one actually lives very long. We pass through eternity like shooting stars. A kinsman of mine from an earlier generation, speaking at age 80 to his grandson, said “Yesterday, I was a little boy.”
The longest lasting marriages are brief. Rosalynn Carter, wife of President Jimmy Carter, just died, ending a marriage of 77 years, long by typical measures, but not long enough for him. Ours was 20 years shorter, certainly not long enough for me.
I have long realized that whatever I have accomplished bears the imprint of Annette. My 18-year-old bride in the middle of my junior year at the University of Georgia was remarkably mature and resilient. She helped me through that degree and four others, typing many term papers, two master’s theses and a doctoral dissertation. Along the way, there were financially hard times. She met the challenges of being a mother, a pastor’s wife, a professor’s wife and the wife of a department chair. We leaned on one another at the deaths of our parents and three of her siblings.
However, as the song says, I got to be with her. We enjoyed working together, doing leisure things together, eating together, just talking with one another. The most important part is being in love with one another.
In another part of his song, Kris cites, “the hand of destiny that was guiding us together.” I choose God instead of destiny, but know that we were guided together. Being properly reminded, I am so glad I got to be with Nette for a moment of forever.
Roger G. Branch Sr. is professor emeritus of sociology at Georgia Southern University and is a retired pastor.