Remembering Margie (2)

Margie (Runnels) Liley, my only sister, crossed the River Jordan the year before last. I think about her a lot. I call her "Sis" because there were three Margies in our family. The Norman and Mary Runnels family had five kids: Milford, Floyd, Margie (Sis), Tom and me. Yes, I was the baby, and I alone survive. Losing each of them was difficult, but Tom most of all. He was closest to me in age. And after his return from service in the Korean War, we became close friends. Although we'd had countless end-of-life discussions, my thinking had been he'd just always be there. Reality was far from what he'd hoped, yet his humor was with him until almost the very end. A plaque, "I hate funerals, 'specially this one," was placed near his casket. No doubt he approved. On the other hand, his crossover was surely a relief.

The Margies in our family were Sis, Floyd's Margie and my Margie. Sis's passing, although difficult, was far less traumatic than Tom's. Near age 94, she'd lived a happy, successful life and was prepared to go. She was a devout Christian and active member of Hahn Chapel General Baptist Church, where mom and dad had been charter members. Her early years were pretty typical, except for an agreement she had with Milford. He promised her $100 if she'd not go on a formal date until after age 18. She wasn't tight, but close, and the promise was kept. By age 20, or there about, Sis was happily married. She and her husband built their dream home within 100 yards of where she'd lived her early years. The marriage lasted slightly longer than her age when it started, but ended because she was not prepared for cheating. Her religious values made the divorce an endless embarrassment that haunted the rest of her life. She'd claim that the divorce wasn't the mistake; the marriage was. Regardless, it gave her the opportunity to show herself, and the world, that she was capable of an independent, productive, successful and happy life all on her own. That would change only in later years when she started depending on me for financial matters.

I was born at home, 101 William St., in Marble Hill. Dad had a sawmill and trucking business. Sometime around 1948, with little outside help, he built the house at 105 Graham St., and we moved in. By that time, Tom and I were the only kids still at home. Of course, he was always gone hunting, fishing, trapping or chasing girls. Believe it or not, before his marriage, he was an excellent dancer, and girls wanted to dance with him. In the late 1950s, dad started thinking about building another house. I was taking architectural drafting in school, so I whipped out a house plan and we started building at 201 Graham St. It looked pretty good when it was completed. But during construction, the old house where I was born burned down, leaving only a shell, so out came another set of plans and a new house on the same piece of ground where the old house had been. In that house, mom and dad would live out the rest of their days. With them advancing in age, and Sis living alone, the family decided that she should move back home with them. Meanwhile, both Graham Street properties, except the vacant lot adjacent to 201, were sold. Also, ownership to the remaining property was transferred, with full family support, to Sis, where she, too, would live out her days.

She and I maintained contact by telephone and visits to Marble Hill. Everything in her life was highly organized. Sunday calls had to be promptly at 7:30 p.m. and last an hour. It became a topic of humor to her church group. When it was time to leave, someone would nudge her or the pastor would signal from the pulpit. Our visits were generally the same -- church activities or Marble Hill events. It often drifted to end-of-life topics. With passage of time, she became increasingly more persuaded that her prayers were answered. She'd die in her sleep and I'd live longer. Under no circumstance should I allow artificial means to extend her life, and her estate should be divided equally between her nieces and nephews. Divided by recipient count (six) or brothers (four)? Her answer: "You know what I want. Just do what you think is right."

Late one evening came a telephone call. Mrs. Brenda McIntosh, my alternate contact, was at Sis's side. She had fallen and needed my immediate attention. On site were Brenda and, as I recall, Kaye Brown. Sis was alert and fully coherent, but unable to walk without help. I had no clue about what to do or how to do it, but God works in mysterious ways. Brenda, a retired nurse, knew everything -- who to contact, even phone numbers. Without any interference from me, only endless gratitude, within minutes she arranged for Sis to be in Southeast Hospital. Diagnosis: The fall had fractured a bone in her neck. Surgery or a neck brace, probably the rest of her life. Of course, it was her choice. Brenda on one side of her bed and me on the other, what did she want to do? "It's all in God's hands. He will decide." But we needed her decision. Several tries and Brenda's wisdom, we found a solution. If Sis's health could withstand the surgery, that would be God's decision. The surgery was a success, but recovery extremely slow. Hospital staff suggestions included artificial methods, so that was out. Son Eric and I entered Sis's private room where she was sleeping peacefully. Her pastor, the Rev. Ray Webb from Hahn Chapel, was seated at her side. He'd been with her when they'd transferred her into the room, and her condition had not changed. He saw how tired I was and insisted I go home for rest; regardless, he'd be there as long as it made any sense. At home only minutes, the call came. Sis's prayers had been answered. Although medication induced, she died in her sleep. Artificial means had been avoided, and I outlived her. Her estate has been handled the best way I know how, and she'd be thrilled by how things have turned out.

Then came the hard part. Sis was not a hoarder. She just saved everything. Having meant nothing; holding meant everything. Church bulletins dating back to 1972, colanders farther back than that. Night school religion class notes from SEMO. Sheet music and song books from Locust Grove Church, pre-1948. Bibles, boxes full of them, some with notes that dad scribbled, God knows how long ago. Genealogy books and studies, countless obituaries, people I've never heard of. Televisions, based on obsolete technology. Lamps from when mom and dad first moved into the house. The list goes on. Thank God for Mike Morris. Knowing the situation, he suggested that we (the family) hold onto all the heirlooms and keepsakes, then he'd buy the rest and take it away free of charge. Boy, do I hope he gets paid for his work.

What do you do with the home place where you were born, and you alone remember things that happened there? Peace, comfort, joy, sadness and heartbreak, all related to a single piece of real estate. The first impulse is to make it back the way it used to be and move in, but you can't go back home. Rent it? The least attractive, but only practical option, is to sell it. I was amazed by the number of serious prospects. Then comes the ideal buyer: a young, energetic schoolteacher with roots in the neighborhood. The vacant lot adjacent to 201 Graham remains for sale. Mom and dad, Milford, Floyd, Margie, Tom, and even grandma, Maw Fox, would approve.

DON "SNEII" RUNNELS is a Bollinger County native now living in Cape Girardeau. His column runs once a month, usually on the second Wednesday. He is the brother of the late Tom Runnels.