Erin Carroll, GPC, Fall 2006

Death of Skip

I told my mother that I wanted to interview her and I needed her to think of a topic for me to write about. To my surprise, she immediately responded with “I’ll tell you about the death of my brother Skip.” Knowing how my mother has always been vague on the details of his death, I figured I would not have much to write about. Boy, was I wrong.

It was the Friday before Mothers Day of 1973. My mother was twenty-years-old at the time and making plans to join her parents and thirteen-year-old brother, Skip, to celebrate Mother’s Day. My grandparents and Skip arrived at the campground on Lake Alatoona on Friday just in time for dinner. My mother and the rest of the family were at their homes and would arrive on Saturday.

It was about 6:00 pm as they finished eating, and Skip wanted to ride his bike around the familiar campground while my grandparents conversed with the other families whom they had not seen in a year or so. Shortly thereafter, they heard the sounds of an oncoming train. No one thought anything of it, because it was normal to hear a train several times a day since the track was nearby. However, when everyone heard the loud screeching of the train’s brakes, they all knew something was wrong.

At approximately 8:00 pm, my mother received the grievous phone call. A family friend, Vicki, who was at the campground told her that there had been an accident and my grandparents needed her there as soon as possible. My mother pressured Vicki until she broke down and said her brother Skip had been hit by a train and killed. My mother promptly drove from Smyrna to Lake Alatoona to be with her family. She does not remember the drive to the campground or anything that happened once she arrived there. All she remembers is waking up the next morning at her parent’s house and seeing her husband talking to my grandmother. The next few days were just a big blur of funeral arrangements and the actual funeral and burial. My mother had to view the body and make a conclusion that it would be a closed casket funeral. That view of her brother remains in her head as the last time she saw him rather than the way he looked prior to the accident. My mother remained numb during the first few days of his death. Afterwards, the reality set in and weeks of grief followed.

Every Mothers Day since brings back the memories of that weekend. Neither she nor my grandparents never really talk about Skip very often, other than the fact that my brother reminds them of him. Had my uncle Skip lived, he would be forty-three today. We all wonder who he would have become and what his life would be like.