I was checking Aunt Christine's memorial one day and looked up on my brother-in-laws wall and seen this painting. It looks very similar to her based on the pictures I have of her. I thought it was very ironic and wanted to include it in her memorial.
She was originally buried at Smellage Cemetary and then her mother had her moved to Odd Fellows Cemetary where she is at rest now.
This is part of a column my Uncle J.B. wrote about his sister, Doris Christine Leftwich.
She lives only in my memory, this little girl who forever will be less than two years of age.
All of the others -- parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts -- who loved her are gone. I, her only brother at the time, am the only one left (now deceased as well).
Oh, there were a few others left in the community who knew her, but they were not family. The community soon adjusted to her absence and went on with their lives. That is only normal.
Going own with their lives likely was the most difficult task my parents and my grandparents ever encountered. They grieved. Openly. In those days, grief was expressed. I, the survivor, witnessed their grief. I, too, grieved.
Today she is lodged in a tiny compartment of my memory. A three year old anchors little in his memory. Only the most vivid. Usually the most tragic. My earliest memory is of the doctor coming to see her. Tying his horse near the road and walking up the hill to our house. Actually, my grandparents' house.
My sister was very sick, he told my parents. Diphtheria, he said. There was little he could do. Medicine was relatively primitive then. Today, in this country, it would never have happened. Immunization would have prevented it.
My second earliest memory was just a few days later. The overwhelming and expressive grief of my parents in the cemetery. Two of my uncles, actually just teens themselves then, took me away from the cemetery to a small creek where we tossed pebbles into the water. But I still could hear my mother and my grandmother crying.
Then came the even more difficult days. My father, a man of great compassion who expressed his emotions, comforting my mother when he too needed comfort. They talked of her incessantly. Recalling incidents, over and over. Tear staining the few pictures they had of her. One of them as she lay on the couch just before the funeral.
But the days came when they laughed again and took part in community activities again. When people came home with us for Sunday dinner, it was a time of mixed emotions, laughter and tears. As the days passed, emotions turned to the ordinary ones that punctuate lives. Anger, love, humor, pain, and happiness. The tinge of grief was lessening. Life was continuing. Ten months later, a new baby, a boy was born. Then, five years later another boy was born, the last of our family.
Years came when my parents seldom mentioned her. They had lodged her into their own memory compartments. I think there was always grief, but it became manageable, not so close to the surface. Just before her death, my mother had the scant remains of my sister exhumed and moved to another cemetery where our dad is buried. Where she is buried now. They are a family once again, father, mother, and daughter.
This little girl is anchored securely in my memory. Her existence, in a sense, will continue as long as I live. That's the way it is. Some time in the next century I will exist only in the memory of a grandchild. That's the way it is.
A song for you little Aunt from your Daddy, Momma, big brother, and Grandmother Bates:
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas
I will be walking one day
Down a street far away
And see a face in the crowd and smile
Knowing how you made me laugh
Hearing sweet echoes of you from the past
I will remember you.
Look in my eyes while you're near
Tell me what's happening here
See that I don't want to say good-bye
Our love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember
I will remember you.
Later on
When this fire is an ember
Later on
When the night's not so tender
Given time
Though it's hard to remember darlin'
I will be holding
I'll still be holding to you
I will remember you.
So many years come and gone
And yet the memory is strong
One word we never could learn
Good-bye
True love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember you
So please remember
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you.
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas "I Will Remember You" 1991
She was originally buried at Smellage Cemetary and then her mother had her moved to Odd Fellows Cemetary where she is at rest now.
This is part of a column my Uncle J.B. wrote about his sister, Doris Christine Leftwich.
She lives only in my memory, this little girl who forever will be less than two years of age.
All of the others -- parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts -- who loved her are gone. I, her only brother at the time, am the only one left (now deceased as well).
Oh, there were a few others left in the community who knew her, but they were not family. The community soon adjusted to her absence and went on with their lives. That is only normal.
Going own with their lives likely was the most difficult task my parents and my grandparents ever encountered. They grieved. Openly. In those days, grief was expressed. I, the survivor, witnessed their grief. I, too, grieved.
Today she is lodged in a tiny compartment of my memory. A three year old anchors little in his memory. Only the most vivid. Usually the most tragic. My earliest memory is of the doctor coming to see her. Tying his horse near the road and walking up the hill to our house. Actually, my grandparents' house.
My sister was very sick, he told my parents. Diphtheria, he said. There was little he could do. Medicine was relatively primitive then. Today, in this country, it would never have happened. Immunization would have prevented it.
My second earliest memory was just a few days later. The overwhelming and expressive grief of my parents in the cemetery. Two of my uncles, actually just teens themselves then, took me away from the cemetery to a small creek where we tossed pebbles into the water. But I still could hear my mother and my grandmother crying.
Then came the even more difficult days. My father, a man of great compassion who expressed his emotions, comforting my mother when he too needed comfort. They talked of her incessantly. Recalling incidents, over and over. Tear staining the few pictures they had of her. One of them as she lay on the couch just before the funeral.
But the days came when they laughed again and took part in community activities again. When people came home with us for Sunday dinner, it was a time of mixed emotions, laughter and tears. As the days passed, emotions turned to the ordinary ones that punctuate lives. Anger, love, humor, pain, and happiness. The tinge of grief was lessening. Life was continuing. Ten months later, a new baby, a boy was born. Then, five years later another boy was born, the last of our family.
Years came when my parents seldom mentioned her. They had lodged her into their own memory compartments. I think there was always grief, but it became manageable, not so close to the surface. Just before her death, my mother had the scant remains of my sister exhumed and moved to another cemetery where our dad is buried. Where she is buried now. They are a family once again, father, mother, and daughter.
This little girl is anchored securely in my memory. Her existence, in a sense, will continue as long as I live. That's the way it is. Some time in the next century I will exist only in the memory of a grandchild. That's the way it is.
A song for you little Aunt from your Daddy, Momma, big brother, and Grandmother Bates:
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas
I will be walking one day
Down a street far away
And see a face in the crowd and smile
Knowing how you made me laugh
Hearing sweet echoes of you from the past
I will remember you.
Look in my eyes while you're near
Tell me what's happening here
See that I don't want to say good-bye
Our love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember
I will remember you.
Later on
When this fire is an ember
Later on
When the night's not so tender
Given time
Though it's hard to remember darlin'
I will be holding
I'll still be holding to you
I will remember you.
So many years come and gone
And yet the memory is strong
One word we never could learn
Good-bye
True love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember you
So please remember
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you.
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas "I Will Remember You" 1991
I was checking Aunt Christine's memorial one day and looked up on my brother-in-laws wall and seen this painting. It looks very similar to her based on the pictures I have of her. I thought it was very ironic and wanted to include it in her memorial.
She was originally buried at Smellage Cemetary and then her mother had her moved to Odd Fellows Cemetary where she is at rest now.
This is part of a column my Uncle J.B. wrote about his sister, Doris Christine Leftwich.
She lives only in my memory, this little girl who forever will be less than two years of age.
All of the others -- parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts -- who loved her are gone. I, her only brother at the time, am the only one left (now deceased as well).
Oh, there were a few others left in the community who knew her, but they were not family. The community soon adjusted to her absence and went on with their lives. That is only normal.
Going own with their lives likely was the most difficult task my parents and my grandparents ever encountered. They grieved. Openly. In those days, grief was expressed. I, the survivor, witnessed their grief. I, too, grieved.
Today she is lodged in a tiny compartment of my memory. A three year old anchors little in his memory. Only the most vivid. Usually the most tragic. My earliest memory is of the doctor coming to see her. Tying his horse near the road and walking up the hill to our house. Actually, my grandparents' house.
My sister was very sick, he told my parents. Diphtheria, he said. There was little he could do. Medicine was relatively primitive then. Today, in this country, it would never have happened. Immunization would have prevented it.
My second earliest memory was just a few days later. The overwhelming and expressive grief of my parents in the cemetery. Two of my uncles, actually just teens themselves then, took me away from the cemetery to a small creek where we tossed pebbles into the water. But I still could hear my mother and my grandmother crying.
Then came the even more difficult days. My father, a man of great compassion who expressed his emotions, comforting my mother when he too needed comfort. They talked of her incessantly. Recalling incidents, over and over. Tear staining the few pictures they had of her. One of them as she lay on the couch just before the funeral.
But the days came when they laughed again and took part in community activities again. When people came home with us for Sunday dinner, it was a time of mixed emotions, laughter and tears. As the days passed, emotions turned to the ordinary ones that punctuate lives. Anger, love, humor, pain, and happiness. The tinge of grief was lessening. Life was continuing. Ten months later, a new baby, a boy was born. Then, five years later another boy was born, the last of our family.
Years came when my parents seldom mentioned her. They had lodged her into their own memory compartments. I think there was always grief, but it became manageable, not so close to the surface. Just before her death, my mother had the scant remains of my sister exhumed and moved to another cemetery where our dad is buried. Where she is buried now. They are a family once again, father, mother, and daughter.
This little girl is anchored securely in my memory. Her existence, in a sense, will continue as long as I live. That's the way it is. Some time in the next century I will exist only in the memory of a grandchild. That's the way it is.
A song for you little Aunt from your Daddy, Momma, big brother, and Grandmother Bates:
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas
I will be walking one day
Down a street far away
And see a face in the crowd and smile
Knowing how you made me laugh
Hearing sweet echoes of you from the past
I will remember you.
Look in my eyes while you're near
Tell me what's happening here
See that I don't want to say good-bye
Our love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember
I will remember you.
Later on
When this fire is an ember
Later on
When the night's not so tender
Given time
Though it's hard to remember darlin'
I will be holding
I'll still be holding to you
I will remember you.
So many years come and gone
And yet the memory is strong
One word we never could learn
Good-bye
True love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember you
So please remember
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you.
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas "I Will Remember You" 1991
She was originally buried at Smellage Cemetary and then her mother had her moved to Odd Fellows Cemetary where she is at rest now.
This is part of a column my Uncle J.B. wrote about his sister, Doris Christine Leftwich.
She lives only in my memory, this little girl who forever will be less than two years of age.
All of the others -- parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts -- who loved her are gone. I, her only brother at the time, am the only one left (now deceased as well).
Oh, there were a few others left in the community who knew her, but they were not family. The community soon adjusted to her absence and went on with their lives. That is only normal.
Going own with their lives likely was the most difficult task my parents and my grandparents ever encountered. They grieved. Openly. In those days, grief was expressed. I, the survivor, witnessed their grief. I, too, grieved.
Today she is lodged in a tiny compartment of my memory. A three year old anchors little in his memory. Only the most vivid. Usually the most tragic. My earliest memory is of the doctor coming to see her. Tying his horse near the road and walking up the hill to our house. Actually, my grandparents' house.
My sister was very sick, he told my parents. Diphtheria, he said. There was little he could do. Medicine was relatively primitive then. Today, in this country, it would never have happened. Immunization would have prevented it.
My second earliest memory was just a few days later. The overwhelming and expressive grief of my parents in the cemetery. Two of my uncles, actually just teens themselves then, took me away from the cemetery to a small creek where we tossed pebbles into the water. But I still could hear my mother and my grandmother crying.
Then came the even more difficult days. My father, a man of great compassion who expressed his emotions, comforting my mother when he too needed comfort. They talked of her incessantly. Recalling incidents, over and over. Tear staining the few pictures they had of her. One of them as she lay on the couch just before the funeral.
But the days came when they laughed again and took part in community activities again. When people came home with us for Sunday dinner, it was a time of mixed emotions, laughter and tears. As the days passed, emotions turned to the ordinary ones that punctuate lives. Anger, love, humor, pain, and happiness. The tinge of grief was lessening. Life was continuing. Ten months later, a new baby, a boy was born. Then, five years later another boy was born, the last of our family.
Years came when my parents seldom mentioned her. They had lodged her into their own memory compartments. I think there was always grief, but it became manageable, not so close to the surface. Just before her death, my mother had the scant remains of my sister exhumed and moved to another cemetery where our dad is buried. Where she is buried now. They are a family once again, father, mother, and daughter.
This little girl is anchored securely in my memory. Her existence, in a sense, will continue as long as I live. That's the way it is. Some time in the next century I will exist only in the memory of a grandchild. That's the way it is.
A song for you little Aunt from your Daddy, Momma, big brother, and Grandmother Bates:
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas
I will be walking one day
Down a street far away
And see a face in the crowd and smile
Knowing how you made me laugh
Hearing sweet echoes of you from the past
I will remember you.
Look in my eyes while you're near
Tell me what's happening here
See that I don't want to say good-bye
Our love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember
I will remember you.
Later on
When this fire is an ember
Later on
When the night's not so tender
Given time
Though it's hard to remember darlin'
I will be holding
I'll still be holding to you
I will remember you.
So many years come and gone
And yet the memory is strong
One word we never could learn
Good-bye
True love is frozen in time
I'll be your champion and you'll be mine
I will remember you
So please remember
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you
I will remember you.
Song by Amy Grant, Gary Chapman, and Keith Thomas "I Will Remember You" 1991
Inscription
Sister has gone to be an angel.
