Cheyenne Travel Blog› entry 11 of 12 › view all entries
I have always thought of myself as the oldest of the four children raised by my parents. But, in truth, there was a sibling, a brother, who came before me. He, David Charles, was born on February 14, 1962.
Over the course of the years, and especially as I researched and wrote a family history book, I have tried to put myself in my parents shoes. The anticipation of the birth of their first child. Going through the Christmas holidays knowing that this time next year, they would be buying miniature cloths and toys for their son or daughter. Then having the child born on the most romantic of days, Valentine’s Day. My thoughts would of course then jump to the tragic dichotomy of the event. My brother’s death the next day. The horror of being told something was wrong. The hopelessness of being told there was nothing to be done. The cut of irony at having this event fall on my father’s own birthday.
My parents rarely spoke of this time, and always in reverent and subdued tones. Dad was in the Air Force, until I was 10. His first three children were born in
With those facts in mind and because we would be driving right through Cheyenne, not once, but twice, I felt more than a little obligated to make a stop at the cemetery. Margo had her own reason for wanting to stop. Her favorite cousin, Tina, just past 21 years old and beginning a family of her own, with Brandon, her own F. E. Warren Airman, was also in
Tina and Brandon had lunch prepared for us. That was very nice of them and we all ate gratefully, as we were famished. We told them about our past week’s travels and they in turn brought out a recent photo album of their trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota. Margo and I were both interested in the pictures of
Several hours melted away as we talked about the vacations, Aunt Helen and the Cody clan, and caught them up with all of the family gossip from