When The Bough Breaks

I remember when I was very young visiting a tiny grave with my grandmother Mable Hammons. The grave is located on the corner of my grandparents burial plot located in the Barbourville Cemetery on old 25E. The cemetery is a short walk from where our old home place was on The Lane. My grandma would walk to this gravesite from time to time. I was happy to be with her when she asked me to come along. I remember helping pick bouquets of flowers in the spring and summer from her garden to place on the tiny grave. Memories of my first time to visit the burial plot rushed over me a few weeks ago.
The emotional feelings my grandma experienced as she placed flowers I now understand. I can close my eyes and see grandma down on her knees, pulling weeds from around the small foot stone that marked the grave. I felt scared when I heard her forlorn words crying, “my baby…… my baby.” Seeing the tears stream down her cheeks hurt me. As I tried to comfort her, she gathered herself up to a standing position. My small arms hugged her legs. I asked, “What’s the matter grandma”? Her words tried to reassure me that she was all right. She said she was just feeling sad. Somehow at my tender age, I understood her sadness. However, I was much too young to understand the reason that a tiny mound of earth with a small foot stone could bring her to tears. As I think back that was one of the few times I remember seeing my grandmother cry.
On our way home grandma told me the baby buried there was my uncle. She said he was 17 months old when he came down with consumption. He was very ill. The doctor could not help him. Then he died. I had many questions and a child’s curiosity about the small gravesite. However, I failed to find the courage to ask my grandmother more. By the time I was old enough to read I revisited the grave alone. I remember pulling the weeds from around the small marker just as my grandmother and I did together. As I weeded around the marker, I read the letters it spelled out the baby‘s name. It read Jack Harlan Hammons born August 21,1935. My limited knowledge and simple adding of numbers told me if he had lived he would’ve been three years old the year I was born.
Later on, I remember asking my dad what he remembered of his baby brother. Dad said he was the cutest baby and told of how the family loved and adored him. Aunt Louise sent me a picture of baby Jack, Uncle Tom and her. The three of them looked very happy the day it was made. To my Aunt Louise’s knowledge, this was the only picture of baby Jack to mark his life here on earth. This picture became more precious to me as time went by. I learned how Uncle Glenn worked and saved money to purchase a camera in order to make the family picture. Little did anyone know then this would be the only picture ever made of baby Jack. I will always remember the time spent with my grandmother at the family burial site. In my heart, I know she looked for and saw a bit of her tiny baby in each of her grandchildren.
The day, my grandmother died members of the family that were with her remember her repeating the words, “my baby……my baby.” When I heard of her last words, I found comfort in them. I would like to believe that she left this life and she met her baby Jack to sing joyful songs together forever.
After baby Jack’s death, grandma and grandpa were blessed with a number of grandchildren. One of my brother’s was his namesake. Looking at this picture, I think of the many Hammons babies and how they share the same features of baby Jack. Even those born recently. Round faces, chubby cheeks, large, almond eyes, dimpled wrists, and rolls of fat creases in their baby legs, just as in his picture.
One of grandma‘s favorite children’s songs was “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” I recall her singing rock-a-bye baby in the treetop when the wind blows the cradle will rock when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and down will come cradle, baby and all.” to me when I was small. I remember her hugging me very tight as she ended the songs with the words, “my baby…… my baby.”
I encourage you to learn and embrace your families history. Ask your senior relatives to tell you about their life experiences. It’s important to listen to the stories. If possible record to keep a permanent record of your family history. Maybe even the voice of each one who lived in the history. I promise if you do this, it will truly be a cherished treasure for future generations. I would love to have my grandmother’s voice on tape today.