The Flog – The Fabry Log

Today the third brother will be laid to rest in the fertile West Virginia soil he loved. We commit him to this rich, loamy harbor, meant for pumpkins seeds and cantaloupe that grew under his tender care. He is no stranger here.

The three brothers knew that death would come, that in the cycle of life there is this cold season when leaves turn and fall and trees become barren sentinels on hillsides. This is the way of the earth, the way of every farm. They did not know it would come for the three of them within the span of one year. Death does not give notice.

Unless the seed falls and dies, there is no life. Grass withers and flowers fade. This is the way of it. They knew that and lived in light of it.

These three did not seem old to us, those of us who watched them grow. Though hearing and eyesight and teeth failed, though joints ached and hearts slowed and blood pressure rose, they seemed able to spring from each setback, delay each fading moment that told us the end was near, or at least coming.

My memories of Uncle Johnny are vivid and encompass bowling lanes, foreign to me in childhood. I would never have learned to score a game had it not been for his instruction. He was more excited than I when I broke 100. I remember long, rubber boots up to the hip, and his tall, lanky body wading deep in the creek, into dark crevasses I would never go for fear of snakes or creatures that might lurk within those shadows. But he with seine in hand captured minnows and crawdads, wriggling and fighting as he brought them into the light, and in the capture provided bait for a day of fishing at the pond. Life for life, taking from one tributary to give to another.

I remember his voice at the front door in the evening, his unannounced arrival. I recall his delight at the offer from my mother of a piece of cake or pie, and long, humorous games of Rook. Uncle Johnny would instruct me, oh so carefully and subtly in the presence of my parents, our competitors, not to play a particular card in my hand if I happened to possess it. A wink and a nod and a smile could be interpreted many ways, however, and I was not always adept to his guidance. He taught me through his laughter that games are not always to be won. And that we learn more through losing, at times, than we do through winning.

There is one scene, a harrowing and fearful affair, when Uncle Johnny climbed aboard a mini-bike and took it for a ride, and in the end, it took him for one because he did not comprehend the brake/gas schema of the vehicle. He roared toward us, picking up speed as he raced downhill, toward the hickory nut tree and those gathered to watch. At first I thought it was funny, that look on his face, that white-knuckled fear and the way he bounced over the uneven terrain. Then, when he laid the bike down in the grass so hard the handles broke, the fear was mine, he had transferred it to me as he stood and smiled and walked away unscathed.

Of course he was not unscathed by life or loss. He had known hardship in his youth with his mother’s death. He had lived through lean days without much food and watched the Depression kick into full gear until it roared at him over the uneven terrain of his own life. I never connected any of this with his casual demeanor. He was simply Uncle Johnny. A tight-lipped character ambling through the story of our lives, smiling and enjoying the scenery.

And now the three of them are gone, John, Robert, and William Fabry. All three are planted firmly in the fertile soil of the hearts and memories of those who love them. They are not strangers here.