NEWS FROM THE HILLS
Another typical March day draws to a close, with an assortment of weather conditions throughout the day. We got up to snow covering the ground, and then the sun came out and beamed its bright rays down upon the earth. It tried in vain to warm the chilly air, but only succeeded in melting off the snow. Defeated, it tucked itself behind a lowering bank of gray clouds.
The spring peepers have buried back down in the soft mud, awaiting warmer weather. In spite of the cold, the songbirds sing lustily each morning and robins scout the yard for worms. A pair of bluebirds was investigating last year’s nest, preparing to move back in again.
Spring surely is coming. As certain as summer follows spring, autumn follows summer, and winter follows autumn, so spring follows winter. I am just as certain that resurrection will follow death, and after that the judgment.
My youngest brother, Ronnie, would have been 62 this week. He was buried three weeks ago in the family cemetery, right beside his brother Mark who left us almost eight years ago. They were born two years apart, and grew up here in the hills. As youngsters, they fussed and fought a lot as siblings often do, but when they became adults they were best friends.
As the oldest of seven, it was my job to help take care of the younger ones. There is a kaleidoscope of memories that flicker through my mind, faster and faster they come. Ronnie was a cherubic little boy, with soft, blonde curls and an engaging grin.
He loved mud puddles. In fact, I think he spent the biggest part of his first few summers living in the muddiest puddle he could find. As we didn’t have running water, Mom would set wash tubs and barrels under the drip of the house to catch rain water for laundry. After Ronnie emerged from his mud puddle, he would wash himself in one of Mom’s wash tubs full of clean water. The cry, “Ronnie’s in your wash water again!” was heard constantly throughout the summer.
Even at a young age, he had charisma. He could often charm his way out of trouble with his personality. He found out early that he could twist Mom around his little finger. He was always ready for a good practical joke, an exciting escapade or some plain orneriness.
I guess you could call him the “black sheep” of the family. He crammed a lot of wild living into his teenage years, enlisted in the Army, and came home just as wild. He was so likeable and charming that he had plenty of friends—male and female.
One time he was with a group of boys and as they separated to go home, there was a road grader parked beside the road. “Do you want me to take you home, Bill?” he asked. So they mounted the grader, and Ronnie drove it across the hill, deposited Bill at his home, and started back. It got out of control, and he ran into a big rock. He spent his summer working for the State Road Commission to pay for the damages.
There was another time when he had a girl out on a date, and coming home he wrecked his car in the creek. They were unhurt, but dripping wet, and he brought her on to the house and took her home on his motorcycle. On the way, he wrecked her again on the motorcycle.
A book could be written about his escapades. One time I told him, “Ronnie, if you don’t straighten up, something bad is going to happen to you!” He just laughed, and went on his merry way. The law of averages, or fate, did catch up with him. When he was 22 years old, he was speeding out of Clay and ran his car over the bank into Elk River.
The impact snapped his neck, and he would have drowned if the local funeral director, Carl Wilson, Sr., hadn’t come by and rescued him. The car landed on its wheels, and water was coming up around his face. He couldn’t move. Carl ruined a new suit that day, but Ronnie ruined his life.
He spent two weeks in a Charleston Hospital, then was transferred to VA hospitals at Lexington and Richmond. He had holes drilled in his skull and weights attached to stabilize his neck. That was a nightmare time. He came home partially paralyzed, and suffered post trauma epilepsy the rest of his life.
He recovered slowly, and was able to walk again, but always dragged one leg. He was able to go back to work for a few years, and got married. He and Diane had a baby girl and moved to Louisiana, where they lived for a few years.
Then it seemed his life fell apart. They divorced, and he moved back to the hills. He had more accidents. He fractured his back in a truck accident, and broke his collarbone when he turned over a riding lawn mower. We didn’t know that the drug he took for his seizures softened his bones.
After he was unable to walk, he told me of his dreams. “I’m running again,” he said. “I’m light and free, and leaping from rock to rock. Then I wake up, and I’m like this.”
His condition went downhill after that, and he was no longer able to care for himself. He lived with Mom for some time, but she was too old to take care of him, then he lived with our youngest sister, Susie. She had a terrible car accident, so our son Michael and his wife Peggy took him.
For eight years he made his home with them, and was cared for with love and devotion. However, his condition deteriorated to the place where he was unable to lift his legs or do anything for himself. The pain was unrelenting. Muscle spasms brought unbelievable torture, and pain medication was not able to control them. He could see no future other than days and nights of more pain, and no hope of getting better.
He had time to call on God, and I believe he did. Our Savior is so merciful and loving that he would not reject a sinner’s plea. Salvation comes in an instant when you truly repent.
I believe that Ronnie and Mark are running free now, in a place so beautiful that our minds cannot comprehend it.
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