My father's youngest brother, my Uncle Leonard, died on Wednesday. His health hadn't been good for quite some time, so it was not a surprise. Now my Aunt Vivian is the only sibling left of the twelve children born to my father's parents.
Uncle Leonard was about three years younger than my dad, so he would have been about 83 or so. He and his wife, who predeceased him several years ago, had three daughters. During most of my young years, the family lived across the road from our house, in the house where my paternal grandmother lived until she died. Uncle Leonard taught piano, and I can remember hearing him play the auto harp and the accordian, too.
I remember him as a rather dour man when I was younger, rarely smiling or with anything nice to say. He had polio as a child, so always walked with crutches. His wife I remember as being brittle-voiced, wearing old-fashioned clothes, stockings that always bagged around her ankles, and she always called any dog she ever saw "pooch". I never saw much of them in my older teen years and into my twenties. But after Andrew was born he sent word through my mother that he'd like to meet Thomas and see the baby. We took Andrew to see him and my Aunt Evelyn, and they were both surprisingly and genuinely pleasant and happy to see us, which was rather shocking. He even stayed in touch with us personally for a while when we moved to Indiana. The last time I saw him was at a Dowell family reunion three years ago. He was not doing well that day, and was having trouble remembering things.
Their oldest daughter was the same age as my sister P.J., the middle daughter was just younger than my sister Lois, and their youngest daughter, Sherry, was the same age as my sister Barbara. She and Barbara ran around some together, and as Barbara's younger sister, they let me tag along sometimes. At my father's funeral Sherry reminded my sister Lois about a time when she, Barbara, and Lois were playing with dolls, and Lois discovered that someone had cut one of her dolls' hair. Sherry had told Lois that I had done it, and Lois had replied, "No, Lori Frances is too young to have cut it that straight. I know she didn't do it." Sherry confessed that she'd done it, of course. Lois didn't remember that incident, and of course I didn't either. Sherry laughed and said that I was a convenient little scape-goat back then.
The funeral was today.
I just don't do family funerals well anymore, or any funerals for that matter. I've felt myself sinking into a depression for the past several days that I haven't felt in a very long time and that I can't seem to shake off. My OCD has come back this week, and it shouldn't, as I take medication for it that has worked for years.
I don't like my parents' generation passing away like this, but I know it is inevitable. I never would have believed that I would have this kind of problem dealing with this kind of stress, and it is really making me disappointed in myself. I have a lot of faith, and I can generally find comfort and peace in my family and in my God. But I have to remind myself that I am only an imperfect human with imperfect tendencies, and there will be times when my own strength isn't enough. I don't like it though. I like to be in control, and I don't like to show weakness. It is frustrating to feel a certain way and not to be able to make myself snap out of it. I hate it!!!
I haven't been around to visit journals or comment for several days. Hopefully I'll feel more up to doing that soon. I hesitated to even make this entry, but felt the need to tonight.
I was going through my pictures to see if I had any of my uncle, and came across only this one. It is of him with his mother, my grandmother, Lucy Williams Dowell. He was probably about 15 in this photo.
