Hey Cous, You and I's Kin

Carl Wells grew up and lived in the vicinity of East Bernstadt and Hazel Green in Laurel County, KY. I doubt if he ever traveled very far from that vicinity in his life. Carl was what most people in the area would call “simple”. Or they might say he was “a little off” or that he was “not right”. By those expressions they were not being unkind. Rather they were trying to describe his mental and social capabilities in a polite way. I am sure there were many who expressed their thoughts about him with less kind words.

I guess Carl lived with family members and I think he did a few odd jobs for people in order to get a little money to sustain him. When I was growing up I would see Carl on the streets of East Bernstadt but mostly I would see him at visitation services at the funeral home. If Carl knew the deceased or was the least bit related to you he would be at the funeral home to pay his respects. When Carl saw me he would greet me with “Hey Cous – you and I’s kin”. He would get this goofy grin on his face that revealed his pride that he had done his research and knew our family connection and was able to educate me about it. Carl was right. We were related. His mother and my great-grandmother were sisters. I think that made us third cousins. My great-grandmother’s name was Sally and his mother’s name was Laura. There maiden name was Dees. If you lived in Laurel County, KY and had Dees in your family lineage that meant you had a lot of kinfolks. Carl knew the family tree and all the branches. He was proud of his knowledge and he was proud of his kin. Problem was most of his kin were not nearly as proud to claim him as he was to claim them. We were a little embarrassed by Carl’s eccentric behavior. When he reminded us of our shared bloodlines we would acknowledge his greeting with a nod and a grunt and move on hoping that he would not spread the news of our kinship very far. We should have been ashamed ourselves. I honestly hope that Carl did not recognize and internalize our indifference. But he was pretty intuitive and I suspect he did.

I have not seen Carl Wells in nearly forty years. I guess he has long since passed. But I have thought about him a lot over the past decades. In reflecting upon him, Carl Wells has taught me a valuable lesson. He taught me to be proud of my kin. I mean, think about it. Here was a man who had observed and asked questions and kept a record in his head of who he was kin to. When he saw you he wanted to acknowledge it to you and advertise it to others. I think if someone is that proud of me then I should be proud of them! So I have decided to be proud of my kin, the good ones and the bad ones.

I hope I meet up with Carl one day on the streets of glory. If I can get to him before he gets to me I am going to say “Hey Cous- you and I’s kin”.

 

Reynold's Family Cemetery

On Thanksgiving Day, 1950, my Great-Grandfather John Cloyd died. The ground was muddy and it would have been difficult to make the trip to the Cloyd Cemetery. So my grandfather went in search of a closer place to bury his father. He went first to the Farris family who owned the farm next to him. They understood the predicament but told him that they wanted their cemetery to remain just a family plot. My grandfather said thank you and walked a little further to the next neighbor, the Reynolds family, who agreed to let our family bury in their family cemetery. I was not there but knowing my grandfather as I did I expect his response was something like “much obliged” accompanied with a promise to do “our part” in the upkeep and expenses of the cemetery. So on a cold November day our family made the procession from the family farm and home to the Reynolds Cemetery where we buried my Great-Grandfather. Come spring, in keeping with his promise, my grandfather bore the expense and labor of building a fence around the cemetery. Nearly three years later the family made the same trip for my Great-Grandmother Sally Cloyd. Then on Mother’s Day, 1957 my first cousin Vicky Lynn Cloyd, born just 3 months before me, died when I was but six weeks old. In June of 1964 my Uncle John Bowyer, who was married to my Grandfather’s sister Flo was buried in this place. The following year McKinley Cloyd my Grandfather’s half-brother was buried there. Then in June of 1967, Aunt Flo was laid to rest beside her husband. By this time the Cloyd family had carved out a section of the cemetery. It would be nineteen years before we took one of our loved ones to this place again. But on a cold February day in 1986 I gave the eulogy and led the procession as we buried my Grandfather, Charlie Cloyd. Sixteen years later, in 2002, I did the same for my Grandmother, Ada Cloyd. Six days shy of a year later I did it again for my Uncle Thurman. This week our family gathered at this place for the 10^th time. This time we buried my cousin, John Charles Cloyd. That makes five generations of Cloyd’s that are buried in this plot of borrowed land. The stones around us witnessed the names of two others who will someday join them.

So for us the Reynold’s cemetery is hallowed ground. The name above the gate does not bear our name and it does not belong to us. But we have kept my grandfather’s bargain and we have done our part and thus lay claim to a corner of it.  It is precious soil. For now ten times we have disturbed this clay and laid the bodies of our loved ones in it and then closed up the earth again. The Cloyd family treasures this spot. Here we have grieved as our tears have watered this patch of earth.

A Big Daddy

When I was growing up going on a vacation meant we went to visit family. We did not call it vacation we just went visiting. Vacations are something you pay for and visiting meant you got free lodging and free food. Not that we were free loaders because the same family would come and visit us and be treated to the same amenities. A few times we traveled to Indianapolis, Indiana to visit my uncle John and aunt Zuma and my cousins Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi. We were so excited when they moved to Shreveport, Louisiana because that meant we could travel to a part of the nation we had never seen before. So one summer we made our reservation. We loaded up the car and began the drive from Kentucky down to Memphis Tennessee crossing over the mighty Mississippi. We drove across Arkansas and marveled at the flooded rice fields. We drove south to Texarkana and crossed over into Texas just so we could say we had done it. From there we crossed into Louisiana and took note that for some odd reason what we called counties they called parishes. Finally we arrived at our destination where we enjoyed ourselves immensely sleeping on the floor, eating free food, touring Shreveport and just “visiting.” On Sunday we attended a Baptist church which gave uncle John and aunt Zuma opportunity to show off their visitors. It was Father’s day and as custom would have it the pastor recognized the youngest father present, the oldest father present and the father with the most descendants present. Then he announced that he was going to recognize the biggest father and asked all the dads over 200 pounds to stand up. Upon standing he asked them to come to the front where he proceeded to have each take a turn on the scales. My father was always a big man and he weighed in that morning at 237 pounds which made him the biggest daddy present that morning. My brothers and sisters and I thought that was the coolest thing ever and we dubbed our father “big daddy.” We could hardly wait to get home and tell this story. We told it to everyone in the family and to everyone in town and to everyone in church who would listen to us. At least I did. For years to come many of the people at our church affectionately called my father “big daddy.”

On September 5, just two months ago, my “big daddy” died. He was indeed a big man. He was big in stature growing larger than the 237 he registered on the scales in Shreveport many years ago. He required an oversized casket. But he was a “big daddy” in many other ways as well. He was big in integrity. You could trust him. He was big in generosity. Upon examining his checkbook register it was discovered that the last check he wrote was for a church building in Haiti. He was big in love. He was big in faith. He was big in hope. He was big in encouragement. He was big in helping others. It has been a long time since that trip to Shreveport. I think on vacations you are supposed to come home with a souvenir. But I came home with a “big daddy.”

A place of Clean Hands

A week before I was four years old my baby brother was born. While my mother was at the hospital I went to stay with my grandmother and grandfather Cloyd. They ran a dairy farm which meant there was plenty of dirt to play in. But having a great belief in cleanliness my grandmother scrubbed me up real good before they took me home. Honestly, you have never been scrubbed until you have been scrubbed by Ada Cloyd with a bar of lava soap. Upon my return home I discovered that my Aunt Zuma, Uncle John and their three children Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi had also come to inspect this new baby that had arrived in our family. My cousin Rozi, who was about two years older than me, for some reason was sitting beside the bassinette where my newborn brother lay. I went over to inspect this bundle of joy that everyone seemed in awe of. I reached out my hand to touch my baby brother only to be greeted with a sharp rebuke from my cousin Rozi. In a loud protective voice she shouted “Get your dirty hands off that baby”! I obeyed. I am certain I did not say a word but I remember processing in my mind that she surely has no idea about the cleansing experience I had just endured not more than an hour earlier. I have never forgotten that moment. Surely it is one of my earliest memories. As for Rozi, I suspect I was in my late teens when we last saw each other. I am glad we were able to reconnect via facebook about two years ago. About two weeks ago Rozi became ill and could not eat and grew weak. When she went to the hospital it was discovered that she had two tumors on her liver that had metastasized from other parts of her body. Her demise was quick. Her kidneys failed and by the time her sister, brother, and father got to her side she was basically unable to communicate. Death came painfully but quickly. Her family is left to weep even as they are grateful for a merciful end. I am weeping and praying with them. I am sorry it had to be this way. But let me give a personal word to Rozi: Thanks for a beautiful memory that has lingered with me for 52 years. I am sure there was a crowd to greet you when you passed through the heavenly gate. But be cautious lest you are tempted to go on hygiene patrol. Be assured that all the residents of heaven have clean hands.