'Til Death Do Us Part. Or Maybe Not.

Given the opportunity for time travel, I’d set the destination on the DeLorean for New Brockton, Alabama, 1917. I would spy on my paternal grandparents’ courtship. He was 23 when they married. The US had just entered WWI. I don’t know why he wasn’t fighting in Europe. I think she was kind of an old maid. She was 21.

I wonder what they saw in each other. My little girl memories of her are kind but unsmiling. I remember him as playful. I think her daddy had a little money. I always heard that my great-granddaddy King never had any money, just a passel of rowdy redheaded offspring.

They raised 4 children: 2 girls, then a decade later, 2 boys. They built a house and a business. They buried a son. He was grown with children of his own, but I can't imagine that diminished their tears.

They were 38 and 40 when my daddy was born. They were 68 and 70 when I was born. They were the same age as my maternal great-grandparents—an entire generation older than Mama’s parents. They were always old to me. My sisters and I felt we had to behave at their house, despite the twinkle in Daddy King’s eyes.

I was in the 11th grade in 1982 and going away for the weekend with my church youth group when Mama King had her first stroke. I asked Mama if I should stay home. She told me to go. She said she would come get me if I needed to come home. I didn’t. Mama King stayed in a vegetative state for years. She stayed at home with Daddy King, Aunt Betty, and a couple of sitters caring for her. Aunt Helen came from Pennsylvania frequently and stayed for long periods of time. Mama King was in and out of the hospital a lot.

Angie got married. Starla got married. I got married. Daddy King gave all 3 of us away. Justin and Jordan Lee were born. Daddy King grew old waiting for Mama King to die. She was a lady, and she didn’t like public displays of affection. So, now that she couldn’t fuss at him (“Oh . . . Charles!”), he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. He petted her and kissed her and sweet-talked her.

She finally died on a Sunday night in March in 1989. I lived in Birmingham. I left mid-afternoon on Tuesday to get to Holman Funeral Home in Headland in time for visitation that evening. I stopped to get gas and spilled some on my dress. It smelled so strong that I decided to go on to Mama’s house and wait until the funeral the next day to see Daddy King.

Daddy King went to bed with a relieved—but broken—heart and did not wake up the next morning. Mama King’s funeral on Wednesday was postponed to Friday, until Daddy King’s body could be prepared. We went again to Holman Funeral Home in Headland on Thursday evening for Daddy King’s “viewing.” Someone had put a box of Whitman's Sampler chocolates under his arm. I unconsciously touched his hand and recoiled at the coldness of it.

After 72 years of marriage, he evidently decided he could not or would not live without her. He loved her and took care of her until his job was done. They had a double funeral at Pinckard Baptist Church. It was sweeter and more joyful than a wedding. It remains one of my all-time favorite days.

Aunt Helen, Aunt Betty, my daddy, Mama King, Daddy King, Uncle Buddy