AN EARLY ACQUAINTANCE WITH DEATH

“Don't leave me, Malcolm," I could hear my mother crying as the nurse came rushing out of the closed
bedroom ordering someone to phone the doctor.

Standing in the hallway I was frozen with the sudden realization of the unthinkable, "My father must be dying." People began moving about, the doctor arrived but almost immediately emerged from the sick room with his arm about my stricken mother. I had never seen her look like that. Daddy was gone.

We stood there as in a bad dream. How could he be gone? This was a Wednesday morning and my sister and I had not gone to school that day. I remember that not going to school, in a way, warned us of the gravity of the Situation. Still it was all too sudden to comprehend.

Over and over in my mind I relived the days preceding this terrible event. On Saturday night Daddy had taken my sister, Chris, and me to town to a carnival with all its exciting lights, ferris wheel, merry-go-round and cotton candy. It was a bone-chilling January night. I know it was "bonechilling” because people said so repeatedly. Yet, everyone entered into the Spirit of fun of having a carnival in our small town. Despite the cold, all too soon, we were going home.

Before getting into our unheated car, my father suggested we go by the drug store. We were not there for ice cream cones, but to huddle about the  coal stove, which was in the back of the store. How good the warmth to hands, toes and back sides.

The next morning at church, which we regularly attended, my aunt asked, "Where is your daddy?"

“He's not feeling well. Has a bad cold, so he stayed in bed,” I replied

Aunt Bern looked surprised. A cold would hardly confine her bro h , to bed. "I'll take you home and see how he is."

I think I recall this conversation because in my mind it was the first hint of something out of the ordinary.

Many people had pneumonia that winter of 1935, before antibiotics. But serious and fatal illnesses happen to other people, not my dad.

Upon arrival home from school on Monday, the bedroom where Daddy lay had a completely different look. A nurse was there in starched white uniform and cap; oxygen tanks were being wheeled in. I peeked in but quickly retreated at the shocking sight of Daddy lying under a cellophane looking tent. Alarm was in the air.

My sister and I slipped out to sit in a sunny spot on the back porch. I remember trying to do homework, while my nine-year-old sister played with Nira, our cat. Mamma, who was usually with us, was completely occupied with Daddy. An awful loneliness came over me and I suspect to my sister too.

I don't know how we endured Tuesday. I recall my father's anguished calling for the windows to be opened, so he could breathe. Cold as it was, windows were opened, even though I recall the nurse saying, "But Mr. Morrison, it will do no good. You have the oxygen."

Hurting for another:  terror at the situation was relieved for us somewhat by the continuous attention my sister and I received from relatives and friends.

Someone sat by the fire in the bedroom with us children all Tuesday night. It's likely my aunts took turns.

My mother never left my father's side. I think this is so, because I have no recollection of her from Sunday morning until Wednesday when she came out of the room with Dr. McSween. We were immediately gathered into her arms and she, my sister and I wept together. After that, my mother's grieving was deep, but private.

I cannot recall all the events preceding the funeral. However, the memory of my beloved father's lifeless body lying in a grey casket in our dining room still evokes powerful emotion. I looked at him only once. This was Daddy and yet it was not. He was gone. The emptiness was devastating And mixed with that memory is the pungent smell of carnations, as flowers began to arrive and fill our house.

The funeral service held in the living room is etched indelibly in my mind. Family members had all gathered and sat with my mother, sister and me. The house, as well as the front yard, quickly filled with people just before the service began. Hymns sung so plaintively caused a terrible tightness in my throat as I fought to hold back tears. Both the Presbyterian minister from my father's church and the Methodist minister from my mother's church read Scripture and spoke of life eternal. I thought the service would never

end. The slow drive to the cemetery following the hearse with a long line of

cars following ours was perhaps the hardest part. I knew this was final. People stood motionless in front of their houses as we passed by. When we drove through town, business inside stopped as people came out of the store to watch and pay their respects. I recall men standing with hats over their hearts. But, what I shall never forget on the return drive from the cemetery to our house was the realization that life for other people had already returned to normal. I observed them going into stores. I could see them laughing as they talked. I felt angry that so quickly everything was as usual for them. As friends and relatives lingered following our return home they said, "He was so young, only forty-five." "Oh, how Malcolm with his wit will be missed.” “He gave light and laughter to everyone." "Well, we know he is with God." "He was such a good man, a considerate man." And in low tones I overheard the sad whisper, "What will Mamie Ruth and the children do?" Soon, everyone left. We were alone. My sister and I sat on either arm of a large rocking chair as Mamma silently enfolded us. I do not recall any words Just an awful sadness. Although I was only eleven years old I knew that life ahead for us would be hard Not only would we not have the secure pr _ce and love of my father, but that questions, "What will Mamie Ruth and the children do?” was on my mind.

I knew well that because of the Depression Daddy had had to let his insurance policy lapse, but he'd taken out a new one just two weeks before he became ill. I knew this because on Monday before he got so much worse, he kept asking Mamma if the policy had been returned for him to sign. He wags very agitated about that. By his voice I could tell he was fighting this disease fighting the bossy nurse. I was even a bit fearful that he seemed to be fighting God, for I heard him say to my mother, "If I should die before that policy arrives, I do not see how you can hang onto your faith in God." My father was distraught about the possibility of not being able to provide for us. He did not go gently from this world.

At one time the land holdings of the Morrison family had been extensive and their businesses prospered. All this began gradually to disintegrate following the Civil War; then the tragic illnesses and deaths of my grandfather and his oldest son, the talked-about mismanagement by an uncle who relatives said was unsuited for business, and finally the Depression. We still had Gulf property, but in 1935 there were few buyers.

What would we do? As far as I know, my mother's faith was not shaken. Although she must have had some desperate moments, she never expressed any doubt but that we would be all right, that God would take care of us. However, the realities did not escape her. The funeral was on a Saturday. On Monday, Mamma sent us back to school. On Tuesday, she herself was back at work, teaching piano pupils. I know this because I recall someone's commenting on my mother's bravery.

It all seemed unreal. In less than a week life had changed abruptly and terribly for us. Never was it the same. And the swiftness with which death can take a loved one became a lasting part of the consciousness of two little girls.