Marshall Ramsey

I pulled my car into the cemetery. It was a forest of headstones with my roots buried six feet below them. I had made the pilgrimage to visit my family and the only sound I could hear was my loudly beating heart. Off in the distance, the Smoky Mountains stood silently like they have for millions of years and will for millions more.

I visited my grandparents first. I walked over to my mom’s parent’s graves (Arthur and Dorothy Marshall). I told them how thankful I am that they were my grandparents. And then I strolled over to where my dad’s parents (Lynn and Lenore Ramsey ) and told them the same. No child could have been loved any more than I was by my four grandparents.

As I said goodbye, a wave of sadness crashed over me. I’ve told my sons this: The worst thing losing a loved one is how much you absolutely miss them.  Twelve years after the death of my last grandparent, I stood alone in the field of stone and wept. I miss them so.

From there, I walked over to visit members of my dad’s mom’s family. The main grave said, “Eckles.”  My great great grandparents, great uncle, great aunt, great grandparents and cousins are buried there.

J.C. Eckles was my great great grandfather. A Civil War solider, he later became a Methodist circuit rider in North Mississippi. He even co-founded the former Wood Junior College in Mathiston, Mississippi. He was a writer, a preacher, explorer and was friends with the Wright Brothers. And he was hilarious. His memoirs are amongst my most prized possessions.  He and his wife Alice (who was an amazingly talented artist) had two daughters.  One of them was my great grandmother, Nita Eckles West. Granny, as the family knew her, taught drama at Maryville College for 47 years. ( A stage at the new Clayton Center on campus is named for her.)  She was a chip off the ol’ block — fiesty, funny and loved by everyone who knew her.  What I didn’t know, was that my great grandmother had a brother.  As I was walking through the graves, I saw a particularly worn and aged piece of granite. I bent over and dusted the pine-straw off of it. The name on it read, “J. Charles Eckles Jr. 1887-1909.”  I had a great great uncle!

But who was he? And why did he die at the young age of 21?

I asked my dad about him last Saturday. Dad said, “He was playing baseball and had an attack of appendicitis. Granny wore his pocket-watch around his neck until she died in 1966. She would tear up whenever she talked about him. And I have the watch.”

My eyes lit up. “May I see it?”

We walked into the living room and he carefully took the watch off its stand.  He opened it and there was J. Charles Eckles, Jr.’s young face in the locket. He was dark headed, handsome, eternally young and, to my shock, a splitting image of my oldest son.

I’ve always thought my son looked like his mother — and in many ways he does. But the resemblance between my great great uncle and my oldest son is uncanny.

I held the locket and stared at his dark eyes. A mystery had been solved. But another one was born:

What could he have become? He came from very talented parents. He had looks and energy.  What worlds could he have conquered. And yet, life threw him a curve he could not hit and struck him down too young. He was cheated out of a life that so many of us take for granted.

I held the watch, looked at my great great uncles’ face and wondered. And then I realized how truly fragile life is.