The Death of Little Betty

Oh, my.  Life was very hard for our ancestors.

Dad had a little sister that was born just two years after he was born.  She was the 6th child of what would grow into a family of 11 children. 


They were poor.  There were lots of mouths to feed.  They ate a lot of beans.  They lived in eastern Kentucky.

One day, when little Betty was about 3 1/2 years old, she was sitting on her older sister's lap while beans were cooking on the pot belly stove.  It was January 1918, and it was probably cold.  She and her older sister were rocking back and forth in a rocking chair close to the stove.  The older sister would "push off" on the stove to keep them rocking.

Each time she pushed off, the pot of beans would scoot closer to the edge of the stove until it eventually fell off into little Betty's lap. 

Oh, how it must have burned her and hurt her.  Some of it must have fallen onto her big sister, as well.  But, little Betty was burned badly.

She died three days later.

In our days of modern medicine, her life may have been preserved and not have been so painful.  But, in January 1918, those measures were not available - and she died.

How her parents must have grieved and felt so helpless!  They had already lost a little boy at 3 months to whooping cough and now, little Betty!  And the guilt the oldest sister must have carried throughout the rest of her life...

Little Betty has always been remembered, for my parents named one of my sisters Betty, in honor of her.

Sister Betty, doing genealogy at the Prestonburg, KY library.

Parents Outliving Their Children

Oh, today is a hard one.

It was just two years ago that the Memorial Service for my oldest son was held.  At the very moment I am writing this, I am looking back at two years to the moment that I was standing in a receiving line as hundreds of friends and family members came from across the country to help us bid farewell to our son.

Our firstborn.

The one you make all your trial and error runs on.  The one you learn how to be a parent with.

Peter was 30 years old.  As he entered into adult hood, he entered into a lifestyle that was completely foreign to us.  The gay community welcomed him as no other group of peers had.  He felt he had a place there.

Soon, it led to drinking, to drugs, to disease and to eventual death.  I received news of his death the day before a scheduled back surgery.  My world came crashing down.  We knew this day would come, but you're just never quite prepared when you actually hear the news.

Peter's body was bruised and broken, and it had taken enough.  From what I understand, he fought long and hard in the emergency room, but his heart couldn't withstand it anymore.  He died three hours later.

Though we butted heads on more than one occasion, he was still the same, sweet young man that we had raised.  It wasn't until his graduation from high school that I learned that he had given up his lunch period for six years to go and read to the mentally disabled kids.  These kids loved him and accepted him - and he didn't have to eat alone.

At his funeral, Mr. Kerry spoke of others within his ancestry that also had buried children - namely his own father, and several grandfathers.  Their feelings would have been no different than the feelings we grappled with on news of Peter's death.

There is not a single day that I don't think of him, grieve for him, feel anger about losing him, and long to hold him. 

I can't wait for that day...

Peter, about a year before he died.

Peter, the week before he died.  Drugs had really taken hold of him, as well as HIV and Aids.  He had what is called "meth mouth", where his teeth were crumbling even while eating soft foods.