The previous post was actually written in December 2015. I am not sure why I did not publish it back then. However, as I write that, I do know. Investigating my dad and his family made me miss my dad all the more. He wasn’t there to ask questions and he never would be. That reality sent me into a depression that I couldn’t admit to anyone. It just was like the lyrics in the title to this post. I was in a lonely room.
I’m not sure I will ever snap out of it but it’s better now. I still cry when I watch the video from his funeral but I can talk about it now, or at least on this blog. It’s a wonder we found so many pictures of him laughing; he hated posing for pictures and tried his best not to let a smile out much to the chagrin of my mother.
But the reality was that was who he was before his heart surgery or at least how I remember him. After heart surgery, it changed him. He became more scared of the world and isolated himself more often in his safe house. Perhaps that was his lonely room.
Then after his death, it was like we lost an essential part of a machine. Without him, nothing seemed to work like it should. Without my dad alive, it was if mother had been transformed into another person. She too became more scared and helpless. Before my dad's death, she would call me everyday to check on me, but after his death weeks would go by until I called her. I noticed it immediately and even tested it out. Perhaps she also was in her lonely room.
As I said, I am better now, not perfect but I want to get back honoring his family. What sort of spurred this on was the re-occurrence of my mother’s lymphoma. You would think this would have me spiraling into the depths of depression but it has rather pushed me forward. We were talking and I asked her if she still thought about contacting her real life half siblings who did not know she existed and she said yes. She already had her life story ready to mail to each of them but just hadn’t done it. And she still wondered about who her birth father was. I mentioned that we could do a DNA test to see if anything came up. To my surprise, she wanted to do it. We went through the motions of getting her DNA analyzed through Ancestry. It would take about four to six weeks.
In the meantime, I revisited my ancestry account which I had not done since 2015. It made me remember that the absence of a real family on my mother’s side was more than fulfilled when she married into the Buckner family. This was a family that celebrated as a family and came together for just those reasons. Thanksgivings, sometimes Christmases, Easters (does anyone remember the glorious coconut cake Grandma Buckner used to make?), annual summer family reunions.
I remember the kids table at dinner time and drinking the best cold water ever out of brightly colored metal glasses. I remember opening the picket fence gate that slammed behind you and walking on the smooth stone pathway, admiring the beautiful flower gardens on either side, to what I always thought was the front door (it turns out that was actually the back door as it went immediately into the kitchen). I remember entering the kitchen with the glass-paned cabinets and built-in Hoosier cabinet and the center island where it always seemed Grandma Buckner was at work preparing her next delectable meal. I remember walking into the living area where Grandpa Buckner would hold his court from a recliner. I used to think this house was so large but now when I look at it, it’s tiny. How we held so many people in that same living room for dinners is beyond me but it never seemed cramped. Grandpa Buckner would urge us kids to eat our carrots as they would make our eyes blue. I wonder now if all of us did have blue eyes?
I remember the bedrooms and how cool the blankets always felt and the plushness of the feather pillows. I remember the dirt floor cellar on the side of the house and how cool it was on a hot day but also how spooky. I always wondered what Grandma Buckner kept down there? I remember what I thought was the back of the house (which was actually the front) with a covered long porch with sweet-smelling roses growing nearby and outdoor lounge chairs scattered about. It looked out to an expanse of green lawn with large Cedar trees at the fence line. It felt private and I would sometimes catch my Grandma taking a rest there while my cousins and I wreaked havoc in the yard.
Beyond the house on the other side were the barns across the road. They were painted that classic barn red and had a huge Osage Orange tree growing on the side. Grandpa Buckner would remind us to never eat the horse apples (that’s what he called them) or we would get “real sick”. Brightly colored chickens were scattered about clucking around and the air smelt of a mix of manure and hay. Down across the road a bit were huge grain silos. That was another warning from Grandpa—never go to the silos by yourself. When they opened the door to them when they were empty, they looked harmless. Not until I was an adult did I ever understand how dangerous a silo can be. I remember the long roads on either side of the house that took us to and from the big town of Savanna and beyond.
All of these memories rush back to me about the sense of place and people. It is almost as if I am in a virtual reality game and I can almost reach out and touch these things and people—they live in my memory that strongly. And I am sure they do for my relatives. I hope they will either comment on their memories here or start their own blogs to keep these memories alive. Well, I have gone on, haven’t I? And no pictures! Frankly, I’ve almost forgot how to do all that fancy-smancy stuff but I will get it together. These Buckner people and others are depending upon it. I’ve decided to include in this blog my mother’s search for her family. It will make sense as I tell you her story because her story is quite similar to our very own Grandpa Buckner.
I will end this post with my Ancestry profile which I wrote about six weeks ago but seems apropos for here.
Between the Spears family on one side and the Mears family on the other, divorces, children borne out of wedlock, names that weave throughout generations, families with dozens of children (those women deserve medals), Glory, Texas!, those who fought for our country (thank you Henry Buckner--I can now be a DAR), slaveowners (very sad) and possible African ancestors (Cecily Collmore, St. Bart’s or Liberia origins?), those who fought for the union and fought against it, the rebel rousers (thank you Charles Nevill, Earl of Westmorland for my fighting spirit), I am trying to find the truth in my own family tree. What I have found so far is that the world is so much more complex than any of us can ever really know or understand.
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