I attended the funeral of a cousin, Cecil Wayne, today. I can't say I knew much about him or ever really knew him well. I graduated with his sister, and she's the one I know best in their family (the 1944 baby girl on the left mentioned in THIS ENTRY, and the third from the right in the picture in THIS ENTRY.
But when I got the call that Cecil had a heart attack and had passed on after a couple of weeks on life support, I searched my soul for memories of him.
He was the only boy in the family, with two sisters older, and two younger. As a kid, I always got the feeling that those girls really loved and doted on their only brother. I can't say how I got that impression, it was just there.
The other thing I recall is that my daddy, who loved boxing with a passion, was extremely proud to have a nephew in Golden Gloves, and he told anyone who would listen about his brother's boy.
In all my mom's picture albums, I don't think I've seen any pictures of Cecil Wayne. So today at the funeral home, I took some digital shots of photos they had on display.
That's Cecil with two of his sisters.
This is the Cecil Wayne of my childhood; this is the face I recall best.
And the next pictures are the Cecil Wayne that my dad was so proud of.
Death has taken other cousins, but this is the first one to die of what I'd call an age-related problem.
My generation's march toward the grave has begun. But of course, it started the day we were born. We just didn't know it until recently.