In case you think your eyes might be playing tricks on you, that is a casket spray and there are dried plants from the South Carolina woods, camouflage ribbon and deer antlers adorning it - it rested on top of my brother's casket.
For the last 9 days I have been absent from my keyboard (so much for Christmas) and have been in the bosom of the comfort of my two surviving brothers, Clark and Jimmy, as we mourned the death of our beloved brother Barry.
Barry's death was untimely, unnecessary and wrong.
Untimely, since he was three years my junior and that is just not the natural order of things.
Unnecessary, because the instrument of his death was alcohol, the same damned chemical that brought ruination to our childhood home and which is no more than a legalized drug licensed for sale by state and local governments - which ought to stand to their shame.
Wrong, because Barry, the one of the four of us, saw life with the most wide-open eyes and heart and whose hands were open and ready to help anyone in need, even if it was just one of many stories.
Jimmy was with Barry when he died and Jimmy kept repeating that he was loved and not alone. It is sad that that burden fell to Jimmy. The irony is that Barry had helped deliver Jimmy into the world back in the Virginia mountains.
Of all the people that gathered to honor his too-short life, I was the first to ever know him.
As boys, the woods we lived in were wild and full of every sort of fun. I know we ate, but only to gather fuel for the day's action. There were chores. We had chickens, two cows, a mule, rabbits, frazzling sheep, precious pigs and always a litter or two of beagles. We had three guard animals: a grand collie named Lady and two giant geese.
The garden needed a touch of tending and then we were OFF!
32 acres and fence-free borders meant that we shared trails with native Americans, frontiersmen, early settlers and the neighbors that lived within 2-3 miles. The official global coordinates are 37"22'10"N and 80"47'25.03W. The satellite image was taken 40 years after we roamed those quiet hills and development has taken its toll. Subtract most of the buildings and all but two houses on that road and you are back to the few trails and traces that we knew.
Dad disappeared every day in his Rambler or Willy's Jeep (a coming story) to work at the plant. He had a steel lunch bucket and there were sandwiches, an apple and coffee in it when he left. Toward evening he would reappear - and we would not know how hard he had worked or how bone-tired he was as he finished the chores around the farm before and after sunset. On occasion he would play ball or wrestle with us. God only knows what all was wearing on his mind.
Dad's work-life was augmented by his fast-pitch softball team. He pitched and played first base. All the games were played in Narrows or Pearisburg. The Redi-Kilo-Watt logo was striking and that was our Dad on the mound pitching side-arm or underarm. He was so long and lanky that the delivery was dangerous. He was a WWII hero and a much-respected outdoorsman.
The idyllic life was utterly destroyed when Dad invented the Happy Meal (years before Ray Kroc invented McDonalds) lunch of two baloney sandwiches and 4-6 beers. Even his best friends fell away from him and life on the farm fell apart and then there was the move to town.
Beer was replaced by liquor and by the early 60s even the big brick home that signaled success was the tomb of sadness.
In 1966 I felt that by striking out on my own, the family would be free of their biggest burden.
Barry would always be there. He would be Dad's companion, hunting partner and fishing-buddy and even follow in his trade. He would also serve as the buffer between Dad's rage and Mom's sense of failure. The younger brothers, Clark, the best baby and boy ever born and Jimmy, the youngest and the child born of renewed faith and final hope, could only watch in horror and fear.
The family moved from Virginia to South Carolina and in a matter of a few years Dad had destroyed himself with alcohol. Mom, faced with raising the 3 brothers, renewed her faith, and with help made good choices and became the sweet, wonderful woman that she was until her death just 8 years ago.
Barry had had an early morning cup of coffee with Mom for over 30 years. He, unlike me, was never much of a breakfast person. Coffee and Mom's company got him through. For a time he went to church with Mom and even sang in the choir. Anyone that knew my Mother knew that she was one of the most talented pianists ever to strike the 88s. She could play by note and by ear. She could play a proper hymn, and even rag out the Moonlight Sonata. She was amazing, but she was shy. I envied and coveted her ease with the instrument and took lessons from the town's only piano teacher. I think that if he had not struck my knuckles with every error I made I may have at least learned the technical disciplines of the piano.
Barry took up the violin and was a natural - but shy. Imagine. That little violin is now passed into the hands of his grandson - play it or just look at it, little man - but in any case, just enjoy it.
There was not a friend of Barry's that did not plead with him to lay off the liquor. Brother Clark will tell you as will I that Barry said to us straight out, "I like drinking and I will". That was that.
There is a point when a person has a drink and a point when the drink has the person.
Through it all Barry had three precious children. Robert, Barry's oldest carries his image and spirit. Robert has become his own, fine man. Tammy, his daughter, is pretty, bright and sweet. Matthew, the youngest, has Barry's potential, his demons and has some hard and immediate choices to make.
At the age of 12, Barry confessed Christ. Last weekend he was ushered into Glory and his ruined body was laid to rest next to Mom's. I'm sure their reunion was sweet.
Barry was born in 1951 in Narrows, Virginia and had lived in Jackson, South Carolina since 1966. He had worked for 32 years at the same job. His friends were true to him and he was true to them. They stayed close even past the very end. At the visitation and the funeral and the graveside service there were tears, there was singing straight from nights at the Snake Pit, there was laughter and there were lots of people that knew Barry Johnson stories that no one else knew.
I just knew mine first. © tim www.timjohnsonphoto.com
