A Tribute to My Baby Brother

My first memory of Gene was the September morning they wouldn’t let me in my mother’s bed room. I woke up and there was a commotion in the other room. And then someone came out and said, “You’ve got a baby brother.” Red-headed, squirming and sorta of a foretaste of what we all had in store for us.

He was four years younger and we were as different as two brothers can be. Sorta like Jacob and Esau. We grew up in a tiny four-room house across from the mill. It was where our parents worked year after year. Up the street was the red-brick school where we went and across from the school was our church. Like it or not our Mother made sure our ears were scrubbed, our clothes were ironed and that we were there every Sunday.

My brother and I both worked in the mill and after Gene graduated he worked in that mill for four or five years. But then he got a job at Fort Benning working in Civil Service. He left there to work in the Post Office for 29 years. But he didn’t retire—exactly. He began doing income tax for folks and some years over five or six hundreds returns. Those returns came from everywhere—all over the country. And people would come and sit and ask questions about investment and just about everything else. Some of those people had little money but he helped them out anyway. I asked him one time, “Why don’t you charge more and you’d have half the work to do.” He simply said, “No. These people need me. I try to help them. I’m not going to change my fees.”

At his funeral they asked me to say a few words. And I told those that gathered about his love for puzzles and how he worked on them constantly. There was always pieces of a puzzle on a large table in the den. When he left us one of his puzzles was still spread out half-finished. That half-finished puzzle reminded me of my brother. All his life he was putting together some sort of puzzle. And he did it well.

He took the pieces of his life and kept trying to put his puzzle together. He married Charlotte and they were married for 58 years. They had four children. And later there were eleven grandchildren. He loved them all. And amazingly every single one was at his funeral. They loved him fiercely. 

He built their house. He had never built anything much. But he just went to work—studied plans, asked questions and for two years of his time off he built his brick house. It was solid and fine and he and his wife and all four children grew up there. The house was ringed with azaleas and every spring people would stop and stare at the dazzling colors. He had a vegetable garden and in the corner was a scuppernong vine that he had planted.

The pieces of his puzzle included his love for cars and trucks and dogs and cats galore. He loved sports and was a good golfer. He read voraciously. He painted his house inside and out over and over. He ripped up carpet, sanded floors and made things shine.

A great many pieces of his puzzle was his love of friends. Several times a week he

met with “the boys” at McDonald’s. At his funeral I looked out on Peddy and Mac who were there in all those crazy growing-up years. Far back in the church was Bill and Byron. They all did taxes and were great friends. 

There were many pieces of his puzzle. More than many folk. That gap of four years that separated us made a difference. But as the years went by that gap slowly closed. We took a trips together. He loved to gamble and he dragged me down to Biloxi several times. 

But one of my favorite memories was the cruise we took to the Caribbean together. Night after night we would go into the darkened auditorium and listen to the Karaoke when people mostly made fools of themselves. But not all were fools. People would yell: ”We want Bill…and we want him to sing ‘I Believe I could Fly.’” And up on the stage this aging fat man with a lot of lines in his face took the mike and began to sing: “I believe I could fly…I believe I could fly…” My brother, who loved music was blown away. Every night the people would yell for Bill and he would sing the same song. There in the darkness Bill sang for us all. And over and over since then my brother would sing a little: “I believe I can fly…I believe I can fly.” Well Gene, you really did fly. You really did. You had a family that loved you much. You had friends that surrounded you. And you had a multitude of interests. And you helped I don’t know how many people. You know what—I do believe you could fly. You flapped your wings over and over. And you will be missed by a whole lot of us. 

Gene Lovett

September 24, 1939 - May 28, 2019

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com